It was a Wednesday afternoon when I had just sat down after putting Elsie down for a nap when I got a call from a neighbor. “Jess has had an emergency at work,” I recall him saying, “His boss is going to call you.” Apparently, this neighbor friend is a mutual acquaintance and Jess’s boss didn’t have my phone number. I quickly received the second call, Jess’s boss explained, “Jess is being attended to by the paramedics. They have a couple of questions.” The phone was passed to said paramedics and questions like “What medications has Jess been taking?” My first thought was that Jess was dehydrated. He had ridden his trainer bike that morning and was then in a rush to get to work. But then the paramedic asked “Any trauma to the brain recently? Has he been in a car accident?” The question about being in a car accident threw me off. At that point I inquired, “What is happening with Jess right now?” The answer was a bit surprising, “We are attending to him,” the paramedic responded, “He is unresponsive.” I heard the words but still didn’t quite understand the seriousness of the whole thing. The paramedics and his boss were being so clear-headed and talked so calmly that my response to Jess’s boss after the phone was passed back to him was, “Do I need to come down to see Jess?” The answer was a very certain, “Yes. Meet us at the Emergency Room.”
My mind jumped to timing. Kids were to be home in an hour or two. Elsie was asleep. Now what. I called my friend across the street. No answer. I woke Elsie up and we got in the car. As I was driving my friend called back. I thanked her and explained, “Jess has had a medical event at work. I’m not really sure what is happening. Can you tell Ansel and Ian that I went to visit Jess at work once carpool drops them home from school? Can you have them over to your house?” “Of course,” she answered and then added, “I hope everything is okay! Can I take Elsie?” Since I was already in the car and asking so much from her already I thanked her for the offer but declined. Maybe having Elsie would help me keep my cool. I then texted Oliver using Siri, two hands on the wheel and looking in my rear view mirror, “I went to see Dad at work. I won’t be home when you get back from school.” It seemed so matter of fact, but it had to be. I had no idea what was happening with Jess. What caused this emergency? Why today? My mind continued to race with questions when I received another call. This time, another friend from the neighborhood, “I heard something’s happening with Jess.” Wow, word got out quick. “Can I take Elsie for you?” Only minutes from the first offer I had changed my mind. No two year old needs to be at the Emergency Room when her mother sees her father experiencing medical trauma. “I’m on the road,” I responded. “I’ll meet you,” my friend quickly retorted. I did a U-turn and headed to the gas station. Within minutes she pulled up. I handed Elsie to her with profuse thanks and assurance that I’d text her with more info as it came available.
Jumping back into the car my mind raced. Keep calm. I repeated to myself over and over. Okay, what do I know? What do I need to be prepared for? What’s the next step? Keep calm. What caused this? What was his morning like? Where was he at work? Sounds like he had immediate care. He’s in the best hands right now. He’s getting all the attention he needs. Keep calm. During the 20+ minutes drive, Jess’s boss calls me to see how close I am. “Be there soon,” I reply. I pull up to the hospital. It’s an early afternoon on a weekday, the place is not busy. I enter the doors and see four men, all who work with Jess. “Can you explain what happened?” I say.
They describe to me a regular lunch hour with Jess telling a story and then, mid-sentence, his head fell back and he passed out. They said he started to have difficulty breathing so they moved him down to the ground. 911 was called. Paramedics came. There was alarm. People were cool but panicked. Chest compressions were administered. “Whoa!” I thought to myself. The faces of the four men explaining to me what went down communicated the same exact thing. Whoa.
I went back to see Jess in his ER bed. He was conscious. Yes! But he was hooked up to all the things. Nurses were circling. And he was doing various facial tics and looking, well, very out of it. I caught the Doc just as he was about to explain to Jess what they had determined had happened. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He saw me in his peripheral vision, then turned to me. We introduced ourselves. He followed with “your husband has had an aneurysm burst.” More whoa, but with it, some relief. Can you believe that dear reader? I was relieved he had had an aneurysm rupture! On my drive to the ER I had imagined the worst, a brain tumor, so when I heard the news I was so grateful. His suffering would be minimal. “We’re going to send him to a bigger hospital that has a Neuro unit,” the doctor continued, “He’ll need additional care. We’re going to make some calls to see where to send him. We’ll let you know as soon as possible. We want to move quickly with this.” I felt a little like I was on an episode of E.R., NBC’s Thursday night drama of the 90s, which I watched religiously with my mom from grades 10-12, at least. But the staff was not yelling “STAT” and no paddles were being used on any chests, still, Jess’s clothes had been cut off and I talked with him as any next of kin would. “You’ve had a brain aneurysm,” I explained. Jess couldn’t find but two words in his bruised brain to respond except, “Really?” and “Weird!” As calls were made, I sat next to Jess, and explained to him this concept three, four, five times. He had no memory of one minute to the next and the facial tics continued. The nurses came in, “He’s going to be transferred to IMC in an ambulance,” they explained, “it’s faster than a life flight. You’ll follow him to meet him there. He’ll be on the fifth floor.”
I told Jess’s colleagues the news. Their faces still read complete and utter “whoa” as I thanked them for the good care and attention Jess received from them. They headed back to work from the ER but I hope it was only to pick up their cars. I hope they took the rest of the day off. They were shook.
At the hospital I parked, entered and tried to go up to the fifth floor. Sorry, the Fire Fighters informed me, elevators, all four of them, broken. I tried the stairs but to enter floor five, I’d need a staff badge. Back down to the first floor I went. I asked a volunteer, the kindest man ever, if he could help me out. He took me to the staff elevators and up I went, directly to the Neuro ICU. The elevator door opened to a place I’d become very familiar with in the coming weeks, but at the moment felt very foreign. It was quiet. There was no one around. And when a few people passed me by, they didn’t ask me what I needed or who I was with because they assumed I knew what I was doing because I had come up the staff elevator. I walked around the place. I started to hear the beeping. Low tones, high tones, medium paced, and fast paced. Some continued and some stopped. Another beep started. I found someone. “I’m trying to find Jess Theodore.”
I entered his room and found Jess sleeping. I sat. Staff tells me they’ve done some more imaging. The doctor comes in. It was all very timely and waiting around wasn’t happening, which I am so grateful for. Jess was getting care STAT. The doctor explained, “Jess is going to have a procedure. They are going to put coils in his brain.” I had questions. The doc answered every single one. Platinum coils would be placed intravenously into the aneurysm to stop blood from entering the bulging vessel. He then explained matter-of-factly, “When aneurysms rupture, 50 percent of the people die on the spot. Of the 50 percent of the people who don’t die, 50 percent are vegetables.” Jess was in the 25 percent. Whoa.“We’re going to treat your husband as best we know how. We are looking to keep his vasospasms controlled.” Vasospasms? More questions, more answers. In brief, vessels in the brain don’t appreciate when blood has leaked into the brain tissues because, as it starts to break down, it can irritate those vessels and caused them to contract. This is vasospasming. And when this happens, blood can’t flow successfully to the brain. “We’ll wait and see how it goes,” the doctor continued after drawing me a cartoon version of a coil placement on a whiteboard, “this whole experience can be a bit of a roller coaster. Good days and bad days. 21 of them. Hopefully, there will be more good days than bad ones. I’m just telling you how it is, okay?” Doctor R. was laying it all out and I appreciated that. I didn’t want any coddling. I wanted to know what to expect. I work better in those situations. I thanked him and then I began to wait.
Jess was wheeled out of room 523 and off to get an angiogram and have the coils placed. If this didn’t work, nurses explained, he’d have to have open-head surgery to cut the aneurysm out. My words not theirs. I didn’t want that to happen so I crossed my fingers. It would probably take 2.5 hours.
At about this time, people started showing up. I had called Jess’s mom, my dad, and my sister. I had texted my family. Jess’s mom his. Word spread like a wildfire. I was getting messages from everyone. Jess’s parents and brothers showed up at the hospital. My dad came. So did my sister-in-law. Our Bishop came. It was amazing, alarming, humbling, wonderful, and comforting all at the same time. It’s what I needed and I didn’t even realize it. People need people. We’re made to need each other. It’s God’s plan I think. And that day, that month, I (we) needed people and they showed up.
The procedure was a success. “He has basically near 100 percent chance of never having an issue with this aneurysm again,” doctors assured me over the phone directly from the surgical room. “That’s wonderful!” I responded while my thoughts went off like cartwheels and back flips, fireworks and whistles. The aneurysm wouldn’t cause anymore problems! Now we had to focus on healing from the problems it did cause before the coils were placed.
Nurses wheeled him back into his room. He was restful. Relief for him. Thank goodness. Later that day (or was it the next?), Jess woke up with questions. “So, um, what happened?” He didn’t remember a thing. He could recall going to work that morning and heading down to lunch, but after that, zero. I explained to him the events. He was having lunch and mid-sentence, while telling a story, his head fell back and he passed out. His coworkers were confused but realized something was wrong as soon as his breathing became labored. They moved him to the ground, called 911, and all the rest was explained. This was a story we went over numerous times (and still do now!).
The next three weeks we’re filled with lots of monitoring. Jess had wires all over the place and both arms had IVs. They watched heart rate, oxygen levels, blood pressure, breathing patterns, vasospasm risks. There were blood draws, pills to swallow, cognitive tests to pass, movement checks, ultrasounds. He was filled with very salty fluids to keep vessel pressure levels high and chances of vasospasms low. His kidneys worked through those fluids and he would quickly urinate it all out. Still, they kept pumping it through him, bag after bag. For one 24 hour period, 24 liters went in and 25 liters came out. He had over 60+ meals in the ICU and therefore, memorized the hospital menu.
All the while, he was getting therapy. His left leg below the knee wasn’t moving. His ankle and toes weren’t receiving signals from his brain and so the goal was to improve upon that. What’s more, his balance was off, so making sure he practiced nearly everything was key to getting back to functioning. Therapy was exceptional, and we really liked the Physical and Occupational Therapists. Nearly every single one of them had a tattoo related in some way to nature. Trees, birds, flowers, forests. These individuals liked the outdoors. So do we. We talked a lot about all the amazing things one can do in Utah. “Jess, let’s make sure we get you back to that,” they’d buoy him up. They were amazed at his strength and improvement over time. During this process, I could see how Jess’s brain would make progress. It was truly amazing to watch. One day it was 6 slow steps down the hall with the help of a hemi-walker (a cool sounding name for something not so cool looking) and a therapist. The next day, it was 10 steps with the hemi-walker. The next, let’s try a cane, forget the hemi-walker! Jess would tire out faster than I was used to seeing, and that was really the only way I knew he was working really hard. He made it look easy and he had grit. The improvements were very promising to me. Jess was a bit more guarded in his excitement, but I couldn’t help but to have hope in what I saw trending. There was improvement and it was fast.
Cognitively, Jess was sharp. Only once or twice did I hear him get tripped up and when he did, he corrected himself. This was a rarity in the aneurysm-bursting world and the doctors were pleasantly surprised. Speech Therapy involved therapists to come and ask him to repeat lists and solve puzzles. I’d silently try to do the mind exercises along with him. It was hard stuff and sometimes Jess recalled things better than me! “Do you want to continue with these visits?” the therapist would ask. “Sure, why not? It’s good to give my brain practice.” Early on, Jess would doze off mid-exercise. “Jess, stay with me,” the therapist would say loudly, “we’re almost done.” I’d try to help out, “Jess, she wants you to write the time 11:10 on the clock with your marker.” Jess would come out of it just enough to draw the hour and minute hand. He was so sleepy those early days. I’d come during my usual shift, 9:30-3pm (his parents had the 4-9pm shift), and we’d talk maybe 10 sentences total. As time went on, we’d talk more, laugh some. I knew Jess was feeling a lot better when we’d talk more and laugh a lot.
During the time in the ICU, the kids could not visit Jess because 3 out of 4 of them are under 12, and though Oliver is 13, I felt like all of them should see Jess together. After 17 days, they got to visit him for about 15 minutes in the ICU waiting room. All masked up and hospital gowned, hooked up to IVs with a brace on his leg and supported by a Physical Therapist, Jess came out to meet them. Truth be told, there was happiness but also shock from the kiddos. I can’t exactly say how they were feeling, but I could see how it was kind of hard for them to approach him at first. Things were obviously different. But then they began throwing a ball together and I think it was one of the funnest PT sessions Jess had had or ever did have during his stay.
Quickly and amazingly, Jess improved. His young, athletic body was making a comeback. After 21 days, the blood had cleared out of the cranium and chances of vasospasms were nil. It was time to move to the 14th floor for acute therapy. Jess was relieved to be released from constant wires, bed alarms, and blood draws. Although those things saved his life, he began to feel quite hindered in his freedom and moving from the Neuro ICU was a refreshing change.
The 14th floor was again, filled with exceptional staff who were helpful beyond measure. My shift was now 9am-12:15pm (his parents now 4-8pm) and usually during that time Jess was busy with some therapy be it Physical, Occupational, or Speech. He’d walk around obstacles, complete visual exercises, or try to multitask all to challenge his brain. One evening after he’d been there a few days, I received a text. “I can move my toes,” Jess said. Five words for something so huge. I could see the hope becoming greater for Jess.
The progress he made during the next seven days was exceptional. He began looking better, sounding better, making even more jokes. His recovery was right on track. He was scheduled to go home the next day after four weeks in the hospital. A walking miracle!
At this time, Jess continues to go to outpatient therapy monthly. He walks without a brace, he has started working, and he says that sometimes he forgets about the fact that he had something so major occur to him a little over three months ago. It is surreal to him, to me.
Jess will learn from this experience in a different way than I so I won’t speak to that. However, what I can say from my part in it all is that life is random, but at times it’s not, and maybe that’s not for me to totally figure out. One thing I can be sure of is that God’s love resides in people. We NEED each other, and boy did I feel that during this whole thing. Jess and our family had so much support. The thought and care that people showed was amazing, overwhelming, humbling, surprising, and inspiring. It made such a difference to us. Such a difference. What’s more, when other people couldn’t be there, like during a car ride to an ER on a fall afternoon when I hadn’t a clue of what exactly was happening to my bestest of all friends, I prayed to God to help me. Help me stay calm, clear-headed, and ready to handle what’s next. And God delivered.
I myself, preferred the steam shower. This was the first time I’ve ever tried such a thing, and now I’m trying to find out how to get one in my house. Wow, it warmed me to the core after a day on the slopes! 
