Our family property address, the house my granny lived in all her life, is called Hope Cottage. When Jim and Kareen built their (spanish style) house on the sprawlingly steep land higher up the hill from the house my mum grew up in, they called it Esperanza Alta, spanish for High Hopes. It struck me today that collectively we must be a pretty hopeful bunch of humans. (It’s basically our address, we can’t help it.)

High Hopes, above Hope Cottage. We are holding onto whatever shimmery lashings of hope we can get right now. Guided only by the glimpses of tiny prayer filled chandeliers lighting all that is goodness. Hope that everything is going to all work out somehow. Hope that he will be able to use his broken body again. Hope that we can get through this; because I know that he can…because either way, he will be ok.
Hope upon hope upon hope of miracles. Prayers and thoughts of light and love.

There are no more significant changes in his current state of non-feeling and immobility from his elbows down, his limbs are frozen in post-operation time. We can only wish that like the ice age, this too will melt and pass.

Dad’s sister, Lorna arrived last night and has been acclimatizing to the messy humid lushness and to seeing her usually locomotive combustion engine driven brother in a very, very silent sedentary state. It is simply fantastic to have her here and we all feel a bit more relief to be able to be together and to have another set of eyes to contemplate, ears to process and arms to hug. She also proved to be very apt at holding doors and being an overall ray of fresh energy.

We had an in-depth family meeting with the doctors this morning and Dr. M, as always, is very factual and frank, he has a wealth of experience and information but has never really had a case like my dad. Jm is a very unusual man. He did have to sombrely report that he had higher hopes to have seen more progress in movement by now. But there really is no telling before the 6-week mark as to what the long-term prognosis will be for full, functional healing and so we can only wait.  (Ignite tiny chandeliers ignite!)

Dr. Jose, is the head of ICU and continues to be a flame thrower to our candles of hope, he has seen things that factual medicine struggles to explain and keeps a practical positivity flowing. I think Kareen might have a crush on him, I think we all do.  They are both amazingly honest and we bow deeply to that. Go Team.

I once had to make a sculpture project for art class, I must have been around 8 or 9. I got some clay and shaped it into a camel, it was a flat, two-dimensional piece of awesomeness. He had a sweet long camel neck, lanky camel legs and some totally super happening camel humps. I lay him out flat on a tray and put him in the oven to harden. My dad came home that night and reckoned that someone had obviously made a pretty epic cookie and proceed to try to eat it, camel legs first. Needless to say awesome Mr. Camel didn’t fair well, quite likely exasperated by the fact that I had probably found the clay somewhere outside in our garden (high quality) and that the drying process was not exactly of a kilns degree of accuracy (baked that guy at 360•)

He felt pretty terrible about trying to eat my art project and there was some failed effort to glue it back, but sadly Mr. Camel lay in the better parts of a crumbly mess. Jim has always taken in charge and been in control. Why, if he sees a camel shaped cookie, gosh darn he is gonna eat that bastard. Seeing him again today in such an unfamiliar capacity of non action is shocking all over again, and it makes me love him that much more. Because he is so strong and he is trying so hard, under very taxing circumstances, to keep his spirits up, even if it’s only for us right now.

Trudy seems best able to understand his silent lip-reading-required-voice while I just guess wildly in the dark; “Dad, you want a Potato wagon?” “you like a house of porridge pies?” “bat fingers?” I have always been quite rubbish at lip reading. It’s my job.

In setting him up with an iPad movie this afternoon, it took mum and I way too long in an overly extended game of charades and alphabet spelling to figure out that he wanted his glasses and not to watch a show about eyes or spying (We have both had some long nights, so are not really firing all brain cells effectively)

We are hoping to get him out of the ICU and onto the ward sooner than later as his recovery is far more likely to be productive to his mood and overall well-being out of such an isolated environment.
The limitation is the ventilator, as he needs to stay on that to ensure his lungs stay clear and pneumonia free. We are looking into potentially sourcing a second hand one to buy… I mean who doesn’t want to own a ventilation machine? “Lung Party at Our House, whaoooo!”

Still so many uncertain avenues ahead but one more day down. One more.

Many people on this flight seem to have taken the baggage allowances as more of a passing suggestion than an airline requirement.
One family of two adults and a toddler collectively have nine pieces of luggage. I am guessing math isn’t their thing. His mother has shovelled a very steady stream of what looks like a sugar coated donut into his mouth at each indication of his boredom at how uneventful standing in a long line is. I can’t help but wish someone would shovel food into my mouth when I was bored and also simultaneously hope that this sugar laced child will not be sitting next to me on the flight.

I am checked in and set to arrive at 5am and am keen to see everyone again. Also I expect that dad is likely quite bored with Trudy’s company now and will be most certainly thrilled to see his favourite daughter again. Don’t worry dad, I am on my way.

They have moved him back out of the private ICU room to the main ICU area as it is now not as crowded and is overall easier for the nursing staff to monitor him there. The cost is not as prohibitive but visiting will be again more limited and mum will not be allowed to stay with him overnight. Trudy said the doctors decision was based on nursing and care efficiency recommendations, not cost. So he is obviously not quite as happy right now but we will continue to review day by day and collectively as a family when we are all there on Tuesday. Come on, bigger, better, faster, more. Let’s get you out of there altogether.

I am not sure where my sister finds the strength to deal with all the monetary logistics of papers to sign and insurance circus acts and payments and hospital processing and, and…
(Anthony you have been a constant lighthouse in this hurricane and your help has saved much sanity, there are and will never be enough ways to say thank you)

It slices me with guilt at times when I think about the fact that I live somewhere with such efficient and thorough health care coverage. When I go to my cardiologist annually and have a bi annual MRI, to monitor my baboon heart, I simply hand in my little green OHIP card and I am processed. Done.

Health care in Trinidad is for the most part functionally privatised, in that there are state funded options; that while being very good at many things, unfortunately often leave a lot to be desired. The likelihood of going into the POS General Hospital to remove a splinter from your finger and you end up coming out with a lobotomy and gender reassignment surgery or not leaving at all, are quite high.

According to dads current ID band he is male, we best keep it so.

Jim has some truly remarkable friends, I suppose like attracts like. They have built an incredible metal frame and fashioned a lovely wooden plate to support an iPad to hang over him so he can watch shows. His friend apparently lamented over and went through several pieces of quality hardwood trying to find the perfect segment. The stream of “findin de right wood fuh Jim” jokes were truly limitless.

It needs to be quite close to his face as he doesn’t have his contacts in and his glasses are a kind of coke-bottle-thick uncomfortable. Trudy and I have already amused ourselves with ideas of how much more ludicrous the whole situation would become should it fall and clobber him in the head.

At least now he can watch something other than the ceiling to pass the hours by.

[An Open Letter to the Other Driver]

Dear Sir,

I bear no ill regard towards you. You are after all, simply a stranger to me. But in this last week and a half since the life of my family was tipped out a happy bucket and all over the filthy messy floor, I can’t help but want to let you know a few things. I need to release the thought of you from my mind for fear that it begins to fester and decay.

I would like you to know that your simple action of speeding and failing to handle a machine with the care and diligence that it demands, has shattered a human. One of my very favorite humans on this planet. I can only genuinely hope that you are never so misfortunate as to have the life of someone you love contorted pointlessly by someone else. And if you have, then you know first hand the sick ache of the unknown, the immediacy of the unwelcome change and the thawing pain of helplessness.

I would like you to know that he still fights for his life under the thundery clouds of an uncertain future, while you walked away, from all accounts, with a broken arm. I sincerely hope your arm heals entirely and fully. But mostly I hope that my amazing Dad heals completely, absolutely, effusively, magically, wholly and perfectly. I hope you can both be whole again. Just like before.

I don’t actually find it possible to hold onto any anger or hatred towards you; as the pure act of holding ill will would require my focused energy, my thoughts and my spirit and that would honestly warrant a degree of reflection that I simply can’t let exist. I can assure you with great certainty, that I have given more pause and thoughtful contemplation to my own excrement on occasion.

I can only hope that if you are ever fortunate enough to sit behind the wheel of a car again, something my Dad might likely never be able to do, that you will tremble with the knowledge that all of your actions count. I hope that you carry the consequences of your actions with you daily and make each day another attempt to add joy to someone’s life rather than taking it away. Guilt can be crippling and I hope that if you happen to suffer from any, that you will turn it into something positive during our fleetingly short lives here in this world.

But mostly Sir, I would like to thank you, because without tragedy we sometimes don’t fully grasp how truly lucky we actually are in life. Our(+friends)family is stronger than the titanium in my father’s neck. The genuine and constant flow of prayer, love and support we have received could fill all of the oceans. Our gratitude and love slams us together, making our individual journeys even more meaningful. I pray that you have that kind of love around you because if not, that would truly be the tragedy of all of this.

Warmest regards,
Tracy

THE BAD

• He had a very rough night and consequently a low mood today.
• The tracheotomy facilitates the required deep breathing that he simply can’t do on his own because his ribs are, and have been, fused to his spine for the past 40+ years.
• By nature he breathes with his stomach and diaphragm. He can not do that now because he is currently paralyzed.
• He cannot speak with the tracheotomy in. Being silent and immobile for 1 week now has made the grip of his will simply not as vice like.
• He had a fever this morning, suggesting a potential infection somewhere.  They apparently have the fever under control now, but the feeling that complications are beginning to lurk like things that go bump in the night are starting to seep in.

THE GOOD

• I can’t update about the macabre practically of the situation without trying to add some slight positivity.
• Dr. M said the movement in his right arm was up from a Grade 1 to a Grade 2, this is apparently a good thing…
• This is his nurse on duty, his name is Reggie and he is totally adorable.
• Mum is watching Netflix on a iPad mini, or she might be sleeping, either way also totally adorable.
• His sister (Aunty) Lorna is going to come down from the UK to give him a solid what’s what.
• We are all on him like white on rice.

THE UGLY

• Trudy.

(ps I don’t actually think my sister is ugly but it helps to make fun of her at times like these, kidding she is totally ugly.)

It is -15 with wind-chill here in Toronto today, the air however is apple crunchy fresh and the sun was incandescent all day in a creamy blue sky. I know this obviously has nothing to do with my dad but I felt it an important fact to point out nonetheless. Everyone should know that I am cold and must wear heavy jackets. *collapses into dramatic heap*

I am trying with second to second conscious processes to keep every positive grain of thought foremost and in the very front of my mind. So even though it is cold beyond acceptable human standards here today at least it was lovely and sunshiny crisp.

I think about dad being much more comfortable with the tube out of his throat and keep hoping that progress will start to be hourly and not only daily. He was never good at being so sedentary; it really is like oil to the water of his nature. It is a daily roller-coaster and keeping positive and focused is a seemingly endless task especially in this particular week of ICU containment, uncertainty and slow healing.

I think about and focus on how amazingly strong my Mum is, but struggle to know that she must be so sad at times. I fly back to Trinidad on Monday night and will give her nine million eleven thousand four hundred and seventy-five hugs when I get there. I will make the grand-babies count them out.

Trudy said today that Dr. M noted a tiny bit more feeling further down his left arm; she said that if we can get a centimetre more each day we will take it.  Let those carrots dangle, we will keep on hoping for the best.

One more day to fight. They were able to remove the breathing tube yesterday and have installed a temporary tracheostomy apparatus and a feeding tube as he simply can’t sustain on IV alone. Dr. M has observed some additional feeling lower down his left arm but it is just too stiflingly early to know if more will return to his legs and hand.

My dad and I have the same feet and the same toes, that upon initial observation can look very much like fingers….finger-toes if you will. All potential queries of parental lineage are easily thwarted by simply looking at our feet; Trudy was lucky, hers are not quite as flipper like, though she is still very much on the toe-finger family train with us.

I can’t imagine him not being able to use his finger-toes anymore. I can’t imagine that he will not dance – he can cut the rug like he invented it – and really his version of dancing does look like something he did in fact invent. We all know that we can’t think like that, but these thoughts creep in like smoke and ugly smells.

He is much more comfortable now that the breathing tube was removed and can at least mouth words in whispered communication instead of being totally mute. Apparently he mouthed “fuck off” to someone and I can honestly say I have not felt happier in days when I heard that. Jim being unable to speak was a hell like no other, he is simply too amazing… an asshole, but our amazing asshole.

Dad, fight until you can’t. We love you so much. You have all corners of the world reverberating in well wishes and prayers for you. The glow is almost palpable.

You can do this.