For Being So Unlucky, We're Very Lucky

Thursday, April 1

Youngest daughter Christine here. For the next few weeks or months, until my dad is able to do it on his own (by typing or dictation program), I’m going to be taking his dictation for this journal/blog. I may make wording suggestions and edit for clarity, but the substance and voice of the entries will be his—with the exceptions of a few parenthetical asides and this present entry.

The current visitation policy at UVA hospital limits each patient to two designated visitors, one at a time between 9am and 9pm, so my mom and I have been taking shifts hanging out with my dad during those hours each day. During the first couple of days after Dad’s accident, things were so busy in the ICU that we were constantly getting interrupted and there was never enough time for him to write about what was happening. Having been fortunate to witness much of it firsthand, I’m writing now to recount his progression during the first four days, up through today (Thursday).

Less than 25 hours after the accident.

When he was admitted to the hospital on Sunday evening, Dad was told that he had sustained a serious incomplete cervical spinal cord injury (specifically, central cord syndrome) and would be in the neurology ICU for at least seven days. The good news: he had sustained no fractures and was still able speak, swallow, and breathe normally. The bad news: central cord syndrome is a serious injury, and no one could tell us how much feeling or movement he might recover, especially in his arms and hands. As he regained some feeling, he began suffering pain in his neck and shoulders, which continues today. He has also been experiencing violent muscle spasms, especially in his legs, which annoy him throughout the day and keep him up at night.

His recovery in the first 24 hours after the accident was encouraging: he started regaining some mobility in his legs only a few hours after the accident, although his right side was a little weaker from the start, and on Monday he started regaining some motion in his arms and was able to sit and stand with the assistance of three physical therapists.

Tuesday morning: relearning how to sit up and balance with left arm support.

His progress in the first few days has continued to be nothing short of remarkable, if the doctors are to be believed. Yesterday (Wednesday), Dad was able to remain standing mostly on his own and take a half-step forward with his left foot. He was also able to lift his wrists slightly—the left more than the right. He demonstrated more control over his leg movement and could flex his feet—again, the left more so than the right. Today was even better: he was able to do a “chef’s kiss” by lifting his left arm until his hand met his mouth. He spent a full hour sitting up on his own, stood three times, and shuffled his feet while standing (with PT’s support).

Chef's kiss!

Because his initial recovery has been so good and his vitals have remained stable, Dad was moved out of the neurology ICU and into the intermediate neurology care unit last night after only three days. The PT team told us emphatically this morning that Dad is the first spinal cord injury patient they’ve ever seen moved out of the ICU in less than a week. His new room is much larger, with bigger windows, a view of the UVA Rotunda, and more space for Mom and me during our respective visits (in the cramped ICU, we were constantly in the nurses’ and doctors’ way). There are also fewer alarms and less frequent interruptions than in the ICU, so we are hoping that he will be able to sleep better for the next few nights.

In the background, Dad’s “army of Coogle girls” has sprung into action. Mom is somehow managing to visit and care for Dad every day, continue working at her job, and take care of everything else that needs doing now that our world has been turned upside-down. Caitlin and Lauren have been making calls to insurance, doing research on rehab hospitals, and taking any item off Mom’s to-do list that they can handle remotely. Caitlin, Andrew, and their boys are coming to Charlottesville tomorrow to help out in person, too. And I have been fortunate to be able to stay in Charlottesville for the week (except for a brief trip back to DC yesterday for work) and to spend as much time in the hospital with Dad as possible. He and I are managing to fill the week with lots of laughter together; for once I am grateful that I inherited his weird sense of humor and love of puns. (Occasionally we horrify the nurses with our humor. I pretend to hand something to him and say, “Hey Dad, can you hold onto this for me?” And he gets a kick out of ending his phone calls, “Gotta run!”)

Dr. York* is one of the neurosurgeons who briefly checks in on Dad each day to monitor his progress. To put it mildly, he lacks charisma. I have been present during his daily visits, and the first day he terrified me by flatly listing, with clinical coldness, all the worst-case scenarios for Dad’s recovery, without further context and without informing us of the sunnier end of the range of possible outcomes. But Dr. York has gradually become less terrifying over the last couple of days, and today I heard him say something positive for the first time. After gruffly instructing Dad, as usual, to do this, move that, lift this, flex that, he spared us his usual worst-case-scenario recitation and instead said, “You’re very lucky. I mean, for being so unlucky, you’re very lucky.”

I can’t speak for Dad, but I think that odd sentiment perfectly captures how I feel about the circumstances at the moment. We don’t know what the road ahead will look like and we’re in a pretty scary spot, but I am so grateful that my dad is exceeding expectations so far, that he is not only lucid but 100% himself—positive, punny, picky, stubborn, and optimistic as ever—and that he has such a supportive immediate and extended family ready to hold him up and cheer him on. When I’m with him in his hospital room, it is easy to forget for a few moments how seriously he is injured, because he still sounds just like himself. If anyone can beat the odds on a recovery, I know Lee Coogle can.

* The names of all hospital doctors, nurses, and staff will be changed throughout the blog in the interest of their privacy, and in case Dad makes a tactless comment about someone that is too funny for me to edit out.