On the move

Let's have a big round of applause for John B., who took his first actual steps since last Tuesday. It was a simple thing, on its face, but a very big deal in terms of getting better. This morning, the neuro team signed off on John starting to move around; that gave the all-clear to the intensivists, who'd been itching to get John on his feet for a couple of days. The idea is that the more he can move, the more his body can start feeling "normal" and send out troops to bust up and dissolve those clots. The clots are still there, in force, but there is a little good news even on that front. Measurements of his calves show there is less fluid than there was yesterday, a sign his vascular system is fighting to regain territory and is flushing out some of the several extra liters of fluid John B. is lugging around.
So about his adventures this afternoon: a walk on the arm of his cute little physical therapist, followed by the IV full of blood thinner hauled by his nurse du jour. Brushing teeth while standing up, walking back to a chair and eating lunch. All the things we take for granted in real life are monumental inside an ICU. We were all ecstatic; and John was exhausted. Mary Jo assured him that when she was hit by a drunk driver last year and knocked off her bike (broken shoulder, 7 broken ribs), the first day she was told to stand she thought she couldn't do it. This is the maniac sister who has biked across the country twice, and down the East Coast, too. Not a wimp, my fabulous sister-in-law!
As you might imagine, John was quite shocked that this little jaunt absolutely wore him out (he's snoozing now). He's not used to this. But, it's gonna be very small steps for a while. What "a while" is, exactly, remains unclear. But we've downsized from the "one day at a time" mode to "one step at a time."
Further significant news: Once John gets the word that the crew has achieved "therapeutic levels" of this second blood thinner, he will be kicked upstairs. The cumadin (sp??) takes a while to rev up, but he started on it last night. So, he may escape the ICU even later today.  This has us both excited and nervous. The ICU is a cocoon, and nurses have time to pay attention to you. Upstairs, not so much.
That said, John had no sleep as of the early morning hours after a very belligerent woman was wheeled in, screamed and cursed the nurses repeatedly, and generally raised a ruckus. Turns out she is a chronic alcoholic who passed out and banged her head, where a big fat clot now resides. She has refused to consent to surgery thusfar, and has been seen by a troupe of social workers and hospital people through the day. (You cannot help hear a lot of what gets said on the other side of a thin curtain; another reason to avoid landing in this place!) She has a 3-month-old baby (in foster care already). From our side of the curtain, the stories are as shocking and maddening as they are mystifying. The first instinct is to judge, even resent. All that self-inflicted misery I talked about earlier, when others did nothing to get themselves here. But as our former PTA president Debi Ehrlichman (yes, daughter-in-law of that famous Ehrlichman) once told me, everyone has a story, and you can't presume to know what it's like in anybody else's shoes. So, I am trying to set the judgments aside, as best I can, and focus on the task at hand: Getting that guy up and out.
Kristina, the azaela is gorgeous! I took it home (no fleurs in the ICU) and found a perfect spot for it out front. And Andrea O and family, the tulips are bright and happy on the table at home, waiting for John to enjoy.
Jim, it was great to hear from you this morning. Give Lori my best. We hope to eat gnocci together very, very soon, and make that slacker Taz teach us how to do it!
I'll report later tonight, especially if John gets upstairs.
Keep all your fingers and toes crossed, and do those incantations Dave B. has urged. Whatever works. We'll take it!
Feeling your support every hour, I'm gratefully yours,
Kathleen Ann