A few years ago I was driving from Seattle to our home in Rathdrum. I was somewhere near Ellensburg listening to a Wenatchee radio station. They were doing a special where they would have listeners call in to relate their best or worst Christmas. I knew, without question, that my best and worst Christmas were one and the same. Unfortunately, I was living in the moment and wasn't ready to tell my story to the world.

Recently, I found myself reliving that moment, just as I often relive many moments from that fateful winter. I realized that it was time to share my Christmas tale. The night of Dec. 6, 2005, was particularly cold, below zero. Earlier, I had been at an alma mater party. Having had a few drinks, I came home and fell comfortably asleep around 11 o'clock. Shortly after midnight, my wife awoke me and asked me to take her to the hospital as she had a headache(?). I knew that she knew well enough when she needed medical assistance, so we bundled up and ventured out toward Kootenai Medical Center. As we checked in, she was having difficulty relating her problem to the nurse. The doctor looked at her and decided to do a few tests before he sent her on her way.

Thanks to his professionalism and concern, I found us, six hours later, jettisoning skyward in a Medivac flight destined for Seattle. I had our winter clothes, her purse, my wallet, a cell phone and a charger that plugged into a car. I would eventually come to realize that this would be my home for the next seven weeks.

The morning of the 7th, I found myself in the emergency waiting room at Harborview Medical Center with but a wisp of sleep and our possessions tucked around me. Harborview lets homeless people come inside to get out of the weather as long as they don't upset the other people there. I was quite certain that, should I fall asleep, I would have a few less possessions. I would, over time, come to see the homeless in a softer light. A young couple was there with their child. A few of the homeless and myself found a brief distraction entertaining the child on the worn vinyl floor.

The day wore on. That evening Debbie went in for an exploratory procedure. They suspected that she had a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage (SAH- also known as a ruptured brain aneurysm). As this adventure played out, I would become an expert in this finite area of the medical field. Another term I would soon learn was Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome (ARDS). As Deb was going in for the exploratory surgery, I was discussing the situation with her nurse. She received a call and disappeared in a panic.

I was escorted into a small room. If ever there was a room for the bearing of bad news, this was the place. I found myself considering praying that Deb would survive. I'm not one to pray regularly and it struck me that it would be quite selfish for me, out of the blue, to ask God to deliver my wife back to me so that I could go on with her by my side. I would need to accept what fate would bring and deal with the product of this reality.

I began to consider how I would tell her mother and sister that she had passed. I realized that I had to get out of that room and drifted into the nearby halls. Earlier that day, in my naivety, I had told my parents that I was OK and would be able to deal with this on my own. I was now relieved to see them show up against my council. I have great parents who are always there when I need them. I must remind myself often that I should not be complacent about this fact.

It turns out that Debbie had aspirated when they were inserting the breathing tube into her throat.

Stomach acid had gotten into her lungs and burned the tissue- ARDS. It is similar to pneumonia. The survival rate of SAH is about 33 percent and ARDS is about 50 percent. Worse, the recovery procedure for one is the opposite as for the other. It would be a difficult journey.

The next morning, they operated. One of the best neurosurgeons in his field tunneled into the center of her brain, placed a clip on the aneurysm, and stitched his way back out. It appeared successful. With brain aneurysms, this is actually considered the more survivable step. About 10 to 20 days after the surgery, vasospasms can occur. The brain tries to protect itself and shrinks the arteries, effectively causing a stroke. This is the killer.

Our next stop was the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). There are typically about a dozen families in the waiting room in the ICU. We share our fear. As time goes on, some will come and some will leave, either triumphantly to the next step in their journey rehab and learning to assist their loved one through life after this experience, or in despair. One family was Muslim, the mother was from America, the father was from Iran and the step father was from Iraq. Their son was in a coma. Their younger son was a Manchester United fan, as am I. A lady's husband was in his last throws. She was a nurse and knew too well what she was up against. We shared Christmas Eve dinner a few days before her world came apart. A young girl's boyfriend had been stabbed. An Oriental man's wife also had an SAH. She didn't have ARDS and her recovery would happen faster. His daughter, who was in college, was there by his side. A large family showed up, the son had been in a car wreck. They weren't there too many days- not good. We all knew that success and failure walked closely together within these halls. We fed ravenously upon one another's strength. We hugged when we needed to. Sometimes there was nothing we could do. We were a family, tighter than most any other.

The Baltimore Consort was putting on a Christmas special in Seattle. Earlier that day, they put on a free show at the hospital. Prior to that, a few of the members played for us in the ICU waiting room. These were people who get Christmas. On another occasion, some school age children came caroling to the ICU. They did a wonderful rendition of Silent Night. Emotions flooded from me. I was acutely aware that, if I took but a single step, the earth would disappear from beneath my feet. It was one of those moments that will stay with me forever.

For Christmas dinner, a very nice restaurant, I wish I could remember their name, brought up a dinner and fed us very well.

Living in Seattle at a time like this isn't for those without money saved. The first few days, I stayed in a room in a hotel that was nearby the hospital. It could have been built in the 1940s. I suspect that it used to be rooms for the nearby college. It was like something out of a Dickens' novel. Cozy, with a tree and all of the decorations in the lobby. The desk closed at 5 p.m. and you let yourself in after. I couldn't afford this long. My mom found a very small room with a kitchenette near Seattle Center. The two of us packed in for two weeks. We had a corner room. The window perfectly framed the space needle. After that, an apartment that the hospital rented out at a reduced rate became available. We stayed there for another two weeks. My sister had a close friend, Nicole, who lived north of Seattle. We had met once before. She graciously let me come into her home for the remainder of the time that I was there.

Seattle is one of those rare towns where more than just a few restaurants take pride in what they do. While we were there, we ate very well. Every place had its unique atmosphere. Truly a city with culture. When I was young, we lived near Olympia so I had some experience with the Puget Sound area. After this, Seattle would hold a more personal place in my memories. It struck me as odd that I could have such a pleasant experience while every moment was gripped by uncertainty. Even the hospital served great meals at a more than reasonable price.

When a tragedy such as this happens, you find out just how many people care about you. Support poured in from every corner. Relatives near and far offered support and encouragement. Friends and acquaintances sent cards, flowers and e-mails with their prayers. I have a great aunt who is a nun living in Wichita. She had the entire convent praying for us. My sister sent her IPod so that we could play Debbie's favorite music for her. People I don't even know sent words of support.

We have horses, dogs and cats. We've had occasion to have the neighbors down the road care for our animals. Luckily they still had a key to our house. When I arrived in Seattle, I called them and asked them if they could look after the place. I had no idea how long this would be. They accepted without hesitation. I will forever be grateful to Rob and Maiken Billick and their family. While I received support in many forms, I don't know how I would have survived this without them. There are truly some outstanding people in this world.

When Debbie got out of surgery, she was unconscious and bloated up nearly beyond recognition. As the days passed and the bloating subsided, it wasn't clear when, or if, she would ever wake up. At one point, the breathing machine she was hooked up to was cranked up to its maximum pressure. Any higher would risk blowing her lungs apart. The ARDS had formed like concrete inside her and the machine had to overcome the resistance to move. Her situation meant that she was difficult to manage. Her drugs were very touchy. She needed to be stimulated to keep her lungs working but this increased the chance of vasospasms. She was very difficult for the nurses.

I can't say enough about the nurses. These people are true professionals. They are given these human bodies to keep alive through the most tenuous step of recovery. They have to cope with the families. They are all too aware that this is a place where success can be fleeting and failure crushing. They don't often get to see the results of their efforts. If all goes well, the patient is passed down the line. Feedback rarely returns. Yet they approach each day valiantly and put their best effort forward.

Debbie remained unconscious. Some said it was a drug induced coma although others refuted this. There are many opinions in the hospital. I found myself becoming an advocate. I was able to relate Deb's history between the various groups that worked with her more readily than the charts could. You can only write so much and there isn't always time to read it later.

Days passed. Did a finger twitch? Her eyes were open but did they focus on something? Was there a glimmer of that warmth that only conscious recognition can portray? Days passed.

Twice a day- shortly after I got to the hospital and before I left, I would make phone calls. I needed to keep family abreast of the current situation. Often it was only to reassure them that she was still alive. There were always the tidbits of the day but they get muddled in the bigger picture. Another day and she is still alive. I became closer to my in laws than at any other time.

Days passed. Debbie's birthday is on New Year's Eve. Her parents had been there for a few days at that point. Suddenly she perked up. She recognized us! We had turned the corner! The swiftness at which it came on was amazing. It lasted about four hours. She drifted away. Her daughter was coming up from Oregon but missed her train. By the time she arrived later that day, we were eagerly watching for the twitch of a finger or the glow in her eyes.

Days passed. Her parents had to leave. My parents had to leave. The ARDS had stabilized. The hospital moved Debbie to the acute ward. This is where patients recover after they are stable enough to leave ICU. In the ICU, there is a nurse assigned to every patient to look after their bodily needs. In the acute ward, the nurses are spread thin. Student nurses and assistants try to take up the slack. A large number of the assistants are from Ethiopia or Eritrea. They are very nice but are also spread too thin. The acute ward is the realization of American economics. This particular ward was for people with brain injuries. Patients desperately want to go to the bathroom and wait, sometimes more than an hour, for someone to assist them. Patients want to get up and leave before they can walk. Patients squeal incoherently, echoing through the halls. Deb laid there.

Days passed. The strain was overwhelming me. I leaned down close to Debbie and whispered that I needed help. She opened her eyes, looked up at me and reached up for a kiss. If it happened in a movie, it would have been sappy. Life doesn't happen like that, but then again, maybe it does. I've come to believe that Debbie, at some level, knew that she didn't need to be conscious. Her body needed to stabilize before she needed to wake up.

Recovering from a brain injury is a long process. I knew some of what to expect from the other family in the ICU whose wife recovered from an SAH much faster than Debbie did. I also attended several support meetings where they helped us to anticipate what to expect and how to deal with it. One lady whose husband had been through this talked with us. Her husband survived several more years before complications overtook him. I think this was therapy for her as well. A young man who had been in a coma a few years earlier would come in and help us understand what it is like on the other side. He was given a 0.1 percent chance of survival. There is always hope.

I liken recovering from a brain injury to watching a child grow. A day of recovery is like a month or two in a child's life. Learning to walk, eat, brush your teeth, comb your hair.

Often times the patient will get angry at their loved ones. I knew this would happen but it is still difficult to take. Ever heard your child tell you they hate you and wish you weren't their parents? Debbie had to be restrained so that she didn't pull her tubes out. As long as I was there, she could be untied. I spent as much time there as I could. When I would leave, she would need to be restrained. I could have had a nurse do it but I felt I shouldn't hide behind the nurses. In hindsight, hiding behind them may have been better for Debbie's recovery. I know there were times that, given a knife, she would have slashed me open without hesitation. On one occasion, I offered to change the TV for Deb before I left. At that point, she could wear mittens rather than be tied. With a smile akin to a young child in discovery, she placed the mitten in her armpit, pulled out her hand, changed the TV and reinserted her hand in the mitten. She was quite proud. As I was leaving, I stopped by the nurses' station and had the situation remedied.

I was getting pressure to get some work done at this point. Luckily, in my profession as a land surveyor, winter is the ideal time to have to be away for an extended period of time. But life was nipping at my heels. Deb finally got to a point where we could move her to St. Luke's in Spokane. On the morning that she was leaving, I was driving to the hospital. There was a crescent moon in the sky. As I looked up at it, a plane passed through. The jet stream was very short. In perspective, it was similar in size to the moon itself. It passed right through the center of the moon. A sign? I've always lightly considered coincidence to be more than accidental. Over the years, this belief has grown deeper.

St. Luke's was marvelous. The improvement was rapid at this point. Three weeks later, I was able to bring Debbie home. Her parents were there to help through the first month or two. When I started to learn about SAH, it became apparent that a full recovery is almost non-existent. Within a half a year to a year, Debbie would come very close.

This experience is in the past, though never completely. They were so many things that happened and so many people who helped along the way. It would be impossible to give them all due recognition. All I wanted for Christmas was to get my wife back. It is the greatest gift I've ever received.

These days, presents seem trivial. I'm more than content to close out another year with Debbie. During that Christmas, I experienced a level of emotions that exist in very few places on this earth. I saw the depths of despair and the brief glimpses of absolute joy everyone longs for. I saw the Christmas spirit as it is written in the fables.

It was the best and worst Christmas I've ever had.

Rob Stratton is a resident of Rathdrum.