It's In The Contract
I was sleeping when it happened. It was late Monday night.
“Wake up. Honey you have to wake up,” I heard Vince's voice, gentle yet urgent. Confused and disoriented, I fought to comprehend what he was saying.
“Why, what happened?” He muttered something about a phone call and Sean and an accident.
“Just tell me what happened!” My heart raced as my brain battled to find consciousness.
“I'm telling you I don't know. Just get up. We have to go,” he said, struggling to remain calm.
“Why didn't you ask?” I said, unable to make sense of what he was trying to tell me.
“I told you all I know. Chico PD called, they didn't explain. They just said we need to get to the hospital now,” his voice grew more urgent. He turned on the bedroom light. His eyes betrayed his fear. I stopped arguing, got out of bed and made my way to the closet. Legs weak, hands shaking, I found a pair of crumpled jeans, pulled them on as well as the first sweatshirt I could find. I don't remember putting on shoes.
“Should we wake Kiersten?” He looked at me, his eyes fighting back tears.
“Yes,” he said. My skin grew clammy. I struggled to stay on my feet.
As we pulled onto the main street all I could see were emergency vehicles in the distance. It looked as if some important dignitary were about to pass by or the aftermath of something terrible. Vince turned off on a side street. Terror stricken I called Chico fire station 4. They would have been on the call. No answer.
“I need to know what's going on. I need to know what's going on!” I pleaded.
“You have to calm down.” Vince's attempt to reason with me failed. I tried station 6, Vince's station.
“Kevin, this is Terri. What happened at the call that 4's went on just now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“I don't know, we were on a call. We didn't hear it.”
“Listen Kevin, it's Sean. You have to find out for me. I have to know what happened to him.” I hung up only after he promised to try.
“I can't do this, I can't do this, I have to know what's going on!” I cried out to no one in particular.
“Listen to me honey, you have got to calm down. You can't go in if you are like this.” Vince reasoned.
“Don't you tell me what I have to do!” It felt as though the car was closing in on me. I was an animal in a small cage. I needed to get out.
“Vince can't you drive any faster?” He was already breaking the speed limit.
“Terri stop, I won't let you go in there like this, I mean it. You have to get a hold of yourself. We don't even know what happened yet.” Vince's voice was tinged with anger as well as concern. Shaking and crying I promised I would pull it together.
As we pulled up to the hospital we saw the station 4 crew and the police Sargent, all friends of ours, standing in front. I could see the somber look on their faces from across the street. I felt dread seizing me, then everything stopped. I watched myself from some distant place, walk over to them. A sleepwalker struggling to find a destination.
“Just tell me,” I demanded. Whatever is was, I wanted to hear it quick. Captain John looked at me as Vince and Kiersten approached.
“He's alive and you need to get in there,” he said.
“What happened to him?” I pleaded.
“There was an accident Terri, you really need to get in there now.” They hugged us but could find no words of encouragement as we walked toward the hospital.
As we entered the ER and approached the person behind the desk, I faintly said.
“Our son Sean Gama was in an accident,”
“Please come with me,” That was it. No hesitation, no explanations, no words of encouragement. Just a mindless trip back to a little office. A nameless, faceless person entered to talk to us. What was he saying? His words appeared out of sync with his lips.
“Your son was hit by a car. He has multiple broken bones as well as a serious head injury. They're prepping him for surgery. You can see him before they take him.”
“Surgery? What are they going to do?” Vince asked.
“I'm sorry sir I really can't explain more. The surgeon will talk with you in a few minutes. You can sit in the waiting room until they are ready for you.” I wanted to beg him not to make us go out there. How could we sit in a room full of people.
Lacking the strength to argue we followed him. As we were walking out I ran into a flight care nurse/ friend. She looked at me; at us.
“Terri what happened? Are you alright?”
“Sean was in an accident. We can't see him yet and they're making us wait out in the waiting room.” I spit the words out in desperation.
“The Gama's are going to wait in here,” She told our escort as she guided us back into the room. Unable to wait and do nothing, I called and woke my older sister, the first person I always turn to. She was an hour and half drive away, but promised she would be right there. The next call was to a friend who in turn phoned our pastor. He arrived just as we were told we could see Sean.
“I'm not going.” Kiersten pleaded. She was paralyzed with fear.
“You don't want to have any regrets,” my heart broke as I realized there was no way to protect her from something not even I wanted to face.
Sean was on a gurney inside the trauma room. He was unconscious. A ventilator was breathing for him. The sheet that covered him could not hide the blood dripping from his right arm and leg or the blood soaked pillow under his head. He was so still, so silent. The surgeon was explaining the severity of his injuries. It sounded as if someone were speaking through a thick wall. All that I could see and hear was Vince, Kiersten, Sean and myself. My ears heard only our voices, begging him to hang on.
“You're gonna be alright Sean. You got hurt in an accident but you're going to be fine,” I said, choking back the tears.
“You're a bad ass Sean, you hold on.” Kiersten added.
Vince kissed him and whispered words only intended for Sean to hear. Our actions were to become our unspoken rule: Suck it up, nothing but words of encouragement in front of Sean. If you can't stop the tears, then make them silent or walk out until you feel stronger. It was okay to fall apart in front of each other, but never in front of Sean.
We followed the procession of doctors and nurses escorting Sean to surgery. They stopped to allow our pastor, Steve, to pray. Our “I love you's” followed as the gurney disappeared behind the automatic double doors. Numb, unable to think or move on our own, we blindly followed as Steve led us down what seemed an endless corridor with countless turns to arrive at the Neurotrauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit (NTSICU) waiting room. The waiting room consisted of a main room with 3 sofa's in a U shape on one side. On the other side of the room were chairs and a table. In the back were two smaller cubby rooms. They were doorless. The seating in the smaller rooms was built with benches that lined the three walls. They were cushioned and we would soon discover that one of those rooms could somewhat comfortably sleep three.
We waited for what felt like hours. Forty five minutes later we met with the on call surgeon. He said they were only able to clean, not close Sean's wounds or set his broken bones. He also told us he had put a bolt in his head to monitor his intracranial pressure (ICP). The monitor would indicate how much his brain was swelling. He explained that Sean's brain injury was diffuse. His entire brain was swollen.
4/28/09- Diagnostic Data:
Chest x-ray was unremarkable. Head CT scan shows subarachnoid blood and what appears to be left frontal subdural. Cervical spine is negative per CT scan. Abdominal CT scan is unremarkable. FAST exam is negative. Extremity x-rays show a right tib/fib fracture, a right elbow fracture, and a right humorous fracture. Other long bones show no fractures including femur.
Normally the swelling begins to decrease after 72 hours. The first 3 days were critical.
4/28/09- Plan:
The patient is being admitted to the Neurotrauma Intensive Care Unit after the OR. Neuro surgeon has seen the patient in neurosurgical consultation, with placing an intracranial monitor. Orthopedic surgeon has seen the patient in orthopedic consultation and will be doing the orthopedic procedures. The patient will be admitted to Neurotrauma Intensive Care and will have pulmonary following as well.
If things didn't go well, the Dr. told us, a “last ditch” effort would mean putting Sean into a pentobarbital (pentobarb) induced coma. It wasn't long before we went into the ICU to meet the people who would be caring for Sean. He would be his nurses only patient until 7a.m. when another nurse would take him for the next 12 hours. He would also be monitored by a charge nurse, the trauma surgeon, the neuro surgeon, a pulmonologist, a respiratory therapist, a pharmacist and a number of other specialists that would be called should the need arise. From then on there was nothing for us to do but wait.
By 3am we were sitting with my sister, her son and our pastor when a Chico
police officer joined us.
On 4/27/09 at about 2304 hours I was dispatched to a collision involving a vehicle colliding with a pedestrian. I arrived on scene at 2308 hours.
The collision occurred at the intersection of Skyway and Notre Dame Blvd.
Party #1. (Gama): was located lying in the roadway. Gama was unconscious and had major injuries. I was not able to interview him. P-1 had major injuries including compound fractures to right leg and arm. P-1 had severe head trauma.
The officer's questions asked and answered we waited some more. Most of the night was like attempting to walk through cotton candy with purpose. We wanted to focus and be strong but the atmosphere was too thick, too real, too terrifying. We each in turn wandered back and forth from Sean's bed. In the early hours of the morning when it was just Vince, Kiersten and myself, we each lay down on one of the 3 small sofa's I had thought so little of, and tried to rest.
We woke Tuesday morning to a request to come into the ICU and speak with the doctor. Vince and I walked in and were directed to pick up phones at the nurses desk. The faceless voice on the other end of the line introduced himself as the neuro surgeon who would be Sean's primary physician. He gave us a long explanation about head injuries and the fact that Sean's skull was not allowing room for swelling. He ended the call with an additional explanation that Sean's brain injury was massive and severe and then he said the words that we will never forget, “I'm not going to tell you your son can't survive, I'm just telling you that I don't foresee that happening.”
I reached for the desk in front of me as my legs started to give way. To my left was a young woman sitting in a chair, laughing and talking with someone.
“I need that... that,” I stammered, pointing to her chair. Someone else grabbed it and put it behind me just as I fell. To my right I could see Vince falling into a chair as it was pushed beneath him. When we could stand we made our way to Sean's bedside to tell him how much he was loved, then we returned to the waiting room to tell Kiersten. One look at us and she started to cry. We knew each other too well. It was impossible to hide the frightening truth from her. All we could do was hold her. There were no words sufficient to console.
Moments later, the cell phone rang. It was Kevin calling from fire station 6.
“Terri the information about Sean's accident is going to hit the floor this morning and I need to know what you want me to do. I can keep everyone away if you need me to.”
“No Kevin, it's okay. Let them come. It will be good for us to have the support,” I said, not knowing how many people would get the news and fill the room that day and in the days to come.
The fire service is a family. As soon as people heard we would be inundated with well wishers unless someone told them not to come.
Our pastor Steve, my sister and her son came back early followed by a line of fire and church family. They held us, loved us and attempted to feed us. Two of my friends brought in a laptop and introduced me to CarePagessm, an internet website that provides free patient blogs intended to connect friends and family during a health challenge. They had created a blog page for us and encouraged us to use it to keep everyone updated. They titled the blog, “lovesean”.
Then we waited. Every thirty minutes, Vince, Kiersten or myself would go in to sit by Sean, encouraging him to hold on. Later in the afternoon Sean was taken to xray for a computed tomography (CT) scan.
A brain is supposed to look bumpy with wavy lines and dark spots where the cerebral spinal fluid is. His brain looked like a crystal ball. There were no lines, no bumps, no dark spots, nothing but smooth grey.
It was the beginning of a battle that we could not possibly comprehend. His ICP climbed as they gave him drugs to combat the swelling. He developed a hole in one of his lungs. He was in a drug induced sleep but the pain from the unset bones and the head injury was unbearable. His heart rate and blood pressure made it evident.
People came, people went, food was offered, food was denied. Back and forth we went, waiting room to ICU, never knowing what awaited us. The day went on as we sat waiting, hoping and praying. Late in the evening when the last visitors had left we set up camp in one of the back rooms of the waiting room. The hospital gave us pillows and blankets. Vince, Kiersten and I settled in for a long sleepless night.
Wednesday arrived with more visitors and more food. Kiersten's friends sat on either side of her holding her as she fought to stay calm. Sean was her best friend and confidant. The fear of losing him was more than she could bare. At noon Kiersten's friends gently coerced her into leaving the hospital to take a shower. Vince and I, unwilling and unable to leave Sean alone, decided to take turns going home to clean up and pick up a few things.
I drove home in auto pilot, barely aware of my surroundings. Before I knew it I was in our driveway. The hot water of the shower felt comforting, but as I was drying off anxiety began to build. How could I have left Sean even for a minute? What if the worst happened while I was away? I should be there! Anxiety quickly turned to panic as I threw on clothes and burst out the door. Back at the hospital Vince tried to reassure me. Sean was still fighting and nothing catastrophic had happened in my absence.
“I don't know what I will do if he doesn't make it.” I said sobbing in desperation.
4/29/09
1900- Labile ICP”s ranging from 17 to a high of 36. Attempted to change patients position in an effort to decrease ICP's, it decreased for a short time then return to the 20's. Sedated on versed drip
2030- Neuro surgeon spoke with parents about plan to start pentobarb drip. Plan is to start barbituate drip and continue to monitor.
That evening we met Sean's nuero surgeon, for the first time, in person. He informed us they were going to put Sean in a pentobarb coma at midnight.
Wasn't that the “last ditch” effort we were told about less than 48 hours earlier? How could that be? Weren't we told the swelling in his brain would begin to decrease after 72 hours? Wasn't a pentobarb coma potentially dangerous? These and so many other questions crowded our minds.
“We have to do something to slow down the swelling in Sean's brain. What we are doing so far isn't working. We're losing the battle,” He solemnly explained.
“The pentobarb coma will slow down his brain function and hopefully cause the swelling to decrease. We will start out at a low dose and see how he responds.”
He said Sean was given a pulmonary artery (Swan-Ganz) catheter to measure his cardiac output; the pentobarb could potentially stop his heart. They would also be putting EEG leads on his head to monitor his brain function.
The evening wore on as we awaited the dreaded midnight hour. Sitting, standing, pacing up an down the corridors and hours staring at the doors to the ICU.
Carepagessm post: Apr 29, 2009 11:20pm
A Long Night Ahead
Well it's late and we know we have to sleep but nothing feels like the right thing to do. Vince is checking on Sean. The doctor will be starting the barbituate induced coma sometime around midnight. They will start with low doses at first and slowly increase it as needed. This is the last thing they can do to save his life. We are trying to see this as a positive and hold on to the hope but we are struggling tonight. We have to remember he is young and strong and that God is in control. Please pray for him. Please pray for us. We are so scared. He is a part of us and we need him to get better. I will close for now and spend a little time praying and holding my family. Thank you for all of your support.
Goodnight
Thursday morning the pentobarb seemed to be working. Sean's ICP had stayed in the teens most of the night. Although Sean was still critical, the doctor felt we were turning a corner. “Don't get too excited,” the surgeon said, “When things go bad in the ICU they go bad real quick, and when they go good, they go good very slow.” It was impossible however, not to feel enthusiastic. Sean was doing well and we were approaching the magical 72nd hour when his brain would stop swelling. We believed Sean would be coming back to us soon.
We had established a routine of sorts. Kiersten's cousins would keep vigil with us by day and take her home at night. During the day the teenagers and 20-somethings would claim the back room. It was like a cave with pillows and blankets and comforting music. They felt safe together in that limited space. They could cry and fall apart, laugh and regain strength in the privacy of their nest. Vince and I stayed in the main room of the waiting room by day, only leaving to shower, and the “cave” by night. We had only two tasks, sitting with Sean and keeping those that loved us updated. It was something we could control. It was something we could do. Just as we would almost finish updating someone, another person or group of people would enter and we would begin again. On and on it went the never ending updates.
The 72nd hour arrived and Sean got sicker. His brain continued to swell, his ICP climbed, his blood pressure climbed, his temperature climbed. More drugs were administered. He was put on a cooling bed, we waited all the while reassuring, him that he was fine. We told him he had a few little injuries and he needed to rest but not to be afraid because he was going to be okay. We talked as though he could hear us in spite of the fact that the doctors told us he couldn't. The nurses encouraged, “You just keep talking to him.”
Our lives were now being lived inside the hospital. Whatever had occupied our time outside those walls prior to April 27th no longer existed.
Friday ushered in the same routine. We sat by Sean while his nurses vigilantly watched the clock as Sean's ICP climbed, waiting until they could administer another dose of something, desperately fighting to keep the swelling down and to keep him alive. We waited, we prayed, we pleaded. We agonized at how long it was taking for his ICP to lower. We wondered how long this nightmare would continue. The long morning turned into the gruelling afternoon, on into the endless night.
5/02/09
0745- Medicated for ICP of 28 with mannitol.
0820- Medicated for ICP of 28 with hypertonic saline. MD notified of ICP
1045- ICP at 33, CPP 67, increasing neosynephrine. Waiting for MD callback.
1225- Medicated for ICP of 26 with mannitol, can't give more mannitol or hypertonic saline due to labs (sodium Na 155,osm 313)
1330- MD at bedside, given update. Order to take patient to CT, explore surgical options. 1400- Met with the patients mother and MD to discuss necessity of CT.
On Saturday afternoon May 2nd, day five, I was in the waiting room with my brother and some friends when the neuro surgeon and Sean's nurse walked in, Vince had left for his shower. They said they needed to talk to me privately. Their somber faces told me it was not going to be good news.
“I need for you to understand just how sick Sean is,” the surgeon began. I started shaking and wished Vince would suddenly appear. I didn't want to hear this without him but I didn't have a choice. I looked to the nurse for reassurance. She looked at me kindly but could not mask the deep concern that clouded her face.
“He has so much more in his bad column than his good.” he continued “Sean is as deep as we can get him in the pentobarb coma. We're throwing everything we got at him and we're losing the battle. His brain is still very swollen. We haven't been able to close his wounds and we are looking at the possibility of gangrene and sepsis. He is also developing pneumonia. He is a very sick young man.” I think I mumbled something about his good column.
“He is young and healthy and he has that going for him, but as I said he is deep in the pentobarb coma. We don't like to put someone that deep into the ocean. We prefer to keep them just below the surface. He has a much better chance of waking up the shorter time we keep him down. A couple of days is not so bad but the longer he stays down the worse his outcome looks. What we need is a surgical option. So far we haven't been able to find one. We need to take him to CT now to see if there is any change.
“Are we there yet?” I whispered.
“Oh yes we're there alright”
I was shaking uncontrollably as I felt the room shrinking, the air thinning. Then suddenly just as I was certain that I would pass out, a thought, a hope came to mind.
“But people do live, right? Sometimes they live, against all odds they make it, right?” It was more of a demand than a question.
“Well, yes, they do,” He said with hesitation.
“Remember Kayla?” He continued turning his attention to the nurse.
“I took that little girls skull off twice and she came in recently and showed me her prom picture. So yes they do, but I don't want to give you any false hopes,” he said, turning his attention back to me. I hesitated, wanting to discuss this with Vince, knowing there was no time to wait.
“You can take him to CT.” I reluctantly whispered.
I stayed in the back room until I gained the strength to rejoin the group. I muttered what I had just been told. When Vince arrived I lost what little control I had been clinging to. Vince thought the worst as he entered the room. I quickly explained to him what had taken place in his absence, then we hurried back to be with Sean.
We followed as a carefully selected team of six caregivers with serious concern on their faces took Sean to CT. The 15 minute wait seemed endless. When Sean was back in the ICU on his ventilator Vince and I were summoned to meet with the surgeon. He showed us Sean's CT and explained that a small spot, a pinpoint, of cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) was visible toward the back of his brain.
“I need to drill a hole, then thread a catheter two and a half inches back in his head to that spot and drain fluid to relieve pressure,” he explained. “If I nick his brain on the way it will be catastrophic. If I don't make it on the first pass then I have to decide if I should try again. Each pass increases the chance of causing a bleed.”
I felt my legs growing weak. I backed up until I felt the wall behind me. As I slipped down to the floor I heard my disembodied voice whisper,
“Are we there yet?”
“Oh yes, we're there,” I heard him say for the second time that day. How could we give permission for a surgery that could kill our son? We had no choice, Sean was dying and it would take something radical to turn things around. We gave our consent with one stipulation.
“Have you seen his pictures?” I asked. We had wallpapered Sean's room with pictures of his life. Snowboarding, cliff diving, graduation, cross country running, family, friends and his own photography. All told the story of this still, seemingly lifeless person in room 194. He wasn't just a name, just a room number. He was a person and I didn't want the doctor to go to surgery without a sense of who Sean was, who Sean would be again.
“No I haven't, but I will look,” he promised. We returned to the waiting room long enough to ask family to pray, to post a prayer request on CarePagessm and most importantly to update Kiersten.
Carepagessm Post May 2, 2009 5:10 p.m.
Pray Now
Sean is going to the OR in a few minutes. This surgery is very dangerous but could, WILL save his life. If you read this soon and you are in Chico please come to Enloe hospital chapel and pray for Sean. If you can't get here drop to your knees wherever you are and pray. The surgery will last an hour. Someone will post when we can.
Vince, Kiersten and I gathered as a family around Sean's bed until they came to take him to surgery. We held his hands and one by one we talked to him, telling him how much we loved him. When one of us was unable to speak without crying another would fill in. It was a constant chorus of love and faith until the doctor stuck his head in the door and said it was time to go.
“I got my jammies on so let's go,” he said, a weak attempt at levity.
“Did you look at the pictures?” I asked just as he was ducking back out.
“No, I haven't yet.”
“Well come in and look,” I insisted. We spent a few minutes looking over Sean's pictures, Sean's life. We explained to him that Sean had a big life. The pictures were only a tiny representation of the huge personality that was Sean. He thanked me for sharing the pictures then followed as a team of caregivers ushered Sean out of the ICU.
Vince and Kiersten and I each went to find our own quiet place to pray. My brother walked with me to the chapel. I prayed, remembering a story in the Bible where Jesus healed a man and his disciples asked him why they weren't able to heal him. He told them it was because their faith was so small. He said if they had faith the size of a mustard seed they could move mountains. I didn't need mountains to move, I needed my son to be well. I told God I believed and would continue to believe He not only could, but would heal Sean. I asked for complete healing. As I was leaving the chapel the first of many people who had read my CarepPagessm update began to arrive.
We gathered back in our waiting room. Family and a few close friends in the big room, Vince, Kiersten and I in the cave. We each lay down on one of the three cushioned benches and attempted to breathe and to be still. Vince was across from me.
“Close your eyes honey, try to rest,” Vince lovingly urged. I just kept looking at his eyes. In that moment they held everything, all the fear, all the hope, all the love. Not just that day but 23 years of life spent together and it was all there in his eyes.
We stayed there for as long as we could be still then returned to the big room to pace and wait with the others. One hour after the surgery had begun the surgeon came to the door. He didn't enter the room. He merely put his head in, preparing for a quick escape.
“I got through on the first pass and his ICP is dropping,” he said grinning. The room burst into rejoicing as the doctor attempted his exit.
“Wait a minute” I exclaimed, leaping to embrace him in a tearful thank you.
Back at the chapel Vince and I found it filled inside and out with people praying for Sean. The silence was deafening. All eyes turned to us in hope and desperation, longing for good news.
“It worked,” I whispered, “He's okay, his ICP is dropping.” I reached out and grabbed someone to hug as the room exploded into tears and cheers of joy.
Carepagessm Post: May 3, 2009 12:42am
Well I'm going to bed in a bit and I think I might actually be able to get some sleep. This day has been unbelievable. I have been on a few emotional roller coasters in my life but this was by far the wildest. Sean is resting peacefully and his ICP continues to drop. His vital signs are good. He has made it through a tough day.
What will I remember all of my life from this day? I will remember at a moments notice people ran out on a rainy Saturday afternoon to fill a little hospital chapel to pray for our Sean. I will remember coming back to this page to see messages from others who couldn't be here, telling us they were praying from their homes. I will remember my family in this room supporting one another. I will remember Vince, Kiersten and myself gathered around Sean's bed, praying crying, and loving each other until they took him to surgery. I will remember an amazing team of Doctors and Nurses who were not only incredible at their jobs, but they truly cared about our family. I will remember these moments because they are the moments of the intense love and faith that held us up today. All of you supported us, and held us when we couldn't stand alone. And you are here for us because God has brought us together in this place because His love is amazing. Goodnight wonderful people. We love you and we are so grateful for all of you. God is great and He is present.
Love,
Terri, Vince, Sean & Kiersten
Sunday morning we expected an easy day. The night had gone well. Sean's ICP stayed below 20 and even dipped down to nine. We woke to what we thought would be our easiest day yet, the turning point in this nightmare. It turned. It definitely turned. Just not the direction we had hoped. Sean's breathing became labored. As the morning wore on his condition worsened. When the doctor came in to speak with us he didn't have good news. He told us Sean was actually much sicker than he had been the day before. How could he be sicker than the day he nearly died? When would he get better?
5/03/09
0730- Patient remains in Pentabarb coma. ABG's drawn, pH 7.46, pCO2 36, pO2 57. Pulmonologist order to turn PEEP up to 7 with oxygen saturation at 96%.
0830- Pulmonologist at bedside for bronchoscopy.
1000- O2 saturation at 94%, PEEP up to 10.
1030- ABG's drawn with pO2 at 51. Pulmonologist advised. PEEP up to 12.
1045- Mannitol given for ICP of 33.
1140- CPP 73. Neo titrated with improvement of CPP.
1230- Neuro surgeon at bedside, spoke with family
1740- Pulmonologist at bedside for bronchoscopy.
1730- Mannitol given for ICP of 26. ABG's drawn with improvement, pO2 84. Will continue monitoring.
Sean had pneumonia. Dumbfounded, we stumbled through the day. The medication they gave him to lower his ICP worsened the pneumonia and if they didn't give it we watched his ICP climb. It was an intricate dance throughout the day to find balance.
By nightfall it appeared as though we had won yet another battle. After two broncoscopies and several antibiotics, Sean was breathing easier.
