The best part about leaving the ICU had been that I was never again going to be on a ventilator. Ever. I grew up watching Lee Majors as "The Six Million Dollar Man". A new word had entered the American lexicon: bionic. Part man, part machine. Then years later came the movie "Robocop", with the same basic theme; it romanticized being partially nuts and bolts and thereby becoming something less than human. For me being on the vent felt like that. I wasn't able to perform that most basic function of life, breathing, without the assistance of that mechanical monstrosity at my bedside. Now here I was back in the ICU, albeit in a room with a better view of my surroundings, being hooked back up to my old, inanimate nemesis. Yes, I knew it had saved my life, but I hated it anyway. I have a habit of naming everyday things; my toaster is Alvin, my umbrella, Shaniqua (it's a black umbrella). I refused to name my vent...that's how much I hated it. It was one of the darkest moments of my journey. Being transferred to a regular room had convinced me that perhaps I was actually on the mend. Then it was all yanked away from me and I was back where I started. I was devastated. Thank G-d my new relationship with my mechanical breathing partner was short-lived: they only kept me on the vent for a few hours this time, just until I stabilized. Then at night Dr. Yip wanted me to go back on it, just to be safe. I vetoed that possibility. I pleaded with her to let me sleep in peace, let me try to be a mentch. She finally acquiesced. I swore to myself: never again. I asked Chayie, my health care proxy, to promise me that she would never consent to having me put back on a vent, no matter the circumstances. She informed me that that was a promise she could not make. See what happens when you give a woman a little power?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Hello Darkness, My Old Friend
The best part about leaving the ICU had been that I was never again going to be on a ventilator. Ever. I grew up watching Lee Majors as "The Six Million Dollar Man". A new word had entered the American lexicon: bionic. Part man, part machine. Then years later came the movie "Robocop", with the same basic theme; it romanticized being partially nuts and bolts and thereby becoming something less than human. For me being on the vent felt like that. I wasn't able to perform that most basic function of life, breathing, without the assistance of that mechanical monstrosity at my bedside. Now here I was back in the ICU, albeit in a room with a better view of my surroundings, being hooked back up to my old, inanimate nemesis. Yes, I knew it had saved my life, but I hated it anyway. I have a habit of naming everyday things; my toaster is Alvin, my umbrella, Shaniqua (it's a black umbrella). I refused to name my vent...that's how much I hated it. It was one of the darkest moments of my journey. Being transferred to a regular room had convinced me that perhaps I was actually on the mend. Then it was all yanked away from me and I was back where I started. I was devastated. Thank G-d my new relationship with my mechanical breathing partner was short-lived: they only kept me on the vent for a few hours this time, just until I stabilized. Then at night Dr. Yip wanted me to go back on it, just to be safe. I vetoed that possibility. I pleaded with her to let me sleep in peace, let me try to be a mentch. She finally acquiesced. I swore to myself: never again. I asked Chayie, my health care proxy, to promise me that she would never consent to having me put back on a vent, no matter the circumstances. She informed me that that was a promise she could not make. See what happens when you give a woman a little power?
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