June 25: Sorry for the lapse. Life on the outside is a wee bit easier than on the inside (of the hospital) -- but not a lot. Jamie was released on Wednesday (20th) and has been staying with us ever since. When you're 100% inside the hospital, you can aggressively ignore 95% of the outside junk without an ounce of guilt and that's actually HEAVENLY. When you're outside of there, however, everything comes back at once and there's GUILT involved -- at least for ME -- a good, people pleasing, rule following, middle child.

It's a confusing time b/c you're insanely happy your boy is really going to be okay and WILL get back to normal one day soon. But you've just been through a mind-blowing, life-altering, horrifyingly-frightening experience, but it no longer LOOKS like it. Except for the slight, temporary limp from the angiogram, Jamie looks better than ever (new awesome facial hair)! But we're all exhausted, depleted physically and emotionally and... it's time for us all to get back to our jobs/lives/piles of papers.

The point of all this is: Jamie's going to be fine. He's tired, sore and moving slowly, but in time he'll be back to normal and yes, he'll be climbing again. I'm tired, fatter, not moving unless forced, but in time, (I hope) I'LL be back to "normal" and probably will also go hiking (never climbing). So, I guess we're baaack -- in some capacity anyway. And relieved to be on this side of it all. Thanks again for the great support.

June 29: My old friend, Phom, and several others have emailed that they needed an update. Obviously I forgot to post 6/25. Oops. Wonder what happened to my mind... Sorry I left those of you who are still wondering hanging.

So, Jamie is officially back to work. He started back yesterday (Thursday) and even walked 4 blocks to and from the bus stop and then rode Metro as well. He says that he feels a little better today, even after a full day's work yesterday. Headaches remain (but they're not as bad), plus he has to move more slowly while the angio site still heals. He's also dealing with some vision issues that will probably resolve over time.

So all in all, we're back to as normal as can be expected. We are all still a little jumpy and maybe more anxious, knowing that "it", in fact, can happen to us after all. I think it's just starting to sink in to Jamie how close he was to the proverbial edge. HIS reality was so very different from ours. As a result, he and I have had some interesting conversations.

Life is sweet right now. It was actually QUITE sweet during the whole 2 week period. There's truly nothing like feeling the love from so many, as WELL as being forced to stop everything and focus on how much you love someone and put every ounce of your being into that person. And THEN, you go back to work/life, but blessedly those feelings don't go away. The intensity we have been feeling (all of us) for one another remains and it is truly a bit of Heaven on earth. Not that I'd do it again, thank you very much, but it is just what's on the other side that I "get" now, like never before. I am very grateful for that.

Freedom is around the corner!

After 8 days in ICU, Jamie describes the Neuro Recovery floor to me as "very weird". Being 1 of 36 patients on this new floor has made Jamie realize that ICU is like First Class, while being moved to the regular floor is like being tossed unceremoniously into Economy Class.  Additionally, his room is pretty much at the back of a giant maze which could very well be part of the reason it takes six times as long to be heard, fed and/or attended to. However, he's got some great writing material for a future essay, book or short story, so it's all worth it, right?

As of tonight, it looks like he'll either be coming home tomorrow or Thursday, if everything goes as planned. For the record, he is just about back to normal in every other way -- meaning his brain was not damaged in any way, except for the weak, exploded and now drained blood vessel that filled his brain with blood. As the blood moves down through his spine -- getting reabsorbed along the way -- he will have plenty of headaches, but they won't last forever. He should have a complete recovery with no residual effects within a few months, or so.  No one will say HOW LONG the headaches will last, but they ALL agree that he will not have them for the rest of his life. Some day, it will just be an amazing 30th birthday story to tell his 4-6 wee little children (that he swore to me, on day three when he was heavily sedated, that he would father to pay me back for all the fear and heartache he was putting us through). Fair, I think.

One day soon (maybe even now), I'll be finished here. Thanks for the great feedback and comments. The 5 or 6 geniuses who somehow broke the blogspot code and were able to leave comments HERE on this blog will forever be considered rocket scientists by me and all the multitudes who tried in vain. Thanks for everything every one did and said and shared over the last week through email, texts, phone calls, cards, visits and FOOD. It's true what "they" always say, it really did mean SO much to us. It was like a warm hug when we needed it most over and over and over. It truly helped break up the violent roller coaster ride we were suddenly on -- and made it doable, just barely. Thank you all for that. We'll never forget it.

We all react and move through our lives in many different ways. My initial reaction was one of complete denial and if I could've, I would've gladly stayed in that place until it was all over. When that didn't work out and reality set in, it was so huge that I knew I had to let it out or I would've exploded along the way. I'm a communicator for sure and knew that I wanted to share this story in its purest form -- undiluted -- full of my observations and emotions, told the way I would tell it to my dearest friends and family. I was SO thankful that I could sit down at night and "download" the story, filling a need to get it out of me and making room for the next hopefully healing piece of the complicated and ever evolving puzzle.

Besides all that, I also wanted to do it for my Jamie. So someday he could read and perhaps feel the other side of his story -- the side he watched from his hospital bed, but did not really know was taking place. It was like a massive explosion in our world, loud and violent and terrifying. And for him perhaps, an implosion -- where he, all alone in his body, had to continually relay to everyone how he was feeling, what he was feeling and where he was feeling it. All from the same event, just different perspectives.  I look forward to reading his side of the story some day. I'm so incredibly grateful I can. 

Thanks everyone!!!  

Love, Sally

GOOD NEWS!

1)  2nd Angio today. Results negative -- which means no aneurism hiding in there!!!

2)  He was transferred upstairs -- with the hordes of NON-urgent care people.

3)  His hospital days are numbered. If all continues to go well, he could be released Wednesday or Thursday (I think).

4)  It's bed time and I'm home and I get to go to sleep now.

2 steps forward, 1 step back...

Yesterday (Saturday) was a "one step back kind of a day."  Again, I'm afraid he overdid the day before -- while on my watch, too. We all get so excited that he's back that none of us can stop talking and laughing and eating and remembering -- and acting like we're all just sitting around having a cup of joe at Starbucks together. Apparently after we left, he had a rough night of it with more pain than usual and by the time I got there at 11:30, he was very low and equally miserable.

The bleed is moving down out of his head at an exceedingly slow pace and is still at just about neck level making his neck stiff, sore and hurt like crazy. He keeps describing it as "a very deep, overwhelming pressure that's... odd. It pulses. And hurts. Bad."

MY own personal made up version of what's happening is this:
The venous bleed is filling the Dura Mater at his neck level now (the DM is the enclosed "tube" that the brain and spine live in and are surrounded by, filled with cerebral spinal fluid & in Jamie's case, extra blood).  I imagine it might be like it feels when a big snake eats a huge rabbit and sits for hours with a HUGE blob  s l o w l y  going down his throat. Jamie's blob is at neck level -- with his tail bone as the eventual goal. (No comments from doctors or nurses please. I like my version.)

Gary and I continue to have waves of relief and gratitude that Jamie HOPEFULLY has dodged a major bullet (knock on wood as you read). At the same time, interestingly, it's been hitting harder every day -- the reality of what would have happened if so many things hadn't fallen into place at just the right time. Still want to find the hiker (hero #1) who initially found him, 30 min or so after Jamie collapsed. And the multiple, emergency back up heros who came upon Jamie and the growing group, took off coats and covered him, keeping him as warm as possible with an unwavering core temperature of 91°.

What I realized yesterday that sends me into convulsions is that it took the SAR guy from the sheriff's department (MY own personal hero) 3-1/2 hours to:
(1) run up the mountain to Jamie
(2) work hard to save him
(3) ultimately realize it was a much bigger problem than they had assumed it was and call us.
Can't go there for long.


Enough's enough. When I left last night, they'd moved Jamie back to ICU, but ONLY b/c there were too few patients on the intensive care floor and they wanted to have them all in the same area, so everyone would be better taken care of. That's where the cream of the crop nurses exist too.  Thanks to Chef Extraordinaire Emily (imagine gourmet fried chicken, mac & cheese, big fat amazing fries, best salad EVER, insane slaw), I left an incredibly full and nurse-distracted boy of 30 with his brother Sam, both grinning from ear to ear. There's lots of action on that floor (meaning activity), a room right by said cute nurses & when Jamie learned that his all time favorite nurse was assigned to him, he said with a smirk, Bye Mom.  :o)

Jude, Healer.

In a nutshell, Jamie did a 180° turn around (okay maybe 167°) shortly after Jude, the healer dog, came and sat on his lap.  Not kidding. (Thank you Katrina and Matt!)  He did not even need a nap after that visit, and another friend dropped by and we talked and laughed like we were all sitting around Starbucks. Then he had me go get him Pad Thai for dinner!  The boy is coming back!

What is ahead is another angiogram on Monday to see if there's an aneurism hiding away in there that may've caused this bleed; daily transcranial doppler scans to look for signs of brain spasms that could cause another one (11 or so day window from day of initial venous bleed); quiet and calm, low-stimulus filled days and nights. So, boringly, more of the same. But we'll take "boring" and run with it! (heart emoticon)

I think I'll go hang out with my 30 year old son now.  :o)

the brain, it is a'changin

I've started this over and over in my head, reaching for my computer and then getting pulled away by Jamie's needs or my emotions.

Yesterday was both unexpectedly good and then, overwhelmingly bad. This time the roller coaster ride knocked me for a loop. The reality of this is just starting to really take hold. And my BFF, Denial, is slipping away. I think I like denial better. My makeup (I wear so much) doesn't smear and/or I don't have to hide behind the many monitors when talking to him to keep him from seeing the terror in my eyes.

The good news is: He really seems to be getting better. His pain is changing. As the bleed moves down & leaves his brain forever (I'm making that up, but please God let it be true), it passes through (and settles for awhile, they say) in his neck. The back follows. His wonderful Intensivist, Dr. Huseby, (never even heard of one of those, but we all should live next door to one and I dibs Dr. Huseby) said this morning: Has it hit your low back yet, Jamie? 

WAIT, low back?! I thought just general back (like that even exists, Sally Swenson, LMP -- it's the denial thing, I know). One day in the neck, one in the back and we're out of here, right? Not the reality though. Okay, I get it. Here's my version: It's traveling down & ultimately out of the spine and infuriating the healthy spine dwellers along the way. It has to travel all the way down to the sacrum, at the base of his spine. Since last night, the pain has settled heavily in his neck which feels stiff and he can't turn his head much. Still lots of pressure he says, within his brain. It's all normal and he could not have better results from every diagnostic test they've given him. We are very lucky in that regard!

Enough about the beautiful, amazing brain that I not so secretly love/hate with equal passion and fury. Yesterday was surprisingly good. About 1:00, I realized that he had not had a dose of his beloved BFF Morphine since 6 AM! That was HUGE!!! He had been requesting and getting it every 2 hours. I was so elated and my mood changed instantly to one of real optimism that he really MIGHT not always be flat on his back hooked up to monitors writhing in pain and discomfort in a darkened quiet room with a cold towel on his head with me by his side fighting back tears. (I know the editor in this hospital room would fight me on that run on sentence, but that's very much how I feel, and I'm sticking with it, fine sir.) 

With my optimism came Jamie's as well. He started talking of eating more & even ordered his own food for the first time. So many of his friends have wanted to come see him and he's really starting to want/need those interactions & relationships -- to feel alive again and not just in the scary healing limbo place with his parents! Four darling people came in pairs back to back and he loved their visits. But it took it's toll on him. He had to order Morphine, he developed a fever for the first time this week, and the docs became concerned about the sounds of his lungs... and then I promptly fell apart. He did not know it, but when I said I was staying the night (hadn't stayed the two nights before), he was openly relieved.

He had a pretty good night and is better today -- no fever. But visitors, dear visitors, text me or him first and we'll see what he's up for. He'll be yours again soon, but for now his dad and brother and I have to hold him tight and protect his amazing brain and heart and soul and let it all focus on healing.

He'll stay in room 255C (Intermediate Care) through Monday when he'll get his second and hopefully final angiogram to determine if there is an aneurism hiding in there. At that point, we do not know where he will go. If there is nothing there (which is what they're anticipating), he may go "upstairs" for a day or so, and then home to our house to slowly recover and begin to feel alive again. It's going to take a while... a week, two? A month? Don't know.

Thanks for everything and every one of your comments and notes!  We're cherishing them all.
Love Sally & Gary & Sam

Email: sallyswenson@gmail.com   Cell: 42-770-5235

MAN what a wild ride this has been. Still going on. It will be our lives this week and probably for a few more. STILL don't know what's ahead really. It's like Jamie's 95% perfectly fine, but the 5% that is broken affects 95% of his body -- so he's unable to do hardly anything due to nausea and hideous head pain. THEY say that will go away as the blood in the brain is slowly reabsorbed. Slowly is the operative word I'm afraid. Sunday was hideous. Monday was actually pretty good, in retrospect. Tuesday and Wednesday were worse than Monday. So we're pretty confused and don't really have a handle on what's going on. We need a doctor to talk to (read: nail down) for answers which may not exist yet) and unless I'm there at 5:15 AM or 8:15 AM, I'm screwed. I missed yesterday morning for the first time and feel like I missed an entire chapter of a book or something. So I'll be in there by 8:00 today, by jingo (?).


BUT, he is alive and himself and should be able to get out of there in a week or two. Still risk of stroke for about 2 weeks total after something like this happens, another bleed risk for a day or so, a nurse finally revealed to me last night -- or maybe they did earlier and I didn't want to go there, so promptly forgot (very likely). 


Yet he looks great. Has good color, etc. BUT he doesn't sit up much, lies there with a wet/cold rag over his eyes, forehead and sleeps constantly OR is asking for pain or anti-nausea meds. The pain is brutal for him at times. Still isn't eating much at all. I'm amazed at how he is just taking it without much complaining. 


He just moved out of ICU last night before I left. He's now in IMC (intermediate care, room 255) and I actually like the feel of that room better. And WOW the nurse was cute! He looked like he was going to enjoy himself (relatively speaking). Thank GOD for small blessings!  (He'll only be there for a day or 2 or 3 and then upstairs to a regular room for who knows how long.)

I think he'll be able to see visitors today (Thursday), TRULY only a few at a time, and PLEASE for a limited amount of time -- 10 minutes (talking makes his head hurt). If he closes his eyes, it means his head hurts OR his Morphine is putting him to sleep and effort to talk will make him worse. 

Might help if visitor wannabes text me first to make sure no one else is going to be there at that time. I'm at 425-770-5235 (tell me who you are if it's a text), just to verify he's awake/feeling good enough and not already inundated with visitors. He REALLY wishes he could see people, believe me. Lying in the darkened room FLAT on his back or left side (Picc line is in right arm) with his head hurting is getting really old. Visitors exhaust him, but I KNOW the diversion is like NECTAR to his wounds.

Thanks for all the DARLING notes and cards and messages. Gary and Sam and I are so tremendously grateful for all the help and care he and we are receiving.

Love Sally

(Do I sign these? If I don't, I should. If I do, I shouldn't. Kinda like driving to this hospital. I get lost and go the complete opposite direction I'm supposed to -- multiple times each trip, to and fro, every single day.)