Reveling in how awesome the service was, we headed back to check out our potential spot in Building 62. However, I had the worst gut feeling about Josh’s fever. His body temperature issues had been under control for over a month, which told me something wasn’t right. As I pushed his wheelchair and listened to Josh go on about the night, I prayed in my head, God, I’m going to suggest that we go get his vitals checked. Please make him consent to it. I do not want to face an emergency situation alone in Building 62. In my sweetest Southern wife voice, I asked Josh if he would pretty please just go up to the fourth floor to let someone check his vitals just so we had peace of mind before we went to bed. He rolled his eyes but agreed.
Looking back, I know how much Josh wanted the rite of passage that came with moving to Building 62. What he wanted was to prove that he was at the stage of recovery to do what he wanted on his terms, the stage where you don’t have to sign in and out every time you want to go downstairs to get lunch or listen to your neighbors who don’t get along with their in-laws argue all night. We wanted to sit in a room that had furniture, not a hospital bed with pleather chairs and IV poles everywhere. I dreamed of a full night’s sleep when I wasn’t woken up every two hours to Josh reciting his birthday and Social Security number to a nurse just so he could take his pills. We went from one foot out the door to square one in one night. But I am glad we did, because I knew something wasn’t quite right with Josh. After getting back to the fourth floor, we had Josh checked out, and they were still unsure of what was going on. We tried to rest for a little while until the next check-in, but that didn’t last long.
At 3:45 a.m., I woke up to seven rapid response team members and Rollins hooking Josh up to the EKG again. This time his temperature was 103 and his blood pressure was extremely low. I sat up on my cot and asked what was happening. Rollins said she thought he was going to need another aggressive bolus of medications. All signs pointed to an infection. The fluids ran for about thirty minutes, but Josh’s blood pressure continued to drop. A general surgery doctor ordered a PICC line change in case the infection was coming from there. I firmly requested that he change the wound vac sponge because it had not functioned for a full day, and the only fix had been a change in the hose, not the part that was actually touching the wound. He agreed to change it and began pulling off the bandages. The cellophane was peeled back carefully, then the hose was unhooked. My worst nightmare was revealed—a sponge covered in a yellow pus from a Pseudomonas bacterial infection that filled the room with a smell like rotting fruit. This kind of bacteria lives on the skin but can be life-threatening if it gets in the bloodstream untreated. The bacteria grows in moist places, which made the sponge on Josh’s back the perfect place for it to fester for the two and a half days the wound vac didn’t work. I assumed the doctors would begin cleaning him up when I heard one of them say, “We gotta get him down to the ICU.” What? Wait, seriously? I know he’s not responding to the medicine, but the ICU? Really? The room buzzed around me. The doctor quickly cleaned and changed the wound vac sponge while the nurses were unplugging machines and tossing the cords on the end of the bed. I was left dodging elbows and cords and swinging arms as they moved about Josh’s bed. Outside our room, the charge nurse was calling the transport team to quickly get to the fourth floor. At this point, people were poking their heads out of their rooms to see what the noise was about. I heard a neighbor’s mom tell someone in her room, “I think it’s Josh. I think they are taking him to the ICU.” Was this real life? My life? Was Josh’s life in danger?
In minutes they stormed into our room and started wheeling Josh toward the patient elevators, EKG equipment in his lap. The machine began alarming, and we progressed from a fast walk to a jog. Behind the stretcher, I heard a rapid response team member say, “He’s still going down… Heart rate’s 168 and blood pressure is 80/22… We gotta go!”
Out loud I said, “Jesus Christ! You are in control of this! Do not let my husband die in this hallway!” As I’m screaming this prayer running down the hallway, Josh is lying on the stretcher beginning to glaze over. Come on, honey. You’re okay. You can do it. Josh looked up at our charge nurse, who was sprinting and pushing the hospital bed down the hallway, and said, “Ms. Lytle, are you on Facebook?” Oh my God! What is wrong with you? Where is the Josh who was glaring at me for ruining our last night of freedom? I’ll take him back now, please.
On two wheels, we made it into the ICU. An ICU nurse
