A Preliminary Accounting of the Emotional Expenditures of a Critical Illness (May 20, 2009. Issue 5.)

Item One: For the sake of convenience an itemized listing of text messages for dates 12-24-08 to 12-31-08 is included in the attached Schedule C. It is to be noted that during this period 133 text messages were sent and received. The following is a list of all text messages beginning and ending on the evening of December 24, 2008.

5:32pm Anything?

5:49pm Doc is worried about possible blood clot. They’ve taken a chest xray, might do a cat scan. They’re also drawing blood for tests. All I know for now.

5:50pm Can I do anything for you? I can sit with you if you want. I can’t stand that you’re alone.

5:53pm You can have a good time w/ your family and drink a glass of wine for me :) I’m okay right now. Thanks for taking care of us.

5:59pm Okay. I will drink the wine but I will not have a good time. I simply can’t. Call me when you learn anything new and if you need me at all do not hesitate. I mean it. Fuck that it’s Christmas, if you need me call. This part of the world can survive without me for a few hours if you need my help. We love you guys.

7:03pm I’m going to be like you and start requiring hourly updates. You okay? Is he comfortable?

9:15pm Okay?

9:18pm Likelihood of a clot is low, now they are wondering about pneumonia. He will be admitted tonight, same floor as before. We’re still in the ER waiting.

9:23pm Pneumonia is preferable to a clot, right? No room yet? What’s your plan for tonight? Will you stay with him? Do you need anything? Does he? Let me know.

Item Two: Contents of her purse at the end of the initial three week period

1 – spoon (used, from a packed lunch, date unknown)

4 – tubes of lip gloss

2 – pens

1 – pacifier cover

1 – shopping list for Target

2 – Sheetz gift cards

1 – lint roller

1 – business card with hospital phone numbers on the back

2 – cough drops

1 – blister pack of cold medicine

1 – Advance Medical Directive signed and dated New Year’s Eve 2008

Item Three: Miscellaneous – The following is a list of all non-categorical items pertaining, but not limited to, Lynchburg General Hospital’s 4th floor oncology ward and other relative areas.

10 – Weeks. Age of baby daughter when he was first admitted to the hospital.

2 – Glasses of wine consumed in the kitchen on Christmas night over a plate of assorted cakes and candies while the baby slept in the next room and he slept at the hospital.

8 – Presents still wrapped.

4 – Trips to CVS for the purchase of various comfort items: cold medicine, cough drops, saline spray, tissues, 2 Coca-Colas, 1 bottle water, 1 package green Extra gum.

237 – Number of interlocking colored squares in the design of the loveseat in the waiting area at the end of the 4th floor oncology ward.

2 – Beige institutional chairs (in previously mentioned 4th floor waiting area)

1 – Large round fake leather ottoman.

2 – Glasses of wine consumed in the 4th floor oncology waiting area.

24 – Hours of fear and terror. Beginning at 10am and ending no sooner than 10am the following day. Fear and terror was initiated when a previously arranged phone call did not take place. Breathing slowed. Heart rates dropped. Further details unavailable.

47 – Number of times she pumped breast milk in the hospital

3 – Nights she spent in a recliner next to a hospital bed.

11 – Nights she spent sleeping with her cell phone in her hand.

3 – Number of people who watched the baby.

2 – Hours the baby spent asleep in his arms the night before he had to leave.

Untold – Hours spent wondering when previously mentioned baby had last eaten and how all this would be explained to her one day.

1 – Number of hours spent following an ambulance on the way to a better hospital. For the sake of accuracy certain details must be noted relative to this hour. The wind. It was blustery and painful. Pushing the ambulance across the double line along with the car that was following it. This was made all the worse by the extreme speed that the ambulance driver felt compelled to maintain. The day. It was New Year’s Eve and these are the types of plans that no one makes on New Year’s Eve. To follow behind an ambulance going 80 miles an hour, with the father of your child inside it, towards a hospital filled with doctors that you can only hope will have some answers to the terrible questions that are now being asked. The sun. Through the clouds that are being pushed by the furious wind, every now and then the sun found its way to the back window of the ambulance and when this happened she could see his hat and his face and could see him talking like a friend would talk, because everyone is a friend to the man who is charged with restarting his heart if it stops and his breath if it ceases. Her hands. Gripping the wheel with fear of the force of the blowing wind and of the greater forces that have brought them to this point.