Day 8 - June 8, 2008

We still aren't allowed to talk to Kevin. It just kills me when he starts thrashing around and I can't say "It's okay, babe. Mom's here. You're alright"; just those small little sympathetic sounds all mothers make. I just keep rubbing his arm hoping that somehow he feels calmed by it.

I was kinda glad I was in the room at one point tonight though. The nurse was testing certain areas of his body by pinching him just to see if we got a response or not. It was hard watching her try to 'hurt' my baby, but I was pleased to see him respond to pressure on the legs and fingers. Nothing from either set of toes, but I am hoping that it doesn't really mean too much at this point.

I will say this though (and it scares me) - I have yet to see Kev's hands. I do know that the tops of both hands are 3rd degree burns. So tonight was the first night that I could even see the tips of his fingers. I am not sure - but if I saw it right - all of his fingertips on his right hand are black. I am going to stick my head in the sand on this and claim not to know what this probably means. Do you think it will work? I somehow doubt it...

One thing they did do today was reposition Kev's arms. They were starting to swell up considerably from laying at his side for the last 8 days. They are now coming straight out from his body across the sides of the bed. From what I understand, it is very painful to move any of the limbs (even raising his foot an inch) after they have been laying in the same position for too long. Every time they have to switch the 'cushions' they use so that he doesn't get blisters on his heels, he about comes off the bed.

Last, but most definitely not least, our main concern right now is pneumonia. Because Kev has that tube in his brain draining fluid buildup, he can't be agitated in any way. Well, he has foam coming out of his mouth from the ventilator and the nurses are trying not to suction his lungs at all because his numbers go through the roof when they do. It's kinda a catch 22. They can't suction him or it will cause brain activity which could have adverse effects. They also can't let the fluid build up in his lungs, which can also cause adverse effects. This is all just so mentally draining.

Which brings me to some personal mental anguish. I hate this. I hate the fact that my family has to go through this. I have a lot of anger. A lot of fear. A lot of pent up rage. I have moments where I just want to run away from all of this - which makes me feel like an utter failure as a parent. I would never in a million years do it - but it doesn't mean I don't think it once in a while. It's just so hard, ya know? There's my child laying in a hospital bed that really barely resembles the young man that I last laid eyes on. His face is completely burnt. He has tubes coming out of his brain, a bunch of them coming out of his mouth and wires and stuff stuck all over his body. The lower half of his body is either gauzed up where the skin grafts were done, or have some kind of weird layer of something over the skin 'donor' areas. His hands are wrapped all the way up past his elbows, his one eye is stitched shut and there are goggles over both eyes again to keep them moist. He has more than a hundred staples on the left side of his head that resemble a rural road map and his ears are a mess. His stomach is also cut from just below the breast bone to his groin area.

I have to admit that there are times where I kind of zone out and start rubbing his arm and looking out the window and think 'This isn't my kid. It's some stranger. I just work here. It's not happening to us.' And then it hits me - it is my kid. He's not a stranger. I don't work here and it is fucking happening to us.

And don't think I don't realize that my son could be dead. Believe me when I say that I am ever so grateful that he is alive. Two other sets of parents weren't so lucky that day. But I still have to ask - WHY?