I’m not sure who’s more tired … Mike or me. It has been a full, rewarding, celebratory kind of day.
Even though we didn’t go to church, we experienced a rich day of worship and fellowship.
I wish I had a way to transport you into the moments when we pray, talk, and read through scripture. There is a raw awareness when Mike prays that I do not have the words to describe. We are reading through Psalm 119 and the gospel of Luke, focusing on passages that record the healings done by Christ. These were passages prayed over Mike by a dear friend from church who came daily while he was in the coma.
We talked this morning of what happened … of the collapse and all that followed. He still has no memory of that day, only a dream that he was lost and I found him.
It was also a day for grabbing hold of the gravity of his health issues. Rather than sadness, fear, or apprehension, strangely, both of us feel a sense of relief. There are bound to be rough days, but for now we feel peace in knowing what we are dealing with. We know that it is because of heavenly intervention that Mike is still here. We know that heavenly intervention will continue to lead us every step of the way.
One of the first things to return to Mike has been his sense of humor. The girls got such a kick out of him the other night when the nurse told him that he looked tired and could go to sleep now. Immediately he closed his eyes,tilted back his head and started snoring. We looked at each other, amazed how quickly he was able to sleep. Suddenly he popped open his eyes and grinned. “Just kidding,” he laughed in his garbled voice.
Today, our main doctor talked to him about medications. “I think we can cut back the one that addresses mental confusion (a common problem for someone who has been through the trauma of ICU). You are much clearer now.”
“Huh? What’s that?” Mike said, a very serious look on his face. Then … the grin.
Lots of jokes that no one would get unless you were here … jokes that involve catheters, urinals, and chicken suits.
It was a day for more dear friends … visits filled with a soft awareness that they were only moments away from not having this day … of no longer having Mike to laugh with, play Skipbo, get tricked by his dry sense of humor, or listen to him repeat the same story a few times more than he may realize.
I love watching how appreciative he is to each and every person who attends to him. Even some of the more hurried and gruffer personalities appear softened by his constant, “You’re awesome. Thank you SO much.” With our friends, he wants to pray over each person … to speak something hopeful into their souls.
Specific health updates:
Physical therapy has started.
He has been downgraded from ICU and Progressive Care … should be moved to a new room soon.
It still looks like a Life Vest is being planned instead of a defibrillator.
A definite plan regarding the tumor is likely to be made early this week.
Today was the first day that anyone talked about us going home soon. Could be within the week.
He has a repeat eye exam on Tuesday to determine how much his vision is being impacted by the tumor.
And finally, as I walk past the waiting room, I see it crowded daily with people wearing a face that I know well … a face of uncertainty, fear, concern. I am not able to spend as much time there talking to people as I did when I first arrived. As you pray for us, would you pray for people like us … that God would have a constant flow of His servants to offer a word of hope or just a hug in the midst of dark days.