Too Many Covered Dishes

There is, in the world we formerly called The South without fear of offending someone, a phenomenon whereby the measure of the gravity of a particular situation can accurately and precisely be gauged simply, effectively, and dare I say completely.

[This is one of those times that I wish a blog could be truly interactive.]  Anyone?  Money?  No.

Physical turnout in participation?  No.

Anyone else?

Sorry...you're thinking way too deeply.

The longstanding understood Southern metric for determining just how grave/dire/impactful/terrible a scenario might be is, of course, food.  Yes, the covered dish.

As a quick aside, please note that I, with purpose, gave a few words (not all negative) to illustrate the use of the covered dish metric (CDM) and its power.

The benchmark standard is, as most would know, the funeral.  It's a hard person—likely someone who didn't cry when Old Yeller breathed his last—who would show up without a dish to a funeral.  And depending on a number of factors, including the nature of the deceased and their personal impact upon and through the community, the volume, breadth, and quality of the food items very well might improve.  CDM:  high

Contrast that with, say, a visit from the lieutenant governor's secretary for the dedication of the multi-use building at the Second Street Baptist Church.  CDM:  mid-low to low

*******

It's been one week.  I thought about that a lot today, and I realized that I still don't think I've completely cleared my head of all the sedation cobwebs, because my mind would then wander and try to think of all of the song and literary references involving the terms "one week" or "seven days" or the like.  And by the time I'm sitting here writing all of this, not only is it fairly late, I'm completely exhausted.

But, yes, it has been one week.  And I have learned a little bit more about my personal miracle...some through actual research, some through a little listening to folks a bit in the know, and some simply through osmosis of families going through what mine went through last week.

I figured today was as good a day as any to make my first jaunt outside the house since I was released.  We have doctor appointment follow-ups later in the week, and ever the engineer, I wanted to ensure that I had addressed any contingencies.  (I currently am ambulatory with the effect of the early Denny's crowd, complete with folding walker with tennis balls and one foot kinda dragging back a bit.  I don't say that for humor but for illustration...that's exactly what I look like.)

My wife and son drove me to the homeschool co-op group whose attendance includes my daughter, one of many small groups around the world that were praying for me as medical "practice" became medical "perfect".  I still get winded pretty quickly, but I was able to muster enough of the good gas to thank them and pray their day started.  After I concluded, my wife ran up to me and whispered something in my ear and did a quick head nod/nose point to make sure I understood.  A young lady, weeping in the front pew...it seems this lady's mother and I had shared an experience within just a couple of hours of each other in the same hospital, only hers has had to be extended.  My heart just fell, and I resumed praying.  It was beautiful and terrible all at once.

We left, drove for a greasy spoon brunch, then headed home.

*******

Since I have been home, in spite of my bullheaded nature to elbow my way in and do things in the fashion that suits me best, I have given in for the most part to being served.  That's tough.  I don't mind being assisted when I ask for it.  But when my wife and kids are pretty much saying I will accept help with no argument (and I didn't solicit in any way) I struggle to not let my fuse burn.

However, considering my Denny's early crowd reference above, I have felt it much safer to allow them to assist.

When we got home from brunch today, though, I am not sure why I did, but I went to the fridge in the kitchen, then the fridge and freezers in the utility room.

CDM:  STRATOSPHERIC

It took this Southern boy about two seconds to come to grips with something.  Whatever happened last week, whether real or perceived, it was damn serious to a lot of people because it was damn serious to me.

I mentioned doing a bit more learning over the past few days.  Here are a couple of broad facts about what went on with me, in particular:

• I had an uber-conservative doctor, which would have been all well and good, except that he had the world's most belligerent patient.  There are two solid factors he wanted achieved:  a certain low level of physical sedation and a minimum oxygen supplement above room air (breathing assist).  In his mind, those were immovable objects before attempting to pull anyone off of a ventilator.  Probably not the best patient/doc mesh ever, between me and Dr. B.
• COVID is a nasty player.  No, I'm serious...it don't play fair.  And the uncertainty and unpredictability the longer ANY treatment is prolonged regarding the stupid Wuhan bug goes up immensely.  Take strictly ventilator employment on a reasonably healthy individual.  So long as all remains stable, typically risks remain low.  However, should an attempt to discontinue ventilation prove unsuccessful, any number of new issues can be introduced, not the least of which might be kidney and/or liver function problems, and things can go bleak really quickly.  (My wife, a homeschool mom which does imply some measure of near-brilliance, told me that she couldn't figure out why every update from Dr. Broussard included a quick assessment of good kidney and liver function.  After the fact, she said she was kind of glad she didn't realize what he was trying to say or perhaps prepare her for.)

On Saturday, right before I was discharged, I visited with Dr. Broussard's counterpart, my other critical care doc, Dr. Bowe.  Mind you, for four days prior I had chatted with him, but Saturday was the first day I actually felt my head was clear enough to ask a question and accept the answer he gave.

I said, "Dr. Bowe, what actually happened?  I've heard from my dad and my wife and a couple of the nurses, but I don't understand.  What happened?"

I wouldn't say he was shaken, but he took on a tearful grin...that's probably the best way to describe it.

He said, "It was a Hail Mary."

I said something like so you just threw it up and hoped it stuck, huh?

He got pretty serious.  "No," he said, "we said a Hail Mary, and we turned off the vent.  You never stopped breathing on your own."  He slowly rose out of the chair in my room and started to walk toward the door.  Then he paused and turned toward me, eyes just a little damp.

"Mr. Nichols, I just cannot tell you how glad I am to be here chatting with you."

No offense to anyone, but I really hope I never see this many covered dishes for anything ever again in my life.

God bless you all...I would appreciate your comments here!!!

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