Not yet

He’s not awake yet. Not fully at least. We still have no idea what’s happening in his mind.

Brain surgery during a pandemic is not ideal. 

To be fair - brain surgery isn’t ideal.

Neither is a pandemic.

But here we are.

When he opens his eyes, even for a moment, we lower our masks so he can see familiar faces. Rules are for unvaccinated people right now. He needs to know we’re here. We got those shots for a reason and this is it.

I hate to say that we have a “typical” cancer surgery stay - but we do. This ain’t our first rodeo, but it might be out toughest. Usually we get to stay overnight with him - last time three of us camped out in his room - but covid restrictions have really messed with our post-surgical mojo. 

Among other things, you’re not allowed to eat or drink in waiting rooms or patient rooms. But also, what else are we supposed to do? We’re not leaving him. So yesterday Kaia and I scarfed down sandwiches like we were committing a misdemeanor. One of us (the braver one) faced the door while the other lowered our mask and took surreptitious bites of a hoagie melt. I could tell when someone was passing by the door, because K’s lifted chin and icy eyes told them to just move along and worry about their own business. Nobody bothered us. In a place like this there are much bigger issues than our cheddar melts.

We also can’t sleep overnight here. Visiting hours are 7-9, though I wouldn’t really call what we’re doing visiting. Rico alternates between rest, reaching for a hand, and saying “help me.” It’s heartbreaking. The room looks like every ER movie you’ve ever seen: 6 IV lines, 4 monitors, head bandages, the sound of oxygen compressing. Finding which of those things is causing him distress is the toughest part. I’m getting pretty good at knowing which line is beeping, which one requires a nurse, and which I can do myself. The nurses work between staying on top of his pain meds, and helping him  to wake up - it’s a tricky balance.  Kaia and I went home last night for a few ours of sleep, and are back in his room this morning, just being. Just loving him.

As usual, the nursing staff here is incredible. We do what we can to help out. Just knowing another set of eyes is on him, seems to be helpful in ICU.

He may not be awake,  but he knows he is loved. He sleeps better with a hand on his arm. He calms when he hears our voices. We read him your notes, and even though he won’t remember any of this tomorrow, he seems to be comforted by it. He knows that he is loved. We all do. It’s what gets us through - and we’re so grateful to all of you for it.