Just the facts. An update on Cora's daddy, Ben.

  
Last week during less painful times. Ben and his nephew. Aren't they cute?

I called Ben as soon as I woke up and got this news. He had asked for pain medication at 4 a.m. and had not received anything but promises it was coming. It was 8 a.m. He spent the morning in absolute pain after asking numerous times for medication. He received the dose before at midnight, so he was well past due. The nurse was either forgetful, busy, or just uncaring. I don't know which. But, taking over four hours to bring medication is unacceptable.

The hospital he is in is bad. It just is. It's dirty, patient charts are left for all to see, privacy is of no concern, and paging a nurse means waiting not minutes but sometimes hours.

The neighborhood is bad. I feel uncomfortable. I hear there have been shootings inside of the hospital.

The good news: the doctors seem capable and have awesome bed side manner. I can actually understand them.

We're in Atlanta at Grady Hospital and I am having so much trouble communicating with the nurses. Their deep southern accents throw me off. They seem to misunderstand me, too. Getting defensive when I ask for simple things like the name of his doctors or asking why he didn't get his medication (I asked nicely to see if he possibly was asking too early).

I don't feel safe at the hospital. Ben's roommate was stabbed multiple times with an ice pick. Most of the trauma floor seems to be hospitalized for gun shot wounds or stabbings. I know this because HIPAA doesn't seem much of a concern.

Neither does safety, Ben was placed on a nothing by mouth diet because surgery was a possibility today. Staff kept delivering a tray right in front of him. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if I weren't there. I told one staff member he couldn't have food and she started arguing until I found the orders plainly taped to the door. 

We can't really leave because we have no health insurance.

And, being poor without health insurance in America seems to translate into getting treated like a piece of dirt that should be thankful for any type of treatment.

My heart breaks listening to these other stories, knowing so many in the hospital don't have an advocate like me.

The awesome doctors from Emory are the bright spot. I've told them about Cora to explain to them that Ben also needs treatment for anxiety and depression and they're truly compassionate. They also treat us like humans and not a bed number. They stay for as long as we want.

The doctor today explained Ben has a Hawkins IV talus break. Basically a small bone underneath his ankle is crushed. I've been researching all night. With this type of break, the chance of the bone dieing is 100 percent. Meaning, a limp, limited mobility, and pain are almost a given. Future surgeries are also a good possibility.

And since we have no health insurance finding follow up care will be hard. The surgeon said many phone calls will be needed because even with health insurance many orthopedic doctors won't see this severe of a break.

Ben is on the trauma floor. I didn't understand why he was on the trauma floor for a broken ankle until I started researching. As far as lower extremity injuries go, this is close to the worst.

But, we aren't losing hope. Ben and I have each other. I'll push him to rehab. He'll push himself. And, we'll always have each other.

We have to cling to each other. After all, we're just two of the millions of uninsured in America fighting for the right to quality health care. At this hospital, we seem to be losing, but we'll keep pushing until we get the best care possible.

We're actually the lucky ones. We have each other.


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The treehouse

Another sudden accident.

Another heart pounding moment of realization that the person closest person to me on this Earth was in serious trouble.

I'm drained. I don't even know if I can get this out.

March 6, Saturday, we stopped in Atlanta at Ben's sister's house on our way home from a much needed change of scenery and vacation in Florida.

March 6, Saturday, I wept and tried to hold it together most of the day for my nephews. The day marked three months since sweet Cora died in my arms. 

I spent much of the day curled up in bed, but finally decided to try joining the BBQ my sister in law was throwing for some distraction. I started coming out of my shell. Was truly enjoying my nephews and their friends. When my entire (already upside down and scary world) was again sent spiraling.

While caught up in play, my husband, and Cora's daddy, Ben, decided to slide down the fireman's pole in the left on the picture below. The kids had all been doing so with close supervision by parents at the bottom.


I told him not to do it, which meant of course he had to try to slide down. Ben lost his grip and went tumbling. We immediately knew he was hurt, but he was alert. He knew his leg was broken. I worried, but inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. A broken leg was fixable.

We soon saw the paramedics would be needed and it wasn't until they got there and cut off his shoe that I this wasn't just a leg break. His foot was grotesquely twisted as if snapped from his leg.

I sat in the front seat of the ambulance and three months to the day Cora died I took another scary ride to the hospital.

The paramedics said he was stable, but immediately rushed him into the trauma room of the county hospital in Atlanta. He was surrounded by gunshot victims and seriously wounded people.

Then the staff sent me to the waiting room promising a swift return. I waited hours and started badgering and finally demanding to see my husband.

I learned surgery was definitely needed. He'd crushed his talus. The doctors said it was a bad break. I worried. They said most likely he'd always have a bit of a sore ankle.

More X-Rays and specialists and CT scans and doctors and nurses later, we got a very different and scary prognosis.

A lifetime bothersome ankle was the best outcome. Ben will most likely have a limp, or need mobility aids. He's 28. I can't type this without crying.

I know it could be worse.

I know in the end he could be fine.

But, we've been through hell and now isn't the time to tackle a long, hard, painful recovery.

I'm drained.

I am optimistic. But, I am also scared. I can't describe how it feels to hear those words. To hear your husband will likely be permanently handicapped.

I can't proofread this post. I don't know that it made sense. But, it's out there.

I'm 700 miles away from home, terrified, tired, and utterly lost without him.

We don't know when he'll be out of the hospital. We don't know when his surgery is. We don't know when or if he'll walk or what he faces. We have no health insurance. We have to move in a month.

And, I am drained. I can't do it. I'm so tired. 




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A letter to my daughter

Hopefully, I’m sitting in the sun right now as you’re reading this. I never schedule posts. I usually write them at 2 in the morning and my heart just spills onto the page and I hit publish, but this is one I’ve known I was going to write for a while, so I poured my heart out onto the page and scheduled this to pop up while I’m gone.

I’m writing this early Tuesday morning. For those that follow me on Twitter or Facebook, I hit a wall on Saturday and knew I needed to leave. I thought we were leaving the next day, but everything got pushed back, and Ben and I left sometime on Tuesday to camp under the stars, drive, sit on the beach, cry, and as many advised just to be.

I’ve been writing to Cora since early in my pregnancy in a private journal I planned on showing her when my hair was gray and she was having children of her own.  Instead, I'll share with you.

While I’m in the sun, I wanted to leave my blog readers one of the happiest days of my life.

I told you Cora brought extreme happiness. Her story isn’t just one of sadness.

So while I sit under the sun on a beach in Florida and look for peace, I give you my piece of sunshine.

I’ve typed the journal entry from when I found out that I was carrying a little girl, a warm midsummer's day in July:
...

 

The page scanned from my journal.

07/22/2009
My daughter-

Yesterday, we found out that you’re our daughter for the first time. We all love you so much already! I know sometimes we’ll fight, sometimes I’ll drive you crazy, but we’ll always have the closest bond possible. We paid for an elective ultrasound. You were the all bunched up, but kept moving your legs, we could see your little heart beating. They even gave us a DVD. One day, we’ll watch it. I bought your first pair of shoes. Dad and I had an ongoing joke that he would buy shoes for a boy, and I would buy shoes for a girl. I’ve never seen your dad react the way he did. He said they were the “cutest things ever.” He loves you already.

   Ben keeps Cora's first shoes in a drawer in the desk. He wants to keep them always. I pulled them out to show you.

 We’ve got to come up with a name for you! I think I already told you how seriously we take this responsibility. A name is important. We still the like the names I already told you about, but we’ve added a couple of names. We also like the Anne or Anna, Elizabeth and Samantha. I wish I could ask you!

 Grandma Brite loves you already, too. You’re her first grandchild. She came with us to the ultrasound yesterday and was so excited. She said you’re beautiful. She posted on Facebook – I wonder if it will be around when you’re older- all about seeing you and you how much she loved you.
….

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Finally...

Well after a four day farewell tour of tweets, Facebook posts and emails (I've had my vacation auto responder on for two days). We're heading out!

Saturday I had enough. I wailed like the mother in morning that I am for hours. Didn't know how I'd possibly go on. I woke Ben from a deep slumber and told him we had to leave NOW. I couldn't take it on more moment.

He decided, being responsible and level headed, to do some "routine" and "quick" car maintenance before we left.

He got stuck in Indianapolis after tearing the car apart and realizing he needed different tools and parts or do dads or what nots or something. I'm not so much for cars. All I know is I was here without him for over 24 hours alone and almost went crazy. I slept much, cried much, and ate little. But, he's back and promises to get me out of here tomorrow (or later today it's early morning now).

I know skipping town won't make everything better. I know I'll think of her constantly. I know nothing will change when I come back.

But I need sun. I need no phones. I need to curl up with my husband. And, besides crying on a pretty beach sounds so much more appealing than crying stuck inside avoiding Northern Indiana weathers.

Not only is it snow, but it's dirty ugly snow, and it's been here weeks now!

 I'll think of Cora here and there, and take her everywhere.

 Gray skies and barren trees. Makes for a sad me.

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