Lili

Day ten. It's early in the morning now and her fever is just breaking. It is such a relief when it breaks. Her hands are cold for some reason. We had a hard time keeping it down tonight. This is hour 5 of +104 fever. Her body is covered in ice packs. I hate it. She hit 106 for about 90 minutes. They are still unsure why she is fevering on day ten of such large doses of antibiotics. No known pathogen to date. Still unsure if that is good news or bad news. Deep down inside, it scares me to death.

The first chest tube failed. I was hopeful after the last x-ray, the pneumonia looked better. I was wrong. Her doctor showed us where her lung was dying. How can I look at her? How can I smile at her while part of her lung is dying? Somehow I do. I need to be positive. They say this is normal. They say it will heal. The second chest tube couldn’t reach the lockulated areas. Stage 3 empyema. Learn about it here: http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/1001747-overview. She went into surgery yesterday at around five. She is out now. The surgeon was happy with his work. No mistakes. He said he didn’t break any of the rules. She is receiving a blood transfusion now. I wonder who it is from. I will never know. I wish they knew Lili. I wish I could send them a picture. I have never given blood. That will change. She is struggling. The pain is back. I thought is was over.

Yesterday was amazing. Lili was back almost all day. How could her body be so sick? She looked so wonderful?

Fear has definitively been replaced by numbness. I think it is the hospital.

I’m having a tough time reconciling my feelings now. I feel less worried, but somehow more uncertain. We’ve loved so much in just three years. She will be OK. The risks associated with every decision make me sick to my stomach. Will she be OK?

Jen is my strength. I can’t believe how brave she is. She always knows what to do. She is always calm. She holds my hand and squeezes when she can tell I am about to cry again. I hope my guy friends don’t read this. Do they understand? She’ll be OK. The fevers will stop. Her lungs will stop draining. Her lung will reorganize. They say she’ll never know in a year from now. My fingers are crossed. I spend all day trying to be positive, I think I sound extra negative when I am alone at night.

Her fever is coming down.

I shouldn’t write at this hour. Never eat alone, right? I can’t think of what else to do. I can’t sleep. I hope she knows how much I love her.

She’ll be OK.