Blinking. That is a good sign, right? Sitting as close as I can to Jordan’s bed, I watch his eyes. I am looking for signs for life. When he does manage to drag his eyelids away from his cheeks, and I get a glimpse of what lies beneath, I wonder, “Is he there? Is Jordan, the Jordan I know and love there?”
Our entire family and all of our friends are on hand. It reminds me of an unveiling…..we are waiting for the veil to lift, the curtain to rise, the plane to land, and the words to come. Will he speak? What will he say? Will he remember what happened, and will he know where he is? I am reminded of the lyrics to the Carly Simon song,
Anticipation:
We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them anyway.
And I wonder if I’m really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.
Anticipation. Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting.
And tomorrow we might not be together.
I’m no prophet; I don’t know nature’s ways.
So I’ll try and see into your eyes right now.
And stay right here, ’cause these are the good old days.
The plastic surgeons come to tell us they will operate in the morning. They want to do it while he is still intubated because it will facilitate the anesthesia, and they are concerned if they wait any longer the edema in his hand will cause permanent nerve damage. While the two of them examine Jordan, my daughter, Katie and I, speculate as to whether or not either one or both of them could be gay. We must have looked and sounded like two old yentas. “The one with the curly hair and the skull cap must be gay. Look how well he is dressed. Do you think Jordan would be attracted to him? We need to keep them around for eye candy. Jordan would love to wake up and see these two next to his bed.” and so on. It feels good to laugh.
Each of us, in our own way, dreads this surgery. Will his heart stop again? When they put him under, will he wake up? Each step up the ladder of Jordan’s recovery reveals yet another risk. Every day, we face down death. We hold tight to one another and to our joint hope that Jordan will soon be back.
The surgery takes much longer than expected. What does that mean? Has something gone wrong? Finally the doctor comes and explains, “It is good we went ahead and did the surgery. The edema was, in fact, impinging on some of the major nerves in his hand. That’s why it took so long. We had to suction out all the fluid and we wanted to be sure we got it all. He has five incisions, some of which may leave scarring, but we can address that once he has full recovered. All in all it went well. The surgery nurse will bring him up shortly. He will be out for sometime so we will check back later.” Deep sighs of relief. Hugs all around. Shoulders fall away from ears and hearts lift. Together we are climbing Jordan’s ladder.
Two days later. The real work begins. Jordan is now fully conscious but unclear about where he is. His confusion alarms us, but we remain hopeful. Rebelliously he pulls the monitor attachment off his finger triggering the alarms. Over and over again, one of us replaces it. Squirmy. That is the word I would use to describe the stage we are now in. Jordan is irritated by all the tubes, the tape, and the restraints. He pulls on the plastic tubing that carries oxygen into his nose. His lips move in an effort to spit out the tube that runs like a snake across his tongue and down his throat. It is as if he wants to speak…to tell us something. His eyes plead with me, “Mom, do something. Please help me.”
The nurse comes in to check his temperature and I ask, “When are they going to remove the tube? I think he wants to talk to us but he cannot because his throat is obstructed, and he keeps pulling on the tape around his mouth.”
“Let me call the attending physician. Jordan certainly is more active. That is a good sign.”
Jackie, Jordan’s father, and I agree we both want to be there when the tube comes out. Playing the waiting game, we reminisce, telling stories of Jordan, at four, dressing up in Katie’s yellow dress and the blond wig Jackie brought home from the theatre. He created a runway in the back hall of our house and reenacted, lyrics and all, Dr. Frank-N-Furter performing “Sweet Transvestite” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. At the time, I asked Jackie, “Do you think it is a good Idea for a 4-year old to go every night to see such a risqué show?”
“Oh sure. Jordan knows the difference between fantasy and reality.”
Not quite as confident as Jackie in Jordan’s capacity to discern difference between theatre and real life, I told Jordan, “Listen Honey. You can be Dr. Frank-N-Furter here at home but when you go to Kindergarten, he has to stay here. No Rocky Horror Show at school. Do you understand? The teacher may not know about this show and would think it was strange for a 4-year-old to be imitating such a strange character.” He nodded. It was never a problem.
When the doctor did come, Jackie and I held hands, watched and waited. If you have never seen one of these tubes being removed it is quite a scene. The doctor literally grabs hold of the plastic tubing and yanks it out. It was so long. He pulled and pulled and it just kept coming. Gross, really gross. The nurse swabbed Jordan’s mouth and applied a lubricant to red, irritated lips. I do not remember what happened directly after the tube was removed. I only know that we all felt another step closer to having the real Jordan back with us.
Writing into the Light 