Finally the nurse comes to get us. It’s time, we can go back and see him. A part of me wants to stay in the waiting room because I’m afraid of what I will see. A part of me wants to go in the room alone so I can break down and cry. I don’t think I have ever been so terrified in my entire life. Until this moment all the information has been from phone calls-other people describing what they see. As soon as I look at my husband and see his injuries it will become real. I stop outside the door of the room, take a deep breath, and squeeze Dustie’s hand just a little tighter. We can do this. As I step across the threshold, I try to comprehend the sights and sounds of the room. I can hear the whoosh of the ventilator as it pushes air into my husband’s lungs, the steady beeping of the machine that is monitoring his vital signs. Someone has paged a Chaplain to the room for us but I don’t want anything to do with him. In my mind a Chaplain is for a death notification, not this; but I am gracious and polite because he is just doing his job. I feel like everyone is staring at me as I walk across the room-waiting for me to become hysterical. I reach his bedside and try to make sense of what I am seeing. He looks as if he is sleeping. He has a tube coming out of his mouth and his chest rises and falls in a regular rhythm. He is so swollen, his entire body and face are twice their normal size. His eyes are black and his nose is bruised. I can see small flecks of dried blood which, in my mind, seems odd because no one mentioned any type of bleeding. He has a cervical collar around his neck to prevent any further spinal cord damage. His graceful, strong hands that have held our children so lovingly lie swollen and still on either side of his body. This person in the bed cannot be my strong, healthy husband. This is not the same man I said good-bye to just a few short weeks ago.[bctt tweet="My grief is private, I have to remain strong for everyone else."]

I gently stroke his hair and kiss his forehead. I am afraid touching him will cause him more pain. I talk to him, tell him Happy Birthday. Even though I know he is in a coma I expect him to open his eyes at the sound of my voice but he remains still. No response to my touch or my voice, just the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath the ventilator breathes for him.

A nurse comes in to tell us it is time for him to be transferred to his room in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit (SICU). The Chaplain looks slightly relieved at the news; I do not hold that against him. I believe he is used to dealing with family members who are able to cry and grieve during a time like this and I cannot. I am stoic. My grief is private, I have to remain strong for everyone else. Possibly, I am in shock and not capable of showing emotion.

While I am in San Antonio with my husband, my family is gathering together to prepare for my Dad’s funeral in Abilene. I feel as though I am torn in two. I want to be both places at the same time, but that is not possible. I need to be with my family as we grieve for my Dad, but I also need to be with my husband as he fights for life. I know without a doubt I am where I should be, where my Dad would want me to be, but it is still tearing me apart inside.[bctt tweet="I know without a doubt I am where I should be, where my Dad would want me to be,"]

Caregiver was not a familiar term to me at that time in my life and definitely not a term I would use when describing myself. Sure I had heard it, probably even studied it when we covered Geriatrics in Nursing school, but Caregivers were people who took care of their elderly parent or someone with a terminal illness or maybe a Special Needs child-not someone like me. I had no idea of the changes my life was about to undergo. I did not realize it yet, but I had joined a very special group of people. I would soon be so immersed in doctor’s appointments, hospital visits, fighting the Army for retirement, struggling through the VA process and raising our children that I was going to forget about me. My health, my grief, my hopes and my dreams were put aside as I focused on recovery, rehabilitation and rebuilding our life with its “New Normal”. My journey as a Caregiver had just begun.