"APPROVED"

5:45pm

When Taylor was in the Trauma Unit at Lakeland Regional Medical Center, he slowly began to regain his ability to understand what was happening. We spent a LOT of time telling him what had happened, how well and fast he was improving, and encouraging him in every way we knew how.

On evening, I was talking to him and found myself apologizing for times when I got agitated with him or for things that I now realized were not worth getting worked up over. At that time, he had the Trach so he couldn't talk to me but would shake his head that he understood what I was saying.

I also talked to him about other things that I griped too much about. I don't recall ever seeing Taylor comb his hair, but that didn't stop me from saying "Taylor, comb your hair" on occasions when I thought it needed to be combed. Fortunately, he has "wash and wear" hair, so it always looked ok anyway. And, I spent more time than I should have telling him to pull his baggy pants up. There were times he walked like a penguin to keep them from moving down any further, but "belt" wasn't even in his vocabulary.

When I was talking to him in the hospital, I remember telling him something like "From now on, I don't care if you ever comb your hair again. In fact, if you want a purple mohawk I'll take you to get it. You can wear pants around your ankles if you want to - or you can just wear boxers in public. I don't care. If you want to get piercings, it doesn't matter. If you want a tattoo, I'll pay for it". I was just so happy that he would be able to do all that stuff so it really didn't matter to me anymore.

So........Taylor recently called and asked me to pick him up at his friend Reid's place of employment. He caught a ride there with a friend that was not coming back to town and he was ready to come home. Reid works at Lou's Tattoos. "Hmmmmm......" I thought.

When I got there, Taylor and Reid were outside. I got out of the car and he was smiling. "Let's see it" I said. Taylor turned, dropped his pants and proudly displayed his new tattoo on his right butt cheek. When his mother asked "Approved by who?" He quipped "God". He always had a knack for taking the wind out of our parental sails, sometimes.

Before March 1 of 2007, I probably would have thrown a temper tantrum about a tattoo. And, I would probably pass out if he came home with a piercing. I now appreciate just how petty getting worked up about hair, baggy pants, "thump thump" music and all the other things I complained about actually is. Now, if he came home with a pierced nose, a visible tattoo and was playing Jay-Z loud enough to shake windows I would probably grit my teeth....but only for a couple of seconds. I would keep my mouth shut and give him a big hug and remember how lucky we are that he can do those things.

Black Tuesday revisited

8:21 am

One year ago today was the turning point for Taylor. Shortly after the accident on March 1st, 2007, Doctors discovered brain swelling, so a drain was drilled into his forehead to draw spinal fluid. When that stopped working, he was put on Mannitol, a medication that helps suppress brain swelling. After the swelling continued, a medical coma and paralysis was induced. This was done to minimize brain activity, and to allow the swelling to subside.

Then, on March 6th, things changed. For 26 hours the coma/paralysis was working ok. Taylor seemed to be leveling out on the brain pressure number, and we thought Taylor had made a turning point. He hadn't. His pressure suddenly started to slowly climb, and was making it's way through the danger zone into the critical zone and headed to the fatal zone. There was controlled chaos in Taylor's room. They told us they were taking him into the operating room. I don't recall them saying why, but I knew what was next.

As each new effort was tried to stop the swelling, I would ask "If this doesn't work, what's next?" But, I never got beyond the "next" thing. I really didn't want to know anything beyond the here and now and what the next step would be.

We knew that Taylor was being taken into the operating room to have a piece of his skull removed to try and relieve the swelling. And, I knew that this was THE moment. This was the last procedure available to save his life.

We were told to leave Taylor's room while they got him ready for surgery. I was in controlled (I think) panic and I quickly began to make phone calls. I called my Sister and told her what was going on and asked her to bring my Mother. I told her not to say why, just tell her they were coming to visit. I called a friend to pick up Lauren, who had gone home to change clothes. And, I called 4 of Taylor's friends. I told them something bad had happened, and we didn't know if the surgery would work or not. I told them that I knew Taylor would want them there, and knew they would want to be there should the surgery not work.

While I was making the calls, Taylor's mother, Suzie, was not doing so well. I had been slowly melting down for 5 days while she and Lauren held it together fairly well. Ever the optimist, Suzie was realizing that things were very bad. The nursing staff and friends were very comforting to her, but she really began to unravel like I've never seen in the 23 years I've known her. But, this is the worst event of our lives, so it was to be expected.

I made that phone call at about 5:30 pm. At 6:20 pm, a friend of Taylor's took a photo in the Chapel of those who were either at the hospital already, or heard from the 4 that Taylor was in trouble.
While Taylor's friends were arriving, his Mother and I stood at the doorway to the operating rooms, waiting for them to bring Taylor. Rather than move him to a transport gurney, he was transported on his entire bed (the ones in ICU are huge). Taylor had been on a Ventilator in his room, so one of the Nurses was using an Ambu Bag to keep him breathing.

They stopped for us to tell Taylor we loved him and to keep fighting, then we watched them take him through the doors wondering if that would be the last time we'd see him alive.

We would later learn that Dr. Campanelli's Physician's Assistant, Melissa, rode on Taylor's bed plucking metal staples from his scalp so Dr. Campanelli could get the skull off faster. Taylor had a blood clot removed from his brain earlier, so the skull was already loose.

By now, so many people had arrived at Lakeland Regional Medical Center, the waiting room was overflowing. We went to the Chapel, not just to have more room, but it was just the obvious place to be. We spent a LOT of time in the Chapel in the previous 5 days, and it was where we needed to be then. The entire group held hands and prayed, and we waited. As I looked around the room, I saw some of Taylor's friends that I had not seen in a long time. I saw some that had driven from Tampa, and got a phone call from one who was on the way from Sarasota. I wondered if God had brought everyone that loves him and that he loves together to say good bye.

At about 6:20pm, the hospital Chaplain came to tell us that Taylor was out of surgery. We went to see him and the Doctor said the surgery went well, and we'd now just have to wait. As the night wore one, his friends that came to visit slowly began to leave the hospital. It was then that I became convinced that Taylor would live. I knew that God would not let him die alone in his room when all those friends had been there. His last friend left the hospital around midnight, and we stayed up all night checking his brain pressure levels. It climbed some, but nothing near what it was before.

Then, Taylor began to make progress almost every day. He began to do things faster and better than many expected. Six weeks later Taylor had another surgery to replace the missing skull with a Titanium plate.

March 6th was the defining day in Taylor's survival. God, Taylor, Dr. Campanelli, Diane and the other medical staff did what they do best to make sure he'd live. We thank God daily, think of the medical staff often and love Taylor every day.

1 year anniversary

4:03am

I started this blog about 10 days after Taylor’s accident with one initial purpose – to keep Taylor’s friends updated on how he was doing. But, it quickly became a way to update our friends and family as well.

Then, as he began to slowly get better and it appeared that his recovery would be extraordinary, it became a way for people to participate in witnessing what many have termed “a miracle”.

Of all the people we know, the one person that has spent the least amount of time reading the blog has been – Taylor. It’s not that he doesn’t have the interest, it’s just not something that he’s ready to relive yet. But, he will read it one day soon.

I’ve spent almost a year posting about Taylor on this Blog. So, on this 1 year anniversary of the accident, I should probably post to directly TO him this time.

Dear Taylor,

What a difference a year makes! One year ago today, your mother, sister and I started March 1^st not knowing if you would live for the next hour, day or week. When we heard “Traumatic Brain Injury” we feared the worst. Almost every waking minute for the next several weeks was spent wondering if you would ever be the same – it you’d be able to talk to us, to use your limbs, to laugh and love again. But, I knew you were as tough as nails and that I never saw you give up on anything before, and knew you’d fight to survive. And, you did. Over the months as you began to recover, we saw that you were going to come home the same Taylor that you were the day before the wreck.

When we were first able to visit with you in the Emergency Room, I told you we would not leave you until you came home. That was a promise we kept. Either your mother, Lauren or I (and frequently all of us) were with you every day for the almost 5 months you were gone.

It was weeks before we knew if you would live, laugh and love again. Although there were signs of improvement, we just didn’t have any way of knowing the extent of any permanent injury to your brain. We prayed every day, all day. I went from begging God to let you recover as if nothing had ever happened, then settled for just being able to take you home no matter your condition. We had accepted that you may never be the same mentally as you were before the accident, or that there may be some paralysis, and we had talked about the prospect of caring for you at home. It’s not that we were convinced you’d never recover, but we knew it was a possibility and it was something we had to consider.

We watched as you slowly got better at the hospital and as you started regaining your strength in rehab. We witnessed your amazing resolve to get stronger, work harder and come home sooner. When you first started to make improvements at a rate much faster than normal, one Nurse told us not to expect your recovery to continue on the same "fast path" you were on. But, you never slowed down and that Nurse realized that something extraordinary was happening with you. Even at rehab, within a few weeks they said you were well ahead of where they would have expected you to be. But, that's you. You've never bothered with following the directions that came in the package, so we knew you'd do this whole recovery thing your way. It worked. Nice job!

I come from a small family. I am the only son of an only son. Only my sister, mother and 2 aunts remain in my family, beside you, your mother and Lauren. In my lifetime my father, grandparents, aunts and uncles have all died. I watched my Father die a slow painful death from cancer. But, even that pales in comparison to the pain of seeing you in the condition you were in for so long, and knowing the pain you’ve gone through during the past year.

And through all of this, you have never complained. You’d mention when things hurt, and you asked once “Why me?”. But, you’ve accepted what has happened to you in such a positive way. You’ve often said that complaining about your situation is not going to change anything, so you just decided not to complain about it. If only I could be more like you sometimes.

In the past year, I have learned a LOT about friendship. I watched your friends cry, and saw a few physically get sick the first time they saw you in ICU. Some came to the hospital at 2am after they got off work and a couple spent the night with us on the floor of the waiting room just to be close to you. Rarely, if ever, did 2 days in a row go by – during the whole 5 months – that you went without friends coming to see you. Some took off from work to spend the day with you at rehab, and many made the 2 hour round trip drive to visit with you. I know that your friends played a major role in your positive attitude, and cheered you on so you would work hard and come home. I’m convinced that without all the support from your friends, you would not have improved as quickly as you did.

I’ve also learned a lot about you. We spent a LOT of time together in the past year. I came to rehab every afternoon and stayed until I knew you were asleep that night – every day for 3 months. I’ve always known you were funny, but never did I know just how funny you were. I’m surprised we didn’t get kicked out of there a few times. And, you’ve learned a lot, I think, about people. You’ve found that you have friends who were very worried about you for a long time, and never stopped coming around because it may have been inconvenient to them. And, you’ve learned that there were a few who you’re simply better off without.

There are some things that are different for you physically now, and some things that will never be the same way they were before the wreck. But, those physical things aren’t what make you who you are. People don’t love you because you could ride a mean skateboard, that you always won footraces or because you could climb a telephone pole. It’s your personality, your intelligence, your humor and loving nature is what makes you who you are.

God IS good. He has given you a second chance at life – something millions of people never got. And, you’ve been given that second chance in a way that will not limit you in being who you want to be in this, your second chance at life.

In rehab, one of our favorite people downplayed your condition and called it “just a little bump in life’s road”. We still laugh at how out of touch with reality that lady was. This has been a HUGE event in your life. It is the most significant thing that has ever happened in any of our lives. It’s not a bump in life’s road. But, it is something that will become less significant each year and although we’ll always have the reminders of everything connected to what happened, it is mostly behind you now. Two little surgeries left, and you’re all done.

When all your friends came to the hospital on March 6^th, when you came so close to dying, I told the group that if they learned nothing else from this accident, they should know that the last thing we said to you and the last thing you heard us say was “I love you.” We’ve always done that, and we always will.

I love you.

Dad