When I arrived that first Saturday morning, he was already reclined in a wheelchair, seatbelt around his waist, and his head flopped to the side. His hair was long, there were scars and a shaved patch on his forehead, and one of his legs jerked intermittently. He wore gym shorts and a random T-shirt, not the traditional button-down or polo shirt, khaki pants, or cargo shorts that were his signature style. He was fed through a tube, catheterized to drain his bladder, messed his pants, wore diapers, was bathed by others, and hauled around by a mechanical lift. It was mind-blowing.

Occupational therapy was already busy working with him. This session was followed by back-to-back speech therapy and then physical therapy. Wow, an hour and a half of busyness right out of the gate. Considering, at most, he had only sat up for thirty minutes in the ICU, this was like going from 0 to 60 mph in a big fat hurry. He was breathing heavily on the vent support and was in distress. The nurse explained that Matt’s fluctuating respiration, heart rate, and temperature symptoms were called “storming.”  Storming was triggered by pressure from a full bladder, too much stimulation, or . . .. random things. At that moment, too much stimulation would have been my guess. He looked like he was caught in a tornado. Yet the staff calmly continued to do their thing—checking his ability to wash his face, stick out his tongue, or blink to answer yes—which he couldn’t do.

The PT focused on adjusting a special wheelchair to fit his physique, including a headrest to support his head. Since Matt could not stand up on his own, nor could they safely move him into the new chair themselves, they used a mechanical lift device. A fabric harness was placed underneath him, cinched to a metal frame, and mechanically raised using a motor. Once suspended in the air, staff maneuvered him, like a sack of potatoes, over the new chair and lowered him down. This was not a simple nor a fast process, but it required the least amount of physical exertion, could be used to get him in and out of bed, and was designed with patient and staff safety in mind.

When I left him three hours later, he was still up—I felt terrible for Matt. It was not easy leaving him with strangers buzzing around him like an active bee hive while at the same time knowing he was all alone in his own little world without a familiar face, voice, or advocate. It tugged at my heartstrings and, like a magnet, drew me back to his bedside again that evening. This would be the only occasion I chose to do so. It was simply too much time donated to my automobile. And the unsavory truth was that Mike and I were returning to work on Monday. We would no longer be able to dedicate all our time and attention to being there for Matt. Quickly, we would have to design a plan to balance our desire to be at Matt’s bedside with resuming our demanding work schedule and household responsibilities.