An Excellent Life

A central IV line had been put into a primary vein near his neck. Both arms had intravenous tubes connected to bottles and bags. There was a ventilator with a mouthpiece taped around his mouth. Screens around the bed displayed his heart rate, oxygen saturation, and respiration. Michael was on life support, although no one said those words.

A nurse sat at one end of the bed. She looked so young. I wondered how she could possibly handle all of the assembled equipment. I was surprised when she told me she would be there all night. As we stood around the bed, she said softly to me, “you can hold him.”

Much later I would realize the hospital staff did not expect Michael to live through the night. The nurse had gently indicated that we could—and should—say goodbye. I didn’t pick up on the cue then, nor when Tanner told us the hospital had a house across the street where we could stay all night.

Even when the neurosurgeon, Dr. James Saadi, came into the room and, moving close to us, whispered, “It’s very bad,” I still had the 50% survival rate stuck in my mind. Though I didn’t ask that night for a new evaluation, I later discovered Dr. Saadi told Jane Tanner that Michael had only a five percent chance of survival.

Despite the awesome terror and shock of these first few hours, I had a clear picture in my mind that Michael would live. I never really wavered from this belief, although it would be four long months before any medical professional would agree with me.