Message from Tasha Ann:
I have been asked over and over what happened to Adam. So many people have reached out, and I know many of you believed he was getting better. The truth is, we believed that too. I feel like I owe everyone the best explanation I can give, so I'm going to take it back to the beginning. This will be a long post, and I apologize in advance.
The day of Adam's cardiac arrest last year, the cardiologist was very upfront with me. From day one, he explained that Adam's heart was weak and that his prognosis was guarded. Adam had a 100% blockage and was without a heartbeat for approximately 45 minutes. He was shocked 13 times that day. The following morning, while still on the ventilator, he coded three more times and had to be shocked again. That's 16 shocks in less than 24 hours. While those shocks were lifesaving, that's an incredible amount of trauma for a body to endure.
The next day, Adam self-extubated and was doing well on oxygen. He was talking, following commands, and checking all the boxes that made us believe he was improving. Then we realized he couldn't use his legs. He still had feeling and sensation, but they wouldn't move. Around that same time, his kidneys failed, requiring dialysis, and he became increasingly agitated. He was placed back on the ventilator so doctors could perform an MRI.
After two weeks, the imaging finally revealed what had happened. Adam had suffered a severe anoxic brain injury. Parts of his cerebellum, brain stem, hippocampus, and basal ganglia were all significantly damaged. We also learned that he had suffered a spinal stroke during his cardiac arrest.
Everything changed after that.
Adam was no longer the Adam everyone knew. Not only had he lost the ability to walk, stand, or control much of his body, but he also lost the ability to form new memories. It was weeks before he knew who I was. He believed it was 2008 and that he still lived in Midland-Odessa. His personality was gone. The man I knew was still there, but buried beneath layers of damage and confusion.
Over time, Adam slowly regained pieces of his memory and began putting those pieces back together. When he got to rehab, he worked harder than anyone I've ever seen. He made progress. Real progress. He gave us hope.
While in rehab, Adam developed another pressure ulcer and was eventually sent home with it. I was able to care for him at home and prevent any additional wounds, but unfortunately, that wound became infected. That infection is what landed us back in the hospital in November.
At first, no one expected that hospitalization to last more than a few days. The infection itself wasn't considered severe. However, there were no options for mobile wound care at home, and after our previous experience in Chapel Hill, I refused to send him back to another facility. We chose surgery to close the wound.
From November through March, Adam went to the operating room seven times. The wound wasn't getting worse, but it wasn't healing either. Eventually, he was transferred to a long-term acute care hospital that specialized in wound care, and that's where we've been since March 23.
Along the way, we dealt with bleeding complications and blood transfusions, but once those issues were addressed, things seemed stable. His vital signs were good. His labs looked good. They were preparing for discharge. I cannot stress enough how normal things appeared on paper. Everything pointed toward us getting to bring him home.
Then Sunday morning, around 5 a.m., everything changed.
Adam's blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and his white blood cell count fell to 1.5. He was still talking. He was awake. He was alert. The plan was simply to move him to ICU for closer monitoring.
Early that morning, no one seemed overly concerned. The doctors and nurses truly believed he needed fluids and closer observation because of his heart failure. But as the morning went on, he began struggling to breathe. His body was going into shock.
His body was tired.
And for the first time in sixteen months, Adam told me he was tired too.
That was the moment I knew Sunday might be our last day with him.
I called my mom. I called his daughter. We stayed by his side.
Adam refused the ventilator. He was alert enough to make that decision for himself. Throughout this entire journey, Adam had always been against being a DNR. Until that day.
When he changed his mind, I knew. My husband didn't want to keep fighting anymore.
So I honored his wishes.
The truth is, I knew from the very beginning that I was living on borrowed time with my husband. But we had witnessed so many miracles along the way that I kept praying for one more. And somehow, God gave me far more time than I ever expected to have.
I also want to explain why so much of this wasn't shared publicly.
Adam had his iPad. Some days he would spend hours scrolling Facebook, TikTok, or Instagram. Seeing posts about how serious things really were upset him, and protecting his peace became more important to me than updating social media. So I chose to keep the darker parts of this journey private and focus on sharing the positive moments.
My goal for the last sixteen months was simple: make sure this man was never alone, never scared, and never doubted how deeply he was loved.
I also stopped encouraging visits. Not because people didn't care, but because it was hard on Adam. He didn't like people seeing him the way he was. And honestly, it was hard on everyone else too. Those of you who saw him know exactly what I mean. I've watched grown men walk into his room and break down before they even reached his bedside.
I was trying to protect his dignity, his feelings, and everyone else's hearts.
Unfortunately, that also led many people to believe everything was fine.
If that's the impression I gave, I'm sorry.
The truth is, I'm still in shock. I will probably be in shock for a very long time. It truly feels like this came out of nowhere. None of us believed Sunday would be the day. I didn't think June would be the month. I honestly believed we still had more time, even if it wasn't much more.
I can't fully explain why things happened the way they did.
What I can tell you is this
My husband fought harder than anyone I have ever known. He fought through cardiac arrest, brain injury, paralysis, surgeries, infections, setbacks, and more pain than most people could imagine. He fought every single day for sixteen long months.
Until he couldn't anymore.
And when the time came, he finally allowed himself to rest.
Thank you to everyone who prayed, checked on us, visited, sent messages, and loved Adam throughout this journey. It meant more than you'll ever know.
