Drugs do Kill

Forty seven year old white male found unresponsive in hotel room. A foam substance oozing from his mouth, a crack pipe and rocks lying next to him on the night stand, it appeared to be an overdose with little hope of survival.

The officer on the scene didn’t see the need to arrest the corpse like body which was surrounded by paramedics who were frantically moving about yelling vital signs, starting IV's, pounding on his chest, then tossing the cold blue body onto a gurney and rushing him out the door.

Arriving at the hospital, the paramedics hand over the case to the doctors. They incubate the 92 degree lifeless body, frantically moving around, shouting orders, bringing the man back to life. His vital signs weak, one lung burst, the other filled with liquid cocaine, his chest crackling, kidneys failing and his heart suffering a mild heart attack. Six hours in the ICU, he is stabilized and sent to the CCU. Under constant care, his prognosis looks grim.

The paramedics hand the hospital the man's person belongings. Finding only a wallet with a driver’s license listing a post office box as his residence, there was little information for the hospital staff to locate family.

An early morning knock on the door, my sister-in-law opened it and stared into a face of a sheriff deputy. Once the information sunk in, bad news traveled fast, as if a sudden storm swiftly blew in and threw us up against the hospital wall. Entering the hospital, no words found, just hands held, we walked not knowing what to expect. At the CCU double doors we were briefed on my brother's condition as we cautiously entered the room.

The air sucked from my lungs, I couldn't tell if my heart stopped or raced, feeling numb as we stood staring at the swollen, discolored man surrounded by the machines keeping him alive. His body had tubes of all sizes protruding from everywhere. Machines beeped, sang and hummed around us. We inched our way closer, hoping this wasn't him, praying that we would wake up from this nightmare. We listened to details as they pass over and around us, the information drifting slowly into our brains as the numbness turned into reality.

Reaching towards his hand, I softly touched it with one finger as if his hand would explode. It was as cold as ice, and tight as a drum, swollen to the point of bursting. Running my hand towards his wrist I moved his vinyl identification bracelet because it appeared to be cutting off circulation to his hand. The name was his, but the bar-code was strange. His face was oddly swollen and a tube protruded from his mouth, giving his body every breath. All of these things made the severity of his situation hit home. As the room began to take shape, and reality settled in, our phones began to ring and we were faced with putting into words to family what we were seeing and not believing. The few numbers I could understand on the instruments that surrounded us read: HR 92, BP 60/84 and the word coma.

Calls and text messages started to drain our cell phone batteries. Texts to family and friends read something like this: “I don't know if you have been told yet, but my brother has overdosed on drugs. He is in CCU at the local Hospital. He is unconscious (coma state) and is on life support. However, his organs are stable but tests are showing little sign of brain activity. I'll text you with updates if you want them. Prayers are needed and appreciated”.

Time was spent reflecting on the days, weeks, months and years of drug abuse that led him to this day. We spent wasted hours trying to guess the events of the fateful night. My years of watching CSI, Law & Order and Criminal Intent seemed to all roll into one massive brainstorming marathon. This only took our minds temporarily off the real situation. Lying in front of us was my brother's lifeless body, being caressed by multiple machines to keep him with us, in this world.

One long day led to another. The second day became more real, more authentic than the first. The machines are still humming, buzzing and beeping, with an occasional array of toots that after some time started to resemble the Cucaracha Mexican horn song. Standing over his body for countless hours watching the flashing numbers and lines bounce across the monitors was exhausting. His heart rate reads 68 today, BP 113/75 and his pulmonary artery pressure number has risen from 8 to 12. He still doesn't respond to any one's voice, nor does he respond to doctor’s or nurse’s commands. We stand helpless, and try to remain hopeful. The doctors arrive reading charts, buzz the room glancing at the monitors, they scribble their own notes in his chart. They leave as swiftly as they arrive telling us the obvious. He is disconnected and doesn't respond to commands. They give us a rundown of what they see, what medications are being pumped into his body, what damage he has done to his body. Then the hard questions come. A long time user, an addict, and convincing each doctor this was an accidental overdose. Each question the doctors asked seem to fade into blackness. But we held on to, hope can't be lost.

Day two and day three seemed to run together. A routine was settling in, and nurses were becoming our friends and our support. Keeping myself busy taking little notes of what the monitors were reading, what nurses where saying, and doctors statements. Watching as the ultrasound technician came in to check his kidneys, bladder, and lungs. Even his full bladder was noted and catheter checked. His temperature was high, his body was fighting infection. His heart rate had elevated to104 and his blood pressure read 117/59. The doctor told us yesterday he was close to needing dialysis; his kidneys were close to failing. The next time I noted his blood pressure it was 91/54 and his heart rate was 60. The doctors words echoed in my mind "give it time, a day or two." As the next two days, three days all blurred together, his prognosis stayed the same, Grim.

New hope, new fears raced, as we heard the nurse tell us that during the night when they lowered the amount of Propofol our patient would wake in a rage. They would strap him down to his gurney firmer and they had to give him an extra sedative to calm him. Our first question raced from our mouths, "is he waking up?" They never really answered, except for suggesting it was only a reaction to what his body was going through. Later that day, when we experienced him "waking up" it was like a scene from a horror movie. His arms elevated finding them bound to the bed. His hands never made fists, but his arm muscles bulged. He then lifted his head and upper body from the bed. His eyes opened in slits, as we stared into deep, dark, and beady, emptiness. As his body shook and rose up from his bed, his face and body became deep red as he growled and roared. We both jumped back from the bed in alarm, the nurses rushed in to sedate him. We giggled, showing both our nerves and our fear. That is when we nicknamed the event and my brother, the Hulk.

A blood curling scream shoots me from my bed and out of a dream, from my “sleep”, hurling me toward the kitchen and a new pot of coffee. Two hours sleep, and the shakes are making it all the harder to face the day. Today I watched my boys drive down the long driveway heading north to enjoy our family vacation. Two of my boys have heart diseases and I don't want to burden them with more stress than needed.

Our shoes seemed to grow heavier each day with every step we took, walking down the long corridor to the Critical Care Unit (CCU). It was taking its toll on us, but today the walk seemed to lengthen two miles as we guided our parents down the hall for the first time. My heart breaks one more time for them, remembering how it felt when my middle son had heart surgery, but to them this was so much more. I held my mother's arm as we walked, but she appeared to be numb and disconnected herself. Dad walked behind, his face filled with such emptiness it was hard not to cry. The embodiment of pure pain and anguish, their body language says the rest.

My parents, our parents, entered the room as if moving through quick sand. The rueful look on their faces, their shoulders slumped and eyes narrowed, and a heavy sense of unspoken fright. We stood surrounding his body as it continued to be caressed by multiple machines. I spoke out to my brother making the announcement of mom and dad's arrival. Speaking to my brother had become as natural and normal as if he were wide awake. Often I would speak and answer for him, as if to agree with him that once again I'm stating the obvious. Using the same phrases he used towards me throughout my life. These phrases are memories of the forty-four years we have had together. Sayings, phrases and memories all brought back to life. These memories were shared with all who came in the room. With these memories came smiles and even laughter, helping lighten this mournful, dreadful room. Today, with my parents at his side, I backed out of the room saying to him, "I know, I know, I’ll get out, I'm bugging the tar out of you."

"Two steps forward, one big step backwards," the nurse said as we walked into his room. Last night’s events were listed, and his throat is swelling so a Tracheotomy procedure will need to be done as soon as possible. It seemed as fast as I was typing my next "To All" text about the procedure, the nurse walked out to announce it was done.

Hospital day 4: A Tracheotomy procedure is being done now. He seems the same, but fighting the hospital staff more while in the coma. He really responded to mom and dad's voices this morning. But he doesn't focus his eyes or respond to commands at all.

He is still out and hasn't woken up. He is beginning to open his eyes, yet no one seems to be home. A specialist has been running tests on his brain, and little activity exists. However, it is noted that his dosage of Propofol may be affecting these tests. Their goal for the next twenty-four hours is to drop the amount significantly to get accurate readings. The doctors and nurses repeat: "give it a day or two, and then we will see more."

Day 5, my text read: The Tracheotomy procedure went well yesterday but my brother still hasn't responded to anything. The doctors are letting him rest for a few days before taking him off or lowering his dosage of Propofol again. When they lower the dosage now, he reacts, awakes in shock (making himself Hulk like) putting himself back two steps not letting his body recover. So again, we will sit and wait. He looks as if he is sleeping and more at peace today. I'll keep you posted.

Day six is much like day five; however a new doctor came in, and took my sister-in-law and me aside and had no good news. My brother is in a "guarded" condition and is under 24/7 monitoring; he is on life support and has no signs of "anyone being home." Then the doctor repeated: "we just have to give it time." However, the doctor told us to prepare for the worst.

I held my weeping sister-in-law and could only allow us to be positive and hope for the best. I poked fun at how stubborn he is, and that because of his hardheadedness he should be able to pull through this! What I didn't show, was myself falling apart as I spent hours on the phone with our family attorney having documents faxed over to the hospital, a living will, power of attorney and all the legal documents that might be needed. When setting these documents up and signing them, you never truly believe you will actually use them, especially at forty-seven years old.

Texting was becoming harder each day. In each text I was trying to stay positive, with a bit of information, until the next day. Day 7 text: Propofol and his Methadone dosages are being lowered in order to prepare him for tests tomorrow. They want him to rest today, so family is being shooed out of the room. It's scary to see him gag/cough but he continues to show us he is fighting. His head followed dad's voice around the bed this morning. This event could be a great sign or it could be false hope. His recovery is depending on his brain activity and we continue to hope and pray. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers. I will continue to keep you posted.

We said our hellos and our good nights all at once. Knowing we couldn't stay because he needed his rest. The biggest hesitation to leave him today was the fact that his eyes are open. We watched his eyes while we talked with him. We stroked his arms, rubbed his shoulders, caressed his inflated hands and continued to stare at his dark eyes that we knew once as blue. They focused on no one; they aimed at nothing, staring blankly without even blinking. Would he return to us, was the question haunting my head?

CCU day 8 was a bit eventful. This morning we entered to find him propped up in a sitting position trying to wake up or stay awake. He shook his head swiftly, as if to force his eyes to focus. As the day progresses he is becoming more irritable and frustrated. So, he's getting back to normal. A little more slap happy humor was slipping from my lips. I yearned for him to wake up and even kick me out of his room.

My sister-in-law bounced out of my brother's CCU room saying that he had spoken his first words: "I want drink." we rushed into the room, to find him still in a slumped sitting position and staring out blankly. We are waiting for more tests to be done and test results to come back. Could this be the first signs of him waking up? Or is my sister-in-law in the midst of some kind of a break down? The Trache is still in, he can’t speak, but signs of him waking up are certain. His oxygen levels, blood pressure, heart rate are all improving, but he is not out of the woods. The doctors are still questioning his ability to respond to commands. We are feeding him words and trying to let him know where he is and why he is here. However, he ended the afternoon with much frustration and started raging and growling again. The doctors had to sedate him, and family was sent home for the night.

Day 9 text: He is waking up! Dad asked him if he would rather be on a beach. My brother nodded, yes. He is confused and doesn't know why he is here. He seems to be extremely aggravated. He has minimal controlled motor skills but he is moving his arms and legs. I'll keep you updated. We are happy with today's (Day 9) progress!

Progress and miracles seem to bless the room. Nurses buzz in and out, removing several of the hanging drip medicines from the hangers. The young vampires entered the room to take their daily blood samples. Today the inexperienced one stayed outside, because their victim is very much awake now and wouldn't appreciate someone not finding the vein. Doctors entered looking at charts, and slipped away as quickly as they entered.

Communication was challenging. We tried a note pad and pen, but he couldn't grip the pen. His fingers still didn't respond to his commands. We tried putting the iPad Doodle AP in front of him. This would allow him to write by running his finger over the board, but he couldn't point one finger nor lift his hand from the board once he started. Frustration was an issue. He swished us away using his arms, as if saying, "Never mind."

The next big step we took was bringing his youngest daughter in to see him. As she walked into the room my brother smiled the biggest smile! It was a wonderful moment. Quickly, he fell asleep. Hopefully he will rest well now with wonderful thoughts of his little girl.

My youngest son texted me and asked, "that was awful, do you think he will stop doing u-kno-what, drugs?" My answer: “I sure hope so, but as of today he doesn't remember why he was in the hospital”. :(

In the next few days frustration and patience have been wearing thin for our patient. We arrive to find him once again bound to his bed. Apparently, he is unaware of the severity of his condition and continues to ignore the tubes and needles protruding from his body. He decided to attempt to get out of his bed and walk out last night. Nurses and the hospital security tackled him back into bed and restraints were needed.

After a couple days of not texting, several were wondering what was going on. Trying to avoid writing texts like; my brother is being a big pain in the nurse’s rear, and, thank goodness they are keeping us out of the room to run tests because his irritable mood is not pleasant in any way. I attempted a text and wrote: The hospital visits are getting shorter due to all of the tests. He is still communicating by hand gestures. Last night he pulled his feeding tube out, so today he went without! Oh Boy! He learned today that he was in a coma for nine days and how guarded his condition was but the news didn't seem to help his "lovely" mood. Day eleven was basically the start of a long road to recovery.

The following day as we entered his room he mouthed words to us. We realized he was breathing on his own; the Trache was not attached to the machine. He lifted his unrestrained hand to plug his Trache hole. When he covered the hole with his fingers the complaints flowed like rushing lava from an erupting volcano. Ignoring the words spoken we gasped with delight, he speaks! The content was meaningless. His voice was all that mattered to us, but his vocal ability was the nurse’s newest nightmare. Twelve days ago, I didn't know if I would ever hear his voice again so I was thrilled.

Day 13 text: Today was a busy day in room 555. All tubes are out, he's walking with a walker, eating soft food & fussing a lot! Amazing progress and he might be heading to rehab in a few days. He is fighting bad critters so please continue to send prayers his way.

No need to tell everyone in a text that my brother ripped all of his tubes out himself, including his IV's! He is being extremely difficult. But, inside I know this is why he is recovering so well, and so fast. It wasn't a shock when they moved him out of the CC Unit that next morning. I spoke to each doctor that entered the room and we discussed tests that were still needed. The most concerning was the physiologist evaluation. We could tell he was still disoriented, and was facing with brain damage and memory loss. He even asked to see an orthopedic surgeon about his foot he broke months ago. The doctors would come in and he would complain of pain, but he had no complaints of any pain while we were alone together. He seems to remember every one of us in the room, but he never asks about anyone outside the room. Is this how self-centered he has become, or is he having a hard time remembering?

Sneaking into his room while he was sound asleep was difficult because of the heavy door slamming behind me. There was only a slight pause in his snoring breaths, a head toss and then once again snoring. I sat reading for two hours before he woke, but I was glad to be there when he opened his eyes. Because of his disease of addiction, I've been told, "it's just a matter of when, not if." He is truly a lucky one and has been given another chance. Now I can only pray that he uses this gift and will fight the disease with all his might, and get his life back. A chance to be the dad his girls want and deserve and the husband to his wife needs. And, maybe one day, he can be the son that my parents always dreamed of. Who knows, maybe even a big brother to me, instead of me playing big sister.

My family returned from vacation and we snuck off to go to lunch and to see an afternoon movie. My cell phone lit up and it was the hospital calling. They will be releasing him today! However, he has mandatory rehab because the law states that if you "die" of an overdose, you must go to rehab. The question is: Why are they calling me and not his wife? Good question. The only information given was that they will not, and cannot release him to my sister-in-law due to her history. Making the elephant in the room now all the scarier! Texts start streaming in from her and the movie gets lost between them. In short, the hospital is releasing my brother, and my sister-in-law is freaking out.

Day 14 text ... Darryl was released from the hospital & sent directly to mandatory rehab today. He is traveling to the Caron Center as I type. The doctors at the hospital all agree; he is one strong stubborn man. Well, in this case ... Thank God! Thanks for your continued prayers.

"Some people have near death experiences and come back twice as strong." ~ I overheard my brother saying this on the phone a couple days after he was released. The drama continues. The Caron Center needed to discuss this case before accepting him. So, he has made a pit stop at my parent’s house for a few days. Only four months ago, he fled from this same situation.

Twenty four days after he was found unresponsive, body temp was 92 degrees, blue, very low pulse reading and survived at the hospital. I find myself very thankful! My brother overdosed, died then was brought back to life, and now going to rehab! He has an amazing second chance.

My last text to him read:

Kick some disease butt Bro! I love you. Your little sis