Hope

They have slowly reduced the medication to allow her to wake up, and hopefully the seizures will have stopped. As hours pass, her legs begin to move, her arms. The doctor comes in and looks in her eyes, speaks to her. Her eyelids flutter. There's hope. Movement increases. Suddenly she's pulling on the tubes and wires. Her arms and legs are tied to the bed to prevent this, but she breaks the restraint and pulls at the arterial line. I shout for the nurse, "she broke the thing! she broke the thing!" Suddenly we're surrounded again and it takes several people to hold her down. She's lifting her head, trying to lift her body up and pull away, to get right out of the bed! She's gagging on the tube down her throat. She's terrified. A doctor comes in and sedates her again. Next time we hope that she will waken more slowly. They turn down the ventilator so that she's breathing mostly on her own. One of the doctors is telling a trainee how unusual it is for her to breathe as deeply as she does, that the ventilator actually cuts off her breath, that she must be very fit. I'm so proud, and hopeful. She's a resilient girl. She's never been one to be told what her limits are, not by a ventilator or anything else.

We wait. Her legs begin to move again, her hands. The doctor looks in her eyes, rubs her sternum, tells her to open her eyes and she does. Asks her to squeeze his fingers and she does! Tells her to cough, and they will pull out the tube. She gags, coughs, and it comes out. She's babbling incoherently, a scratchy weak voice. "bhweh bah bahh" (where am I?). The nurse explains that she's in the hospital, she hit her head, she needs to relax and rest. She's asleep again, almost immediately, and begins to snore. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard. Her body is calm, she's resting comfortably. I'm elated.