| Snow in April is a work in progress
This is a true story that occured long before Prince wrote the song....
Snow in April
by
Candy Porett (Rotering)
Sometimes it Snows In April
"...Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad
Sometimes I wish life was never ending
and all good things, they say, never last..."
Prince
March 31, 2005
Terri Schiavo
died today.
Oct. 9, 1966
Thirteen year old Jimmy was fast-dancing at the YMCA when he slipped, fell and
hit his head. He immediately got back on his feet, laughed off his clumsiness
and kept on dancing. Three days later, the headaches started. It wasn't until
the spinal tap was done, that he remembered he had hit his head. Even then the
impact was so slight, he
couldn't remember which side had hit the gym floor. All signs indicated Jimmy
had a sub-dural hematoma. He was taken to surgery to relieve the pressure that
could cause brain damage. Neurosurgery was fairly new to our hospital, so a
patient as young as Jimmy became a concern to most of the staff. The next day I
was transporting a patient from ICU to Peds. I remember passing his room and
seeing Jimmy sitting up in bed on the ward, alert and laughing with his
brothers. Even though I didn't know him, I felt relief.
The following day we received a report
from surgery. Jimmy was coming to ICU. Fluid began to accumulate in his brain.
Jimmy's speech became slurred, he was confused and his pupils were not equal.
He was being taken back to surgery to put in a shunt that would drain the fluid
from his brain to his chest where it would be absorbed without complication.
During surgery Jimmy's heart stopped. He was successfully resuscitated and
brought to the ICU unit. During the next 48 hours he remained responsive, but
weak and often somnolent. When open, his eyes were mesmerizing. Warm gentle
brown with thick long lashes – reminded me of a deer.
There was an incision on his scalp that loosely attached a flap skin over the
section of his skull where the bone had been cut to create the shunt we
depressed
several times a day to drain the fluid from his brain. It would run down a
small rubber tube into his chest. In order to insert the tube in surgery, two
small incisions had been made on his neck and upper chest. Within 48 hours we
noticed a slight drainage from one of the wounds. That accounted for the fever
he was developing. He had to go back to surgery to close the wounds and lessen
the risk of infection in his brain. Jimmy's heart stopped again. This time
after he
was resuscitated, he began to seize. For days almost every two hours, his eyes
would roll back and the grand mal seizures would twist is body unmercifully.
After the seizures finally subsided, muscle spasms continued. Within a week he
began to develop severe contractions on his hands, arms and legs. We fashioned
padded splints to try to stretch his muscles and tendons so that when he was
well, he would be able to walk. Splints on 1 hour. Splints off for two hours.
Massage and lotion. Turn. Reposition. After only one day of this routine, the
muscle
spasms were so strong, he developed sores from the splints.
The unit was actually an old ward, converted into an ICU. There were 6 beds
arranged in a 'U' shape with the nurse's desk front and center. Behind the
nurse's station were the boring green metal cabinets, a white counter,
stainless steel sink and a locked medicine cabinet. All that divided the
patients from each other was a curtain. By today's standards it was crude and
cold, but this was his temporary home.
Jimmy was the oldest child of six kids. His mom was divorced and worked full
time, but came to see him every morning before work and stopped in faithfully
before she headed home in the evening. She would stroke his hair, tell him she
loved him. Usually the family doctor tried to visit Jimmy about the same time.
Often he put his arm around her shoulder as they left the ICU, as if it were
the only support he could offer. Jimmy's father never visited. Not even
once.
Soon a feeding tube was inserted through his nose into his stomach
and we fed him every few hours. He seemed to look forward to the feedings
– as if he were hungry, but as is common today, there were always opinions
and debates about what a person in Jimmy's condition comprehended. I would
argue that because a person can't talk, doesn't mean they can't hear, see or
understand.
Jimmy might not have been able to talk, but I sure talked to Jimmy - a lot.
Told him when it was
Halloween. When Thanksgiving arrived I joked
that I was putting turkey in his feeding tube. At Christmas we decorated the
place as
much as time and space would allow. We cut out paper snow flakes to hang from
the ceiling tiles; strung gold garland in loops around the cabinets. He would
strain his neck trying to turn to watch us decorate. On the desk was a red
basket filled with chocolate Santas wrapped in brightly colored foil. I would
hold them up for Jimmy to see. His eyes always followed those bright glitzy
Santas. Actually Jimmy and I had a little secret. When the charge nurse went to
lunch, I'd break out a chocolate let a small sliver melt on his tongue.
Amazingly we never got caught.
Sometime after New Years, before Valentine day, Jimmy's status was no longer
considered critical, so he was moved to the pediatric floor. Nursing staff there
seemed to be lacking some skills so we rotated to the sixth floor every two
hours for awhile to teach and do his tube feedings. While he was there, he had
a fourteenth birthday, with no cake. After about six weeks, he had to come back
to ICU, simply because his condition was failing due to poor care and an
incident where his tube dislodged and he aspirated the fluid. I was glad to be
able to care for Jimmy again. He had become special to all of us but some of us
saw a light in his eyes that others didn't see. Those that were more
'scientific' and 'by the book' were sure he had no idea what was going on
around him. A few others knew differently and continued to treat him like we
always had – like the teenager he was. We'd turn the radio to Elvis, and
the Beach Boys every chance we had. Those deer eyes with the thick lashes would
blink and his eyes would roll toward the radio.
April 11, 1967
Even though he maintained a fetal position due to his contractions, I had been
lifting Jimmy to high backed easy chair with pillows propped all around him,
while I made his bed. I think it was
relief to his twisted body. At the end of the ward was a fire escape with a
glass door. An unusal spring storm had come off Lake Michigan. Snow was
falling. I turned the chair so Jimmy could see the flakes float past the window
of the door. "Geeze. Look Jimmy. Here it is April 11th
and it is snowing!"
He rolled his eyes from the door and starred straight at me with now moist
deer-like eyes. A big tear rolled down
his cheek. I will never forget his face or that tear. Not ever.
The next week Jimmy was moved back to Peds. Within a month he died of
pneumonia.
As Prince said "... Sometimes it snows in April...."
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