Tracy’s CaringBridge Site Journal Entry: “Where There Is Great Love There Are Always Miracles”

I am posting the journal entries from my sister’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) in order to retain that documentation in our 2014 blog book.  Check out the start of the series on my blog with the “My Sister” post.

Where There Is Great Love There Are Always Miracles

By Ken Crosson — Mar 1, 2014 11:11am

As I started this journal entry, about the miraculous course of Tracy's recovery, her friend Kim came in with a gift, a beautiful framed piece of chalk art inscribed with the Willa Cather quote I'm now using as the title of this journal, from their friend Lauren. I think it expresses not only a great truth, but a perfect description of what has happened here.

Tracy's own doctors call her "Lazarus" and a miracle. One of the cardiologists, after evaluating her yesterday and being astonished by the difference in her condition from when she entered the hospital a week earlier, said, "This," meaning both her survival and alertness after such a catastrophic injury, "simply does not happen."

Another warns that after we get out of the hospital doctors will be fighting over getting her as a patient because her case is so remarkable: First, a tremendously rare coronary condition that caused a heart attack. Then, a complete cardiac arrest that in most cases is irrecoverable and that required well over an hour of resuscitation just to get her heart beating again. And now, awakening with her personality and so much of her mind intact right off the bat? Literally unbelievable.

The cardiologist who's spent the most time with her, and who two days earlier had told us our best course of action was to pray for a miracle, yesterday cautiously suggested he now hopes for a full, if lengthy, recovery. She's not out of the woods yet, he warned, but he sees no reason that with time, medication, and rehabilitation she can't get back to where she was before.

I firmly believe they're all right, and were right before. She DID need a miracle to survive -- after all, when your heart stops six times in one afternoon you're in a bad way. She DID need a miracle to wake up and still be herself. But those things happened. She DID need a miracle to have any hope of eventual rehabilitation and leading a normal life. But it looks like that's going to happen too, in time. She needed miracles, we prayed for miracles, and we got miracles. Even the doctors, when I thank them for what they did for her, demur -- it wasn't us, they tell me; they did their best, but they give all the credit to the Great Physician.

Sure, she can't read a clock and her coordination is shot, she can't remember recent history and sometimes she thinks it's 1996, but she knows who she is, who all the people around her are, and who her kids are. Everything else is trivia -- she'll either get it back in time, learn it again...or live without it, because it really doesn't matter. There is great love for Tracy in this world, and she is -- we all are -- getting the miracles that come with it. Keep praying for her as she starts down the long road to recovery, because she will need more support as she makes her way back to her former self. Thank God, and all of Tracy's prayer warriors, for affirming, even restoring, our faith.

Tracy’s CaringBridge Site Journal Entry: “Questions and Answers”

I am posting the journal entries from my sister’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) in order to retain that documentation in our 2014 blog book.  Check out the start of the series on my blog with the “My Sister” post.

Questions and Answers

By Ken Crosson — Feb 28, 2014 5:34pm

"Why did my heart stop?" Tracy always has had a knack for getting to the core of the matter at hand, and sure enough the first question she asked after getting her breathing tube out was the one we had all been puzzling over for the past few days. Well, here's the answer:

Tracy suffered a medical emergency known as a spontaneous coronary artery dissection (SCAD), a rare event that overwhelmingly affects women, and disproportionately occurs in women who've recently had babies. Basically, hormonal changes in Tracy's body temporarily weakened her blood vessels, and for no specific reason a small branch of a coronary artery ruptured on Friday, depriving a section of her heart muscle of oxygen. Unfortunately, that tiny disruption of oxygen flow in Tracy's case caused a massive response -- her heart went into a quivering arrhythmia, and stopped pumping blood to her body. (Fortunately, the link to pregnancy means that Tracy, whose baby-making career concluded, gloriously, back in November, is unlikely ever to suffer a relapse.)

As academically interesting as it is to learn the mechanism behind her incident, the real questions we needed answers to were these: Would Tracy wake up?  And, if she did, would she be the same person as she was before? The last two days have provided answers in the affirmative to both of them.

Tracy's second question upon waking up was all the proof we needed that her essence remained intact: "Is Ivy hungry?" If a single word summed up Tracy's person, it would be "mom," and it is no surprise that her thoughts immediately ran to her precious baby as soon as she understood where she was. The answer to THAT question is that Ivy, like the rest of us, has been protected and provided for by the loving hands of the family and friends, including some friends we have yet to meet, with which our lives have been blessed. She's not hungry. She's happy and healthy.

Once the artery problem was explained to Tracy, her next question was whether she had caused the condition somehow by having a home birth. It appeared she didn't really understand how much time had passed since Ivy's birth, and although she knows Ivy's face and clearly has some memories of her deep inside, right now Tracy's having trouble remembering anything of the past few months. I explained that the home birth had nothing to do with her incident, but that the pregnancy itself might have contributed. She took one look at Ivy's picture and said firmly, "It was totally worth it for that baby."

There remain some questions for which only time will tell us the answers. Although Tracy is clearly still Tracy, with the same personality, sense of humor, and mannerisms as before, it is still early in the healing process and her memory and reasoning haven't completely returned. Her physical coordination is missing, and she is going to need weeks of intensive, in-patient rehabilitation before she will be able to return home, and months of therapy after that to get her back to her old form.

In the meantime, she remains in the CCU (although she will probably be transferred out to a normal ward, or the rehab ward, in a day or two), working on her coordination and other skills, and trying to enjoy as much Cran-Grape over ice pellets as she can get. For the three child deliveries she made at Kennestone, the high point was always the Cran-Grape over ice pellets, and I had a back-of-the-mind suspicion that this whole series of events might have just been a ruse of Tracy's to help her get the Cran-Grape she missed out on when we chose to have Ivy at home.

Whatever her reasons, and however long her rehabilitation will be, it's good to have her back. Her mood is terrific, and her attitude toward both her treatment and her own limitations is one of good-humored patience. There's no anger, no frustration, and not really any fear. She trusts her doctors who have gotten her so far, and believes that with God's help and the skillful hands of the medical providers entrusted with her care, she will get where she wants to go. In the meantime, she faces the challenges ahead with courage and acceptance.

And, of course, with her signature sense of humor, of which, a taste: After getting her breathing tube out and being cleared by her nurse to take fluids by mouth, she was able to have her first drink in a week. I got her a cup of her old favorite. She took a few sips, and then whispered to me, with cracked lips and a twinkle in her eye: "It was totally worth it for the Cran-Grape."

Tracy’s CaringBridge Site Journal Entry: “A Journey of 1000 Miles Starts With a Single Step...”

I am posting the journal entries from my sister’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) in order to retain that documentation in our 2014 blog book.  Check out the start of the series on my blog with the “My Sister” post.

A Journey of 1000 Miles Starts With a Single Step...

By Ken Crosson — Feb 27, 2014 8:55am

...but there's no rule that says it can't be a gigantic step. This morning the doctors decided Tracy was stable enough to attempt another independent breathing trial. They turned off all her sedation, and fifteen minutes later she was alert enough that they cut off the ventilator. She passed the trial with flying colors, and another fifteen minutes and they were taking out her breathing tube. She is now alert, responsive, and even asking questions. When I gave her a kiss, I got one in return. It will be a long road, but we got a tremendous head start on it this morning.

Tracy’s CaringBridge Site Journal Entry: “Little Things Mean a Lot”

I am posting the journal entries from my sister’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) in order to retain that documentation in our 2014 blog book.  Check out the start of the series on my blog with the “My Sister” post.

Little Things Mean a Lot

By Ken Crosson — Feb 26, 2014 5:24pm

In The Princess Bride, a limp Westley, recently reanimated by a cure from Miracle Max, incredulously asks his companions, who eagerly celebrate his slightest movement as they contemplate the overwhelming odds against them in their quest to storm the castle, if under the circumstances a small head-jiggle is supposed to make him happy.

I'm here to answer Westley: Yes, sometimes a small head-jiggle means everything in the world.

Around six this morning, Tracy was stirring. I went to her side with her dear friend Kim, and we talked to her and stroked her arms. I asked her if she could hear us. She nodded. I couldn't believe what I had seen, so I asked her to do it again. She did it again. I asked her to squeeze my hand, and she did, faintly.

Then, the early mobility team came to work with her this afternoon, and apparently got a lot out of her with their techniques. I wasn't there for it (dad duty called), but I hear she moved her arms and her legs both on command and in response to postural changes, and raised her head several times to look at the therapists. I'm really looking forward to their visit tomorrow - I will be here for it for sure.
Later, I understand that Tracy's dad was telling her a story, and she smiled at him. She also squeezed her sister's hand, making Tricia squeal in surprise, which scared the nurse and made her jump - all of which evoked another smile from Tracy. I can't wait to see all of this myself.

So, Westley, yes, when you are riding a miracle and facing long odds, sometimes a head-jiggle is the first, quiet answer to ten thousand prayers.

Tracy’s CaringBridge Site Journal Entry: “No News is No News”

I am posting the journal entries from my sister’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) in order to retain that documentation in our 2014 blog book.  Check out the start of the series on my blog with the “My Sister” post.

No News Is No News

By Ken Crosson — Feb 25, 2014 9:15am

The upshot of today is what we already knew: Time will tell.

Cardiology tells us Tracy's heart is weak (unchanged since Friday), and she still needs medical help to keep her blood pressure adequate, but all that can be managed with medical support and eventually heal or be overcome.

Neurology says her brain shows no signs of swelling, or maybe a little bit of swelling (significant swelling would be very bad), and her EEG shows reduced brain activity (which of course is bad), but not none (which of course is worse). The bottom line is that there is no bottom line. She hasn't woken up, but she might at any time.

The doctors are talking about evaluation over the course of weeks, not hours or days. It's a long game, and we're just getting started.

My Sister

Just four days after my sister was at our house visiting, on the afternoon of Friday, February 21st, I got a call from my brother-in-law Ken that Tracy had gone into cardiac arrest and was being loaded onto an ambulance and taken to the hospital.  As fast as I could throw some necessities into a bag and get in my car, I was headed down to the hospital in Atlanta where she and Ken would be.  For most of the drive I didn’t know if Tracy was dead or alive and I cried the entire way.  As I got closer to Atlanta, Jonathan called me to fill me in (my parents had called him and weren’t sure whether calling me would endanger me on my drive because it would be upsetting) that Tracy was stable, on life support, in a cath lab.  Ken met me by the elevators outside of the Coronary Care Unit (CCU) and I honestly thought for a brief moment that I needed to be strong for Ken before I nearly collapsed into a hug with him and tearfully said, “Please tell me she’s going to be okay.”  Ken, to say the least, was a lot better at being strong for the rest of us.  Ken stayed at the hospital that first night (and every night for more than a week) with Tracy’s amazing friends Kim and Rachelle.  I went to their house for a sleepless, tear-filled night but was comforted by seeing the familiar sight of the life Tracy was leading (homeschooling projects on the table, a bounty of fresh produce on the counter, photos of her beautiful family on the walls…).  I made the mistake that night of doing research on “sudden cardiac arrest”, the survival rate—even with CPR, which we knew she had received from Ken immediately—was something in the 5-7% range, in other words very low.  And, as trite as it sounds in this situation to relate to a song, Bastille’s song “Pompeii” was on the radio and in my head quite a bit this day and for the next several. “And the walls kept tumbling down|In the city that we love…But if you close your eyes, |Does it almost feel like | Nothing changed at all?…How am I gonna be an optimist about this? | How am I gonna be an optimist about this?”  On Saturday morning, a stone-faced CCU doctor put her hand on my knee as we sat next to each other and said in an apologetic tone, “We’re just not seeing the responses [gagging, eye dilation, etc.] that we should expect to see.”  In other words, they expected she had no brain function.  And it was those apologetic tones and apologetic looks from nurses over the next few days that made me wonder if I was naïve to have hope…How am I gonna’ be an optimist about this?

The full week, from February 21st until the 28th—the one I lovingly refer now to as “hell week”—, is one that has forever changed me, I’ll never forget, and for which I am grateful.  The story of that week is a long one and every single day we rode a roller coaster of emotions.  The short of it is that she was in an induced hypothermic state from Friday night through Saturday night, on Sunday they warmed her back up and took her off sedation, and then we spent the next three days trying to read into clues (she’s awake *yay!*, but now she’s awake but doesn’t respond to us  *heart.breaking*, brain scan looks hopeful but not definitive, no purposeful movement…and on and on) to assure ourselves that Tracy was still Tracy.  The last few days of the week, once we knew Tracy could respond to commands, were left to determine how many challenges she would face in her future.  Just two weeks after Tracy’s “event”, however, we knew (with the help of some speech/cognitive and cardio therapy in the months to come) that Tracy was going to fully recover.  Yes, “skip to the end” (not the last Princess Bride reference you’ll find in our story), we witnessed a miracle.  The journey to that miracle is a long and exhausting tale to tell—it honestly starts the waterworks all over again and wears me down to think about it all too much—and, fortunately, Ken did a wonderful job documenting the steps along the way through a CaringBridge website.  So, in my next few blog posts, I am going to borrow his words and put his journal entries on this blog so that we have it documented in our 2014 blog book.  As you can imagine, that first week was chaotic and stressful (I wasn’t even in a state to visit my nephews and niece until that Tuesday), but so many loving and caring friends and family wanted to know what was going on, so Tracy’s CaringBridge site (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/tracyslatoncrosson) was set up to communicate updates to all interested parties at once.  Ken posted some beautifully (and wittily, in true Ken style) written journal entries to the site. Here’s the first one:

How We Got Here

By Ken Crosson — Feb 24, 2014 10:44am

On Friday afternoon, completely out of the blue, Tracy went into cardiac arrest. By the grace of God she was in a place where the arrest was witnessed, so CPR was started immediately, paramedics were on the scene within ten minutes, and she was quickly transported to Kennestone Hospital in Marietta, where she has been receiving world-class care in the Coronary Care Unit (CCU) for the past few days.

The doctors are uniformly surprised to see a patient as young and healthy as Tracy in the condition she is in. The best explanation they can come up with is that a tiny tear in a tiny branch of a coronary artery deprived her heart of just enough oxygen to trigger an arrhythmia that led to complete cardiac arrest. They and the nursing staff have been working around the clock to prevent further damage, preserve her neurological function, and to bring her back to us.

Clearly, her condition is critical and she is on only the first step of a very long road to recovery, but we have high hopes that she will recover consciousness soon and give the many people gathered here to pray for and support her a real reason to cheer. So far good news has been hard to come by, but, by the nature of her injury and the immediate interventions it required, today is really the first day of what we know in our hearts will be her triumphant comeback. The outpouring of support from family and friends has been overwhelming.

Our kids, who would be her first, and perhaps only, concern under these circumstances, are being lovingly cared for by friends, with a list of backups a dozen strong, standing by if needed. Right now we need prayers for a recovery as swift and thorough as possible.

Thank you for lifting up your hearts in her behalf. I will keep you posted on her progress through this site.

A Sweet Visit

My sister, her youngest son Drew, and baby Ivy came to visit us over President’s Day weekend in February.  Without older brothers Jake and Zane there, it was actually a great opportunity for Jack and Drew to spend some focused time together and bond.  Ella hung out with the two boys, too, but I’m pretty sure she barely set Ivy down the entire weekend.  Tracy and her crew pulled into our driveway and no sooner had Ella unclipped Ivy out of her car seat and was carrying her around over the driveway.  It makes me pretty nervous, but Ella handles her well.  I don’t blame Ella—Ivy sure is fun to hold and nothing’s sweeter than kissing that soft head.  My sister and I had a nice time catching up and hanging out, too.  We even went out perusing some shops together (with just Ivy) and had some girl time.  But, once again (a la Thanksgiving), when Ivy’s around most pictures are focused on her.  Come Hilton Head, though, I’ll be sure to include everyone else!

{love that ivy has her own rainbow loom bracelet from the kids.}

And, the Monday morning that Tracy, Drew, and Ivy left (Ella and Jack were in school that day for a make-up snow day), we did a little photo shoot with Ivy (Tracy didn’t plan on being in the pics) to mark her 3-month milestone.

{sweet little birthmark.}

{she was going through her “mr. burns plotting hands” phase, but this one kind of looks like she’s making a heart.}

{little miss ivy loves to flap with her arms and kick with her legs.  busy, busy.}

{ivy liked this hat about as much as my other niece emilee did. not so much. ha ha}

{and one last stretch…}

{…before she’s finally tuckered out.}