Written September 25, 2010  8;25 pm

Anita had a relatively quiet day today.  She had a Physical Therapy (PT) evaluation in the morning and received some range of motion exercises.  She sat up in a wheelchair for two (2) hours in the afternoon.  She was then returned to bed, following which she was taken off the ventilator for twenty five (25) minutes as an initial step in the weaning off the ventilator process.  Weekends at the Shepherd Center are relatively quiet with regards to level of rehab activities, as compared to during the week.  Anita was resting easy be evening's end.

Here I am, in another state, still in ICU.  As usual, John sits vigil during the day.  But something is different.  I'm lying on my back, gazing at butterflies and flowers, words calling to me; hope, faith.  The ceiling tiles are all painted with vibrant colors, scenes from nature and encouraging words.  No two are alike.  A feast for my eyes.  I am so used to flat white tiles with black specks resembling splattered paint.  And sometimes a small stain just to add dimension.  I used to stare at them for hours, trying to make images or shapes out of the dots.  Sometimes the dots seemed to swim in a sea of confusion.  To me they were ICU clouds.

The ceiling tiles here are beautiful.  Some are worthy of framing.  The nurse notices me looking at them and tells me they have all been done by patients in Therapeutic Recreation.  She remarks that I will have a chance to create one.  I smile.  That would be nice, but I have never been an artist and I can't lift my arm or grasp a paintbrush.

As per my paralyzed protocol, she then rolls me to my side.  I can no longer see the tiles, but I see her.  I know she will be back in 2 hours to turn me again. Being paralyzed in bed is akin to spinning on a rotisserie. Before she exits, she casually asks while fluffing my pillow, "Can you cluck with your tongue?"  I try, and to my delight, find that my tongue makes a noise as it slaps off the roof of my mouth.  "Good," she says.  "If we ever try to leave before getting you comfortable, or if something's not right, just cluck at us.  We will figure out what's wrong and fix it."

Fix it.  I like the sound of that.  And I love that I have a "voice" now.  It's very chicken-like, but I can be heard.   And my overhead art gallery is amazing.  I'm still scared, but my new environment is hopeful. They are well used to patients with my deficits and I am medically stable.  Hope is hiding in the ceiling tiles and in my clucks. Now...for just a little while.