Thank heaven for little girls
I have known my friend Matt since we were in grade school. We went to the same high school, always stayed in touch afterward, and somehow years later, we both found ourselves living in Washington, D.C., young and single. Many years later we're still in D.C., and even though we're not single, not so young, and not able to spend much time together anymore, it's a always a great time when we do.
Matt is a vibrant, funny, fun friend to have. A great skier, kayaker, and fisherman. A couple years ago, before he married his wife, Hisiya, we gathered a bunch of guys for a paint-ball bachelor party. It was a blast to be 12 years old again and waste each other with blue paint pellets at point-blank range.
He and Hisiya had a baby girl earlier this year, and I knew I'd be seeing even less of him because he was going to get sucked into the place where all the great dads go.
A couple weeks ago, Matt noticed a tingling in his fingers and he felt weak. Before long, his entire body was essentially paralyzed. He was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder that doesn't seem to have an identifiable cause.
Barely able to breathe on his own, he had to be taken to the neurological intensive care unit of a hospital in northern Virginia and placed on a respirator. He couldn't eat and needed a feeding tube. For a while, Bell's palsy prevented him from opening one of his eyes. The pain was excruciating. Apparently, all of this happened within about 48 hours.
Last night I went to see him for the first time in the ICU and planned on staying the whole night. The ICU was a long row of rooms, each with a glass wall and door facing the hall. There was constant beeping and ringing from all the monitors and God alone knows what other machines. All that noise is necessary, but I couldn't imagine a worse place to try to rest and recover.
I found Matt's room. Sometimes, even when you think your imagination has prepared you for something, you can still end up shocked.
The light was turned off and I could only see from the glow of the heart and pulse monitors and the lamps over the desks across the hall. Every section of his body seemed connected by a tube to a machine or a bag. I could hear his labored breathing through the respirator. He was on his back, his arms at his sides and propped on pillows.
He was asleep and stayed that way for most of the night. Eventually, I grabbed a blanket, put my feet up on a wastebasket in the corner, and drifted off myself.
A few hours went by when I felt like I woke up every few minutes, like trying to sleep on a flight. The constant, shifting beeps and rings. Lots of different nurses coming in to check or change something. Every time I woke up it was still a little surprising to see Matt there, unable to move. The peaks and valleys of his heart and pulse rates. I thought of things I'd done the last two weeks — bike rides, hikes, Thanksgiving. During that time, he'd been in this room every day, all day, unable to move.
About 5 a.m., the nurses asked me to step outside the room so they could bathe him and take x-rays. I waited in a single chair down the hall.
It doesn't do any good to question and complain why these kinds of things happen to people who don't deserve them. But I did it anyway.
When I went back in his room, Matt's eyes were open. He was moving his head back and forth a little, the only movement he's really capable of right now. I went to the side of the bed. I said it was about time for me to leave since the ICU was going to kick me out. He shook his head. I think he just wanted some company, even if we didn't talk. Okay, I'll stay a little more.
I sat down, and we both looked at the wall opposite the bed for a while. There were photographs of his nine-month-old daughter all over. One with her in her little penguin costume at Halloween. He hasn't been able to spend time with her since this whole thing happened.
From what I have heard and read, people almost always recover from Guillain-Barre Syndrome and regain full movement. Something about seeing those pictures made me feel better and they must make him feel better too, since I know Matt well and there is nothing that will keep him from playing with that little girl again soon.
Matt is a vibrant, funny, fun friend to have. A great skier, kayaker, and fisherman. A couple years ago, before he married his wife, Hisiya, we gathered a bunch of guys for a paint-ball bachelor party. It was a blast to be 12 years old again and waste each other with blue paint pellets at point-blank range.
He and Hisiya had a baby girl earlier this year, and I knew I'd be seeing even less of him because he was going to get sucked into the place where all the great dads go.
A couple weeks ago, Matt noticed a tingling in his fingers and he felt weak. Before long, his entire body was essentially paralyzed. He was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder that doesn't seem to have an identifiable cause.
Barely able to breathe on his own, he had to be taken to the neurological intensive care unit of a hospital in northern Virginia and placed on a respirator. He couldn't eat and needed a feeding tube. For a while, Bell's palsy prevented him from opening one of his eyes. The pain was excruciating. Apparently, all of this happened within about 48 hours.
Last night I went to see him for the first time in the ICU and planned on staying the whole night. The ICU was a long row of rooms, each with a glass wall and door facing the hall. There was constant beeping and ringing from all the monitors and God alone knows what other machines. All that noise is necessary, but I couldn't imagine a worse place to try to rest and recover.
I found Matt's room. Sometimes, even when you think your imagination has prepared you for something, you can still end up shocked.
The light was turned off and I could only see from the glow of the heart and pulse monitors and the lamps over the desks across the hall. Every section of his body seemed connected by a tube to a machine or a bag. I could hear his labored breathing through the respirator. He was on his back, his arms at his sides and propped on pillows.
He was asleep and stayed that way for most of the night. Eventually, I grabbed a blanket, put my feet up on a wastebasket in the corner, and drifted off myself.
A few hours went by when I felt like I woke up every few minutes, like trying to sleep on a flight. The constant, shifting beeps and rings. Lots of different nurses coming in to check or change something. Every time I woke up it was still a little surprising to see Matt there, unable to move. The peaks and valleys of his heart and pulse rates. I thought of things I'd done the last two weeks — bike rides, hikes, Thanksgiving. During that time, he'd been in this room every day, all day, unable to move.
About 5 a.m., the nurses asked me to step outside the room so they could bathe him and take x-rays. I waited in a single chair down the hall.
It doesn't do any good to question and complain why these kinds of things happen to people who don't deserve them. But I did it anyway.
When I went back in his room, Matt's eyes were open. He was moving his head back and forth a little, the only movement he's really capable of right now. I went to the side of the bed. I said it was about time for me to leave since the ICU was going to kick me out. He shook his head. I think he just wanted some company, even if we didn't talk. Okay, I'll stay a little more.
I sat down, and we both looked at the wall opposite the bed for a while. There were photographs of his nine-month-old daughter all over. One with her in her little penguin costume at Halloween. He hasn't been able to spend time with her since this whole thing happened.
From what I have heard and read, people almost always recover from Guillain-Barre Syndrome and regain full movement. Something about seeing those pictures made me feel better and they must make him feel better too, since I know Matt well and there is nothing that will keep him from playing with that little girl again soon.
Hi Mark - don't know if you remember me - I worked in the Lewiston Cong office. Larry shared your blog with some of the old staff - and I just wanted to thank you -this is so sweet - and encouraging during a very difficult time.
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You poignantly captured both Matt's spirit and the particular discomfort of a night in the ICU with a loved one.
Thanks for sharing.
JT
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Do you have an update on Matt's condition? If so could your please share.
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All signs so far are very good, although as expected the progress is slow. Matt is out of ICU and starting on his convalescence. I plan to update this as soon as I meet him. Thanks for all your kind notes of support.
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