Pain
I know little about the physiology of pain - the neural pathways, the synapses, the receivers and transmitters of pain signals - some sense, some medical mumbo-jumbo. I understand a little more about the psychology of pain, acute and chronic, which both aids and hinders us humans along the path of illness and hopefully, wellness.
It's possible we humans do not possess identical pain processing plants. It's certain that we humans perceive, and therefore, feel pain on radically different scales of agony. That we perceive pain differently is widely accepted. Why we perceive pain differently is universally questioned.
And so we are left with this: pain is relative. There can be no hierarchy of pain because there is no constant template from which to establish a frame or point of reference.
The pain you perceive to feel is as real as and as *painful* as you believe it to be. You are your brain and your body. You cannot escape this simple fact. You cannot compare yourself to another or your affliction to another's. You are not stronger or weaker or braver or more cowardly than other sufferers. You just are. Your pain just is. Or isn't.
Medical practitioners and caregivers know this - they are willing to treat and mitigate your pain without judgment. Enlist them when you need to and discharge then when you don't.
As I've written: In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.
Illness
"There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles." So I once wrote.
I don't profess to know much about illness on the whole but even in my short journey, I fell victim to the sudden sense of isolation that envelops one when sick or injured. We've all had a bad cold and spent a sick day or two in bed with tissues and a book. Remember the feeling you had when you eventually showered and dressed and went back to work and life. It seemed like you had been away for ages. It may have only taken a few minutes or perhaps an entire morning before you slid back into your routine, but for a short time, you felt the tiny stab of knowledge that the world marched along without you. Unaware and unconcerned.
For those with lengthy or terminal illnesses or injuries, you begin to feel like a ghost in the outside world, neither fully present, nor completely absent.
The reasons for your phantom existence are multi-fold but mainly it is because you feel terrible and unable. Participating in regular life might highlight or antagonize your disability. Worse, you might utter a complaint or an audible moan of pain. You want neither to be a martyr nor be viewed as one.
You sometimes believe and behave as if it is easier to stay home, to be alone, to not have to ask, explain, or negotiate what should be simple things, like small talk in the grocery store or ladies' baking night. Of course, this is what life is - but it suddenly seems so daunting, and tiring.
Illness is a state of mind and body.
Support
Everyone has a support network. They may or may not be individuals or organizations that you automatically identify as such. It may be your spouse but it could also be your aerobics class or your dog.
Even your standard definition of support may be unrecognizable. It might be in the form of drug therapy, aromatherapy, or laugh therapy. It might be more concrete, like a buying an automatic can opener when the task finally becomes insurmountable.
You may desperately seek out support, reject it outright, grudgingly accept it, or fall into it, as I did.
My wise advice: When any such supportive form begins to make itself recognizable to you, embrace it and surround yourself with it. Don't abuse it but don't feel guilty about drawing strength and assistance from it either, whenever necessary.
Me
There's no great epiphany here. I haven't seen the end of the world. I've just explored more terrain and foreign topography.
Some clichés: I am learning how to be grateful, more patient, less judgmental, more helpful, lighter, freer.
I am learning that cold, damp winters will be hard. I am a 40-year old with the hands of an arthritic octogenarian.
I am learning that I can bear more than I realize but not as much as I thought.
I am learning that there are many causes and reasons for a person's appearance and behaviour.
I am learning that everyone bears some pain in some form.
I am learning that good and bad can come at anytime in equal or unequal measure and that *fair* is a myth.
I am learning how to age.
I am learning how to accept.
I am learning It Just Is:
(Summertime in England - Van Morrison. I know Van doesn't approve of this whole file-sharing thing, so I hope he'll forgive me this one time. Long before KD, this was one of my favorite-all-time-celebrate-life-with-wisdom songs. Wise man, Van. It's 15 minutes long - close your eyes and just be.)
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
In the End: This Much is True (for me)
Some people have referred to my KD story as a journey. I suppose it was. And is. It is one journey woven through our daily travels and travails. My KD is running alongside all the other challenges and joys of life and in doing so, has imparted wee nuggets of knowledge. I consider them gifts and, although some of these may be specific to my experience, I feel there is a general thread of truth and common experience worthy of sharing. This is what is true for me when it comes to:
Kienbock's Disease It sucks. It sucks the joy from your life. It is a progressive and potentially debilitating disease. It's the end of the world and it's not the end of the world. It is not as rare as it appears and yet rare enough to make finding treatment tricky. No one, not even surgeons, knows why we get KD for sure. No one, not even surgeons, knows with certainty how KD will progress in each patient. No one, not even surgeons, knows with certainty what the best treatment is for each patient. No one, not even surgeons or KD sufferers, knows with certainty when and what surgery will be the most successful or if another surgery will be required down the line. It is these uncertainties coupled with the loss of the use of one's hand(s) that create fear and anxiety in KD sufferers.
KD is not a vascular disorder. Three months of acupuncture and four months of casting did not and will not trigger the blood supply to the lunate. In the months I believed a cure for KD was simply a case of restoring blood flow to the lunate, I wasted precious energy and time on the wrong solutions. The only way to restore blood flow to the lunate is surgically, through a revascularization procedure. In my amateur opinion, if casting *cures* your KD, you did not have KD.
Canada's Medical System There exist many myths about Canadian health care and Canada's Medical Services Plan, mostly perpetuated by Michael Moore and my grandmother. Oh, and Kiefer Sutherland. Don't get me wrong, Tommy Douglas was a great man with astounding vision, but no system is perfect, and ours certainly has its flaws. It is incredible that ANYONE, rich or poor has access to medical treatment for every category of illness, disease, or injury. No one in Canada will or can go bankrupt due to the need for medical care. Paying for the prescription drugs one might need is another story, of course.
Medical care in Canada is not free. Yes, those living desperately at or below the poverty line do not pay for medical services, but that line is pathetically low. Middle- and high-income families or individuals pay around $1500 a year. Our personal tax contributions to the system amount to much more, though don't ask me how much (that's what Google is for).
But Canada is a vast country with a relatively small population, a large number of which resides in rural communities. The number of medical care facilities and practitioners is not infinite. Making do is the motto of the northern community, the non-urban hub.
In our courts of justice, it stands that if one is not granted timely access to trial, then justice is not being served. Many of us seeking medical care in Canada are receiving too little, too late, sometimes with tragic consequences.
The small matter of life or death aside, I fail to understand the economics of a young workforce crippled by a lack of medical treatment. The cost of sick days and disability and unemployment payments alone must be staggering. What is the social and economic cost of a young man or woman waiting a year for a surgery that will allow him or her to return to work within weeks?
Surgeons Chances are, if and when you need a surgeon, he will most likely be male, aged 35 -60. As I've written before, he will be a type-A personality with a very black-and-white approach to your surgical needs. He will be confident and, in most cases, absolute. He will not be impressed by your Google-degree in medicine.
It is important that you like and trust your surgeon. He does not care if he likes or trusts you. If you do indeed feel comfortable with your surgeon, you must accept that the surgical procedure he performs on you will only be one he is both willing and able to do, regardless if there is a multitude of theoretical surgical possibilities, as in the case of KD. Despite the unprofessional and, in my view, unethical behaviour of my Dr. D, I now realize that he had only the capacity for those two things. Being willing. And being able.
If you don't like nor trust your surgeon and have the option of a second or third opinion, seek one without delay. If your surgery is inevitable, commit to it as soon as possible and get on with healing and life.
Most surgeons see their jobs as starting and finishing in the OR. Your outcomes are moderately important to them and best read about in a journal of medicine. A good surgeon is a surgeon who is good at performing surgery. A rare surgeon is one who is a good surgeon, a problem-solver, and a compassionate human being. I wish everyone a rare surgeon.
This much is True:
Kienbock's Disease It sucks. It sucks the joy from your life. It is a progressive and potentially debilitating disease. It's the end of the world and it's not the end of the world. It is not as rare as it appears and yet rare enough to make finding treatment tricky. No one, not even surgeons, knows why we get KD for sure. No one, not even surgeons, knows with certainty how KD will progress in each patient. No one, not even surgeons, knows with certainty what the best treatment is for each patient. No one, not even surgeons or KD sufferers, knows with certainty when and what surgery will be the most successful or if another surgery will be required down the line. It is these uncertainties coupled with the loss of the use of one's hand(s) that create fear and anxiety in KD sufferers.
KD is not a vascular disorder. Three months of acupuncture and four months of casting did not and will not trigger the blood supply to the lunate. In the months I believed a cure for KD was simply a case of restoring blood flow to the lunate, I wasted precious energy and time on the wrong solutions. The only way to restore blood flow to the lunate is surgically, through a revascularization procedure. In my amateur opinion, if casting *cures* your KD, you did not have KD.
Canada's Medical System There exist many myths about Canadian health care and Canada's Medical Services Plan, mostly perpetuated by Michael Moore and my grandmother. Oh, and Kiefer Sutherland. Don't get me wrong, Tommy Douglas was a great man with astounding vision, but no system is perfect, and ours certainly has its flaws. It is incredible that ANYONE, rich or poor has access to medical treatment for every category of illness, disease, or injury. No one in Canada will or can go bankrupt due to the need for medical care. Paying for the prescription drugs one might need is another story, of course.
Medical care in Canada is not free. Yes, those living desperately at or below the poverty line do not pay for medical services, but that line is pathetically low. Middle- and high-income families or individuals pay around $1500 a year. Our personal tax contributions to the system amount to much more, though don't ask me how much (that's what Google is for).
But Canada is a vast country with a relatively small population, a large number of which resides in rural communities. The number of medical care facilities and practitioners is not infinite. Making do is the motto of the northern community, the non-urban hub.
In our courts of justice, it stands that if one is not granted timely access to trial, then justice is not being served. Many of us seeking medical care in Canada are receiving too little, too late, sometimes with tragic consequences.
The small matter of life or death aside, I fail to understand the economics of a young workforce crippled by a lack of medical treatment. The cost of sick days and disability and unemployment payments alone must be staggering. What is the social and economic cost of a young man or woman waiting a year for a surgery that will allow him or her to return to work within weeks?
Surgeons Chances are, if and when you need a surgeon, he will most likely be male, aged 35 -60. As I've written before, he will be a type-A personality with a very black-and-white approach to your surgical needs. He will be confident and, in most cases, absolute. He will not be impressed by your Google-degree in medicine.
It is important that you like and trust your surgeon. He does not care if he likes or trusts you. If you do indeed feel comfortable with your surgeon, you must accept that the surgical procedure he performs on you will only be one he is both willing and able to do, regardless if there is a multitude of theoretical surgical possibilities, as in the case of KD. Despite the unprofessional and, in my view, unethical behaviour of my Dr. D, I now realize that he had only the capacity for those two things. Being willing. And being able.
If you don't like nor trust your surgeon and have the option of a second or third opinion, seek one without delay. If your surgery is inevitable, commit to it as soon as possible and get on with healing and life.
Most surgeons see their jobs as starting and finishing in the OR. Your outcomes are moderately important to them and best read about in a journal of medicine. A good surgeon is a surgeon who is good at performing surgery. A rare surgeon is one who is a good surgeon, a problem-solver, and a compassionate human being. I wish everyone a rare surgeon.
This much is True:
| Spandau Ballet - True .mp3 | ||
 | ||
 | Found at bee mp3 search engine |  |
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
In Recovery: Here Comes the Sun
It's as if it has been winter for a year. As if I've been in hibernation for 4 seasons - a grumpy, hairy bear forgetting to emerge from my den. As my therapy continues and the pain slips away, my body has become my own again. As I move back into myself, there is a re-acquaintance, an awakening. It is glorious.
And it just so happens to be spring.
I don't have much function - I never will have full function - but I can sit on my front porch and plan what I'll plant next season. More tulips and shrubs and vines and geez, I'll prune that tree and fix that fence and stain that deck and move that...there is no end to my plans and hopes. I am not yet able to squeeze my secateurs but I am able to dream and recognize that it is just enough to sit in the spring sunshine and not hurt or fear or worry. One day soon, I'll dream to plan to write again. Teach again. Cook again. Fully live again.
My hand therapy is going well - the hand *hot tub*, massaging, gripping, stretching - stretching the tendons, the skin, all to remind my hand regularly to heal and accept its new self, to not curl into itself as is its inclination. We've gone from twice a week to once every two and soon Nicole will tell me there is nothing else she can do. The remainder of my progress is up to me. In a few months time, Dr.G will not be impressed with my solitary efforts, however, and I'll feel like a child being reprimanded.
When my wrappings first come off, I am pretty horrified by my Frankenstein-esque wrist. It takes awhile before I perversely delight in flashing my severed hand at unsuspecting friends, guests, and strangers. It wasn't truly severed, of course, but the back of my hand has a straight, thin scar running the length of my wrist. If one doesn't see the other side, it is easily imagined that my hand was lopped off and sewn back on. Plus my left hand is now shorter than my right. I am three bones short a full hand. I love that it freaks people out. I don't love that they get too mushy and sympathetic and murmur total lies like, oh, it's not so bad or I didn't even notice. Their first reactions have already given them away. I don't care how it looks at all - I am well past vanity.
So this is my new hand, my new life. I'm not so naive that I don't know this surgery, as many KD treatments have, could fail down the line, but it could be 3 or 10 years. It could be never. I know my right wrist could start to deteriorate. Could be tomorrow or 20 years from now. It's been almost four years now since my initial symptoms starting making themselves known - like a hungry, cranky toddler. Gradually more impossible to ignore.
These thoughts, these worries are pushed far back into my mind - they are only possible futures. My now is a new lease on life. A chiefly pain-free life with hope and plans for progress. It seems like years since it's been here but...
Here Comes the Sun:
And it just so happens to be spring.
I don't have much function - I never will have full function - but I can sit on my front porch and plan what I'll plant next season. More tulips and shrubs and vines and geez, I'll prune that tree and fix that fence and stain that deck and move that...there is no end to my plans and hopes. I am not yet able to squeeze my secateurs but I am able to dream and recognize that it is just enough to sit in the spring sunshine and not hurt or fear or worry. One day soon, I'll dream to plan to write again. Teach again. Cook again. Fully live again.
My hand therapy is going well - the hand *hot tub*, massaging, gripping, stretching - stretching the tendons, the skin, all to remind my hand regularly to heal and accept its new self, to not curl into itself as is its inclination. We've gone from twice a week to once every two and soon Nicole will tell me there is nothing else she can do. The remainder of my progress is up to me. In a few months time, Dr.G will not be impressed with my solitary efforts, however, and I'll feel like a child being reprimanded.
When my wrappings first come off, I am pretty horrified by my Frankenstein-esque wrist. It takes awhile before I perversely delight in flashing my severed hand at unsuspecting friends, guests, and strangers. It wasn't truly severed, of course, but the back of my hand has a straight, thin scar running the length of my wrist. If one doesn't see the other side, it is easily imagined that my hand was lopped off and sewn back on. Plus my left hand is now shorter than my right. I am three bones short a full hand. I love that it freaks people out. I don't love that they get too mushy and sympathetic and murmur total lies like, oh, it's not so bad or I didn't even notice. Their first reactions have already given them away. I don't care how it looks at all - I am well past vanity.
So this is my new hand, my new life. I'm not so naive that I don't know this surgery, as many KD treatments have, could fail down the line, but it could be 3 or 10 years. It could be never. I know my right wrist could start to deteriorate. Could be tomorrow or 20 years from now. It's been almost four years now since my initial symptoms starting making themselves known - like a hungry, cranky toddler. Gradually more impossible to ignore.
These thoughts, these worries are pushed far back into my mind - they are only possible futures. My now is a new lease on life. A chiefly pain-free life with hope and plans for progress. It seems like years since it's been here but...
Here Comes the Sun:
| Beatles - Here Comes The Sun .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Sunday, December 19, 2010
In Emergency - Part 2
I've already forgotten the name of my angel. Of all the things I can recall of these days, her name eludes me. Her essence does not. She swept aside my torturers with a quick word and a firm hand - her needle at the ready. She is gently brushing the hair from my forehead as the morphine seeps into my bloodstream. She calls me dear. And sweetie.
I do not know how I arrived here in the hallway, on the gurney. My angel is telling me they are trying to find a doctor for me. It's just crazy here tonight. Tonight. Where did day go, I wonder. I am able to wonder. The morphine has both anchored me and allowed me to be free again. I am also aware. My gurney is opposite the doorway of a room. I can hear and see the elderly wife of an elderly man berate him. She hits him with something. Her purse I think. The morphine does not let me feel shock but I feel Eric behind me shift uncomfortably. Security is called and the wife screams obscenities as she is pulled from the room. This is more than I can fathom at this moment.
My angel is telling me that the orthopaedic surgeon on duty is in the clinic. My gurney starts moving in that direction. I know this hallway well - the "clinic" is where I have had my arm casted no less than 5 times in the last 12 months. The clinic is almost like a second home. And who should be there but John, my left- and right-hand man.
Beside John is Michael. I think. I'm pretty sure it's Michael. I'm certain he is an orthopaedic surgeon. I'm doubly certain he has just returned from Afghanistan. The pieces of his life trickle through the morphine. But who is reporting them? And why?
Michael looks so tired, already. He is reading my file. John is filling in the bits he knows. Michael leans close to me and asks me: what happened? I talk about the coming of the pain. I talk about the onslaught of the pain. He asks me what I feel now. I say numbness. He looks confused. But you can feel this, right? Yes, but it is numb. He stares at me. If it's numb then you can't feel it. I feel anger build in me. How can this be happening? It is like I am arguing with my 4-year old instead of talking to a doctor. The veil of morphine is lifting. Numb does not mean without feeling, I want to shout. Anyway, I feel fine now. I refuse to look at him.
Michael shifts some paperwork, talks into his computer mike, and instructs John to cast me again. The danger has passed. I seem ok.
John is so gentle with the gauze - my eyes thank him. Michael is talking to Eric as John lays the first strip of hot plaster on my arm. My angel has left me. There is only ice-blue and blood-red and black. The whimper comes before the scream. The scream comes from someone outside my body - I am suspended - begging Eric to help me, to make it stop. I am begging and screaming at John, at Michael, at Eric. I lose feeling in my left arm. Then my right arm, then my right leg. I can't feel either of my feet. I am going into shock. I don't comprehend this logical chain of events. I am beyond logic.
Michael calls emerg across the hall - but we discharged her from emerg to orthopaedics. Shit, I hear him say. I can't have morphine unless I've been admitted or am in Emergency. John is pushing my gurney to emerg, fast. Michael is dialing St. Paul's hospital as we cross the hallway. Incredibly, I hear him laughing. He and Dr. G are sharing some joke. Michael has just come back from Afghanistan - my little drama must pale in significance.
I catch sight of Eric's face - there is a surprising degree of control there. I am another plane now, moaning low and deeply. When my angel reappears and rushes me back into emerg, I know relief is close. I just need to be inside the emerg doors and she can give me morphine. She stops in the nearest hallway and injects me quickly. It takes no more than 30 seconds to
flood my body. I breathe.
Michael is suddenly back and, beside him, Dr. D. Dr. D speaks in the softest of voices, Hi, Fiona. how are you feeling now? My tongue is thick and slow. Tired, I reply. Dr. D is holding my arm and chatting with Eric as he gently wraps it in gauze and padding and a soft sling. This can happen sometimes, Dr. D is telling Eric. There is some talk of opening my hand up for what sounds like bloodletting, to relieve the pressure. She doesn't need a plaster cast - we'll leave it like this. Dr. D has been summoned from dinner. He is not on call.
Something is happening in this moment between me and Dr. D and Eric. It has been almost exactly a year since he refused to treat me. There is a strange reparation taking place. There is more than morphine spreading peace and light through me. Perhaps.
We arrive home some time after dinner. The house is dark. An entire day has passed. Only a single day has passed. Eric walks me to bed and the boys quietly watch me ascend the stairs. I am fine, completely and totally fine, and will only continue to get better. My pain is manageable and within a day or two requires no management at all. My cast had simply been too tight. My skin and flesh squeezed to bursting - my nerve endings raw from surgery and my pain receptors on super-charge. Small things.
I do not know how I arrived here in the hallway, on the gurney. My angel is telling me they are trying to find a doctor for me. It's just crazy here tonight. Tonight. Where did day go, I wonder. I am able to wonder. The morphine has both anchored me and allowed me to be free again. I am also aware. My gurney is opposite the doorway of a room. I can hear and see the elderly wife of an elderly man berate him. She hits him with something. Her purse I think. The morphine does not let me feel shock but I feel Eric behind me shift uncomfortably. Security is called and the wife screams obscenities as she is pulled from the room. This is more than I can fathom at this moment.
My angel is telling me that the orthopaedic surgeon on duty is in the clinic. My gurney starts moving in that direction. I know this hallway well - the "clinic" is where I have had my arm casted no less than 5 times in the last 12 months. The clinic is almost like a second home. And who should be there but John, my left- and right-hand man.
Beside John is Michael. I think. I'm pretty sure it's Michael. I'm certain he is an orthopaedic surgeon. I'm doubly certain he has just returned from Afghanistan. The pieces of his life trickle through the morphine. But who is reporting them? And why?
Michael looks so tired, already. He is reading my file. John is filling in the bits he knows. Michael leans close to me and asks me: what happened? I talk about the coming of the pain. I talk about the onslaught of the pain. He asks me what I feel now. I say numbness. He looks confused. But you can feel this, right? Yes, but it is numb. He stares at me. If it's numb then you can't feel it. I feel anger build in me. How can this be happening? It is like I am arguing with my 4-year old instead of talking to a doctor. The veil of morphine is lifting. Numb does not mean without feeling, I want to shout. Anyway, I feel fine now. I refuse to look at him.
Michael shifts some paperwork, talks into his computer mike, and instructs John to cast me again. The danger has passed. I seem ok.
John is so gentle with the gauze - my eyes thank him. Michael is talking to Eric as John lays the first strip of hot plaster on my arm. My angel has left me. There is only ice-blue and blood-red and black. The whimper comes before the scream. The scream comes from someone outside my body - I am suspended - begging Eric to help me, to make it stop. I am begging and screaming at John, at Michael, at Eric. I lose feeling in my left arm. Then my right arm, then my right leg. I can't feel either of my feet. I am going into shock. I don't comprehend this logical chain of events. I am beyond logic.
Michael calls emerg across the hall - but we discharged her from emerg to orthopaedics. Shit, I hear him say. I can't have morphine unless I've been admitted or am in Emergency. John is pushing my gurney to emerg, fast. Michael is dialing St. Paul's hospital as we cross the hallway. Incredibly, I hear him laughing. He and Dr. G are sharing some joke. Michael has just come back from Afghanistan - my little drama must pale in significance.
I catch sight of Eric's face - there is a surprising degree of control there. I am another plane now, moaning low and deeply. When my angel reappears and rushes me back into emerg, I know relief is close. I just need to be inside the emerg doors and she can give me morphine. She stops in the nearest hallway and injects me quickly. It takes no more than 30 seconds to
flood my body. I breathe.
Michael is suddenly back and, beside him, Dr. D. Dr. D speaks in the softest of voices, Hi, Fiona. how are you feeling now? My tongue is thick and slow. Tired, I reply. Dr. D is holding my arm and chatting with Eric as he gently wraps it in gauze and padding and a soft sling. This can happen sometimes, Dr. D is telling Eric. There is some talk of opening my hand up for what sounds like bloodletting, to relieve the pressure. She doesn't need a plaster cast - we'll leave it like this. Dr. D has been summoned from dinner. He is not on call.
Something is happening in this moment between me and Dr. D and Eric. It has been almost exactly a year since he refused to treat me. There is a strange reparation taking place. There is more than morphine spreading peace and light through me. Perhaps.
We arrive home some time after dinner. The house is dark. An entire day has passed. Only a single day has passed. Eric walks me to bed and the boys quietly watch me ascend the stairs. I am fine, completely and totally fine, and will only continue to get better. My pain is manageable and within a day or two requires no management at all. My cast had simply been too tight. My skin and flesh squeezed to bursting - my nerve endings raw from surgery and my pain receptors on super-charge. Small things.
| Rare Earth - I just want to Celebrate .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
In Emergency - Part 1
The room is dark and quiet. The boys are at school. I remember Eric leading me in here last night after the trip home, into our eldest son's bedroom, where I can sleep uninterrupted. No 4-year old climbing into bed in the early hours. No jumping on the bed, no jarring my arm.
Eric was here beside me - was it an hour ago? - bringing my pain meds and the Celebrex. He set the alarm through the night. Every four hours. He wants me to stay ahead of the pain, as we've been instructed. I'm still so groggy. My arm is elevated on several pillows next to me, tightly casted. It's been almost 20 hours since my surgery but I feel like I'm on another planet. The pain meds are just scratching the surface. The slightest movement of the blanket or my body brings a stifled cry to my lips. It is 9 a.m.
By noon, I know something is terribly wrong. I doubled my meds at 1o. I can barely breathe through the pain. When I call Eric, I suddenly begin sobbing. The most he can get from me is a gasped yes when he asks if I need to go to the hospital. It's a 7-minute drive from our home to his office. He's by my side in 5. In 6, he is helping me descend the stairs. In 10, the thought of footwear finally abandoned, I am in the passenger seat of the car.
As he backs out of the driveway, the tiniest edge of curb dips the tires and I scream. My arm is on fire. I whimper, alternately audibly and soundlessly, during the short drive to the hospital.
I know this emergency room well. I have 2 sons. Many a Saturday afternoon with bumped heads and twisted ankles, many a Sunday night with high fevers and unexplained spots have been idled away here. The last time I was here, my youngest had tripped and cracked his head open on a concrete pad at the park. His head spewed blood like a furious fountain. In the two hours we spent waiting to have his head crazy-glued, he had peed all over my lap and read every book in emerg. I was able to dry my skirt in the late-summer sun before the doctor could see us.
Somehow I know they are not going to make me wait this afternoon.
Our admission begins in the usual way. Eric is talking because all I can do is moan or gasp. The triage nurse asks the standard questions but, at some point, it becomes obvious that I need care. Now. Perhaps it's the mention of post-op. Perhaps it's because I'm about to pass out. Either way, I am rushed through an astoundingly packed "inner" waiting room and directly into an examination cubicle.
Please don't ask me how I remember this or why, but 3 interns, young men straight out of prime-time hospital drama and better-looking than necessary, are instantly in my cubicle. If it is odd that they seem to come from nowhere and seem to know not a fig what they are doing doesn't dawn on me until much, much later. Where they eventually disappear to is also a mystery. Unfortunately, while they are very much in my cubicle and in my space, one of them begins to remove my cast.
I'm not quite sure where my screaming ends and my sobbing begins. This sobbing is as deep as the Earth's core. My curtain is open, so I can see all patients in the inner waiting room. I am screaming and looking at them. I am screaming at the intern to not EVER touch me again. I am pleading with Eric to help me. I can see my hand now too - it has been unwrapped and revealed - and it is massive and throbbing and purple and red. This thing is attached to my arm. I want them to cut it off.
Eric was here beside me - was it an hour ago? - bringing my pain meds and the Celebrex. He set the alarm through the night. Every four hours. He wants me to stay ahead of the pain, as we've been instructed. I'm still so groggy. My arm is elevated on several pillows next to me, tightly casted. It's been almost 20 hours since my surgery but I feel like I'm on another planet. The pain meds are just scratching the surface. The slightest movement of the blanket or my body brings a stifled cry to my lips. It is 9 a.m.
By noon, I know something is terribly wrong. I doubled my meds at 1o. I can barely breathe through the pain. When I call Eric, I suddenly begin sobbing. The most he can get from me is a gasped yes when he asks if I need to go to the hospital. It's a 7-minute drive from our home to his office. He's by my side in 5. In 6, he is helping me descend the stairs. In 10, the thought of footwear finally abandoned, I am in the passenger seat of the car.
As he backs out of the driveway, the tiniest edge of curb dips the tires and I scream. My arm is on fire. I whimper, alternately audibly and soundlessly, during the short drive to the hospital.
I know this emergency room well. I have 2 sons. Many a Saturday afternoon with bumped heads and twisted ankles, many a Sunday night with high fevers and unexplained spots have been idled away here. The last time I was here, my youngest had tripped and cracked his head open on a concrete pad at the park. His head spewed blood like a furious fountain. In the two hours we spent waiting to have his head crazy-glued, he had peed all over my lap and read every book in emerg. I was able to dry my skirt in the late-summer sun before the doctor could see us.
Somehow I know they are not going to make me wait this afternoon.
Our admission begins in the usual way. Eric is talking because all I can do is moan or gasp. The triage nurse asks the standard questions but, at some point, it becomes obvious that I need care. Now. Perhaps it's the mention of post-op. Perhaps it's because I'm about to pass out. Either way, I am rushed through an astoundingly packed "inner" waiting room and directly into an examination cubicle.
Please don't ask me how I remember this or why, but 3 interns, young men straight out of prime-time hospital drama and better-looking than necessary, are instantly in my cubicle. If it is odd that they seem to come from nowhere and seem to know not a fig what they are doing doesn't dawn on me until much, much later. Where they eventually disappear to is also a mystery. Unfortunately, while they are very much in my cubicle and in my space, one of them begins to remove my cast.
I'm not quite sure where my screaming ends and my sobbing begins. This sobbing is as deep as the Earth's core. My curtain is open, so I can see all patients in the inner waiting room. I am screaming and looking at them. I am screaming at the intern to not EVER touch me again. I am pleading with Eric to help me. I can see my hand now too - it has been unwrapped and revealed - and it is massive and throbbing and purple and red. This thing is attached to my arm. I want them to cut it off.
| Kanye West - Stronger .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
In Surgery - Part 2: What a Wonderful World
It's been 3 months since my arthroscopy. I can't get my surgeon's MOA on the phone. She doesn't reply to my emails. I have realized that a surgeon is only as good as his hands and only as available as his MOA. I've now passed the one year anniversary of my diagnosis and my every waking thought is about having my surgery and getting on with my life. This holding pattern is purgatory.
I have learned this past year that protocol is a bit of a sham. I have no intention of waiting in some imaginary queue. When I do get Ms. P on the phone, I lie: Dr. G was clear that I was to have my surgery 1 month after my arthroscopy. Ms. P taps on her keyboard and replies that she doesn't see any notes to that effect but if he told you that, then...oh, I have an opening for February 17th. It is that easy. After all the fighting and waiting and suffering, it comes down to a single, well-timed phone call. The lie was more of a partial truth anyway. What Dr. G actually said was that I needed to wait at least a month before my next surgery. I feel like I have reached the summit of a mountain. February 17th is 3 weeks away. I am almost giddy.
Dr. G meets me in the nurse's office, where she and I are completing my pre-op paperwork. He smiles and says: so you're ready to do this, are you? It's as if he doesn't know I have late-stage KD. It's as if he's forgotten that we last talked about this surgery 8 months ago. I am struck again by the irony of a surgeon not comprehending the loss of the use of one's hands. I just smile.
Dr. G brandishes a menacing-looking red marker and starts mapping my arm. Some circles here, a line or two there, a definitive "L" on the back of my hand. God forbid they get the wrong arm. I am not comforted by this extra security measure. See you in there, he says over his shoulder as he goes to prep.
I am a little disappointed that Brian is not my anaesthetist. We had talked about round 2 back in October and he'd said he'd be around. I actually don't have just one anaesthetist, I have a team - a team-in-training, it turns out. I tell them about my last nerve block wearing off after 3 hours. They exchange glances with each other and say they'll top it up.
I am decidedly wasted when they wheel my bed into the OR. This will be a longer surgery than before. And noisier. Electric saws, pliers, and chisels. Ok, the chisel could be my imagination - but I'll never forget the crunching sound of the pliers or the whirr of the saw blade cutting through bone. Or the bits of bone and flesh that spit out of the wound. I don't get the tv screen for this one. I am grateful.
My surgery is called a PRC and involves the removal of the proximal row of three bones, one of which is the lunate - the source of all my trouble. The surgery allows for the distal row to slide down into the vacated space, in turn helping convert the existing joint to something more akin to a hinge. Like a door.
There is a point where I can feel incredible pressure and my OR anaesthetist slides a syringe into my IV. The pressure fades away.
In recovery, I am quite helpless. I think my gown is twisted. One of my breasts is hanging out. I don't really notice or care. A nurse discreetly shifts and tucks my gown until I am covered. In an hour or so, this same nurse will try to help me put on my underwear and bra. I am too stoned to stand and my right arm is like jelly. She has to remind me to hold it up because otherwise I don't remember it is there and it thuds to the side of the bed. Getting dressed seems to take forever and makes me giggle like a little girl. God bless nurses.
Incredibly, I've been discharged. This time, I have the pain killer prescription filled. This time, when we get to the already-full ferry, my husband declares us a medical emergency and a vacant spot magically appears. We learn that this spot is always left free for any emergency. I store that little nugget away in my cloudy mind.
I am three bones lighter, high as a kite, and on my way home to rest and recovery. Hallelujah.
What a Wonderful World:
I have learned this past year that protocol is a bit of a sham. I have no intention of waiting in some imaginary queue. When I do get Ms. P on the phone, I lie: Dr. G was clear that I was to have my surgery 1 month after my arthroscopy. Ms. P taps on her keyboard and replies that she doesn't see any notes to that effect but if he told you that, then...oh, I have an opening for February 17th. It is that easy. After all the fighting and waiting and suffering, it comes down to a single, well-timed phone call. The lie was more of a partial truth anyway. What Dr. G actually said was that I needed to wait at least a month before my next surgery. I feel like I have reached the summit of a mountain. February 17th is 3 weeks away. I am almost giddy.
Dr. G meets me in the nurse's office, where she and I are completing my pre-op paperwork. He smiles and says: so you're ready to do this, are you? It's as if he doesn't know I have late-stage KD. It's as if he's forgotten that we last talked about this surgery 8 months ago. I am struck again by the irony of a surgeon not comprehending the loss of the use of one's hands. I just smile.
Dr. G brandishes a menacing-looking red marker and starts mapping my arm. Some circles here, a line or two there, a definitive "L" on the back of my hand. God forbid they get the wrong arm. I am not comforted by this extra security measure. See you in there, he says over his shoulder as he goes to prep.
I am a little disappointed that Brian is not my anaesthetist. We had talked about round 2 back in October and he'd said he'd be around. I actually don't have just one anaesthetist, I have a team - a team-in-training, it turns out. I tell them about my last nerve block wearing off after 3 hours. They exchange glances with each other and say they'll top it up.
I am decidedly wasted when they wheel my bed into the OR. This will be a longer surgery than before. And noisier. Electric saws, pliers, and chisels. Ok, the chisel could be my imagination - but I'll never forget the crunching sound of the pliers or the whirr of the saw blade cutting through bone. Or the bits of bone and flesh that spit out of the wound. I don't get the tv screen for this one. I am grateful.
My surgery is called a PRC and involves the removal of the proximal row of three bones, one of which is the lunate - the source of all my trouble. The surgery allows for the distal row to slide down into the vacated space, in turn helping convert the existing joint to something more akin to a hinge. Like a door.
There is a point where I can feel incredible pressure and my OR anaesthetist slides a syringe into my IV. The pressure fades away.
In recovery, I am quite helpless. I think my gown is twisted. One of my breasts is hanging out. I don't really notice or care. A nurse discreetly shifts and tucks my gown until I am covered. In an hour or so, this same nurse will try to help me put on my underwear and bra. I am too stoned to stand and my right arm is like jelly. She has to remind me to hold it up because otherwise I don't remember it is there and it thuds to the side of the bed. Getting dressed seems to take forever and makes me giggle like a little girl. God bless nurses.
Incredibly, I've been discharged. This time, I have the pain killer prescription filled. This time, when we get to the already-full ferry, my husband declares us a medical emergency and a vacant spot magically appears. We learn that this spot is always left free for any emergency. I store that little nugget away in my cloudy mind.
I am three bones lighter, high as a kite, and on my way home to rest and recovery. Hallelujah.
What a Wonderful World:
| Louis Armstrong - What A Wonderful World .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Saturday, December 18, 2010
In Surgery - Part 1: Going the Distance
Brian, the anaesthetist, is looking at my chart and calling me orthopaedically challenged. We both chuckle a little. I'm laughing mainly because I'm a little bit stoned and freaked out lying there in the operating room while everyone goes through their paces - crossing off their checklists and arranging equipment.
I like Brian - he has a sense of humour and a bit of devil-may-care about him. I've met a couple of anaesthetists in my time and they're all a bit quirky, in a good way, I think. And hope. The better part of their days involve whacking people out -that takes a certain character. I'll be awake for this procedure, so Brian must strike that delicate balance of pain relief, distraction, and alertness. Perhaps his little joke is a test to see how well his cocktail is working.
I have a nerve block for my arm and something for my head to relax me a little. I feel fine. Dr.G is all business but takes the time to make sure I can see the scalpel action on the tv screen above me and says he'll keep me posted throughout. I'm having a *minor* surgery, an arthroscopy, just to check the state of my lunate and sort anything that might need sorting. It's the first step towards real treatment for my Kienbock's and I am relieved.
The OR crew are relaxed and seem to know each other well. They share some jabs and jokes. I can see my opened wrist on the screen above but there's nothing too impressive there, certainly not the blood and guts-fest I had anticipated. Just the whitest bones you can imagine. The only significant thing I remember is Dr. G saying your lunate is in great shape. Why, thank you, I think to myself.
The entire event lasts no more than a hour and while I'm waiting in recovery, I watch Dr.G visit all his post-ops. I see more evidence of him being a good doctor, of him being a good man. Dr.G spends many minutes with an older man who is not sure what he needs to do next and many more minutes with an older woman who just wants to talk. When he gets to me, he is happy that there is no visible sign of damage to my lunate and hopes that this KD will stay in its infancy. He did clean up some fragments while he was in there. Fragments of what I will always wonder. It occurs to me that I may never have known I had KD in my right hand had I not lost the use of my left.
This is all good news. After a month or so, after my right hand heals and regains some strength, I'll be ready for the surgery I really need. I am thrilled. The nurse finally gives my husband and me the thumbs up for discharge, a prescription for painkillers, and 2 Tylenol 3's . The nerve block will wear off in about 12 hours she says, get ahead of the pain. I have no idea what she means. Yet.
My husband races with me to the ferry and we arrive just in time to see the Spirit of British Columbia pull from the dock. I'm groggy and tired and not too bothered by the 2-hour wait ahead of us. Hoping to catch the ferry, we decided to fill my prescription once we are home. The nurse said we had 12 hours, I remind Eric.
Within an hour, I am kneeling on the floor below the front passenger seat, breathing deeply and moaning a little, as if in labour, propping my bandaged arm on the seat. Nerve blocks don't wear off, they switch off. On. Off. I never get my 12 hours.
This is my recovery learning curve and there is no going back. My surgeon, my family, and I are
Going the Distance:
I like Brian - he has a sense of humour and a bit of devil-may-care about him. I've met a couple of anaesthetists in my time and they're all a bit quirky, in a good way, I think. And hope. The better part of their days involve whacking people out -that takes a certain character. I'll be awake for this procedure, so Brian must strike that delicate balance of pain relief, distraction, and alertness. Perhaps his little joke is a test to see how well his cocktail is working.
I have a nerve block for my arm and something for my head to relax me a little. I feel fine. Dr.G is all business but takes the time to make sure I can see the scalpel action on the tv screen above me and says he'll keep me posted throughout. I'm having a *minor* surgery, an arthroscopy, just to check the state of my lunate and sort anything that might need sorting. It's the first step towards real treatment for my Kienbock's and I am relieved.
The OR crew are relaxed and seem to know each other well. They share some jabs and jokes. I can see my opened wrist on the screen above but there's nothing too impressive there, certainly not the blood and guts-fest I had anticipated. Just the whitest bones you can imagine. The only significant thing I remember is Dr. G saying your lunate is in great shape. Why, thank you, I think to myself.
The entire event lasts no more than a hour and while I'm waiting in recovery, I watch Dr.G visit all his post-ops. I see more evidence of him being a good doctor, of him being a good man. Dr.G spends many minutes with an older man who is not sure what he needs to do next and many more minutes with an older woman who just wants to talk. When he gets to me, he is happy that there is no visible sign of damage to my lunate and hopes that this KD will stay in its infancy. He did clean up some fragments while he was in there. Fragments of what I will always wonder. It occurs to me that I may never have known I had KD in my right hand had I not lost the use of my left.
This is all good news. After a month or so, after my right hand heals and regains some strength, I'll be ready for the surgery I really need. I am thrilled. The nurse finally gives my husband and me the thumbs up for discharge, a prescription for painkillers, and 2 Tylenol 3's . The nerve block will wear off in about 12 hours she says, get ahead of the pain. I have no idea what she means. Yet.
My husband races with me to the ferry and we arrive just in time to see the Spirit of British Columbia pull from the dock. I'm groggy and tired and not too bothered by the 2-hour wait ahead of us. Hoping to catch the ferry, we decided to fill my prescription once we are home. The nurse said we had 12 hours, I remind Eric.
Within an hour, I am kneeling on the floor below the front passenger seat, breathing deeply and moaning a little, as if in labour, propping my bandaged arm on the seat. Nerve blocks don't wear off, they switch off. On. Off. I never get my 12 hours.
This is my recovery learning curve and there is no going back. My surgeon, my family, and I are
Going the Distance:
| Cake - Going the Distance .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
In Progress - Part 5: Beast of Burden
However much I hate being in cast, being without one is sometimes terrifying. KD sufferers know the brutalizing pain of an accidental bump or twist of the wrist as well as the constant, grinding agony of the wrist simply at rest.
For KD sufferers in the late stages, there is no respite at rest or in action. A cast can at least eliminate the fear of further injury, prevent one from over-using, and provide a convenient cradle in which to nestle the lame appendage.
Similar to this love-hate affair with one's cast is the compromise one accepts with public reaction. There is relief in the fact that people are more careful around you, more solicitous, sometimes more helpful. There is frustration in the reality of constant questions, annoying quips (middle-aged men with floating duck rings), and the worst, medical opinion. Most people believe you have a broken arm. Others might inquire and with the brief details you provide them conclude you have something akin to carpal tunnel syndrome. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
It is so childish, so small-minded, but every so often I am enraged by this and want this well-meaning stranger to feel very bad about my condition. I want to establish my case in the hierarchy of illness. I will solemnly reveal all the sad details of my disease and its worst case scenarios. I will watch as the stranger's face drops a little. It's mean. I can't resist it.
With one arm casted and the other virtually useless I have given up the pretence of being capable. My reluctance to ask for help has all but slipped away. I can't cook, drive, or write any longer. I now have a housekeeper. I order my groceries online and they are delivered promptly. I am working out a system that will let me live my life and fulfill my responsibilities. I miss small things though. I miss reading to my youngest at bedtime, snuggled beside him on the pillow. My hands can only bear the weight of the lightest of books. So we sit up and lay the book out on the duvet, my 3-year old turning the pages. It's not so bad.
Dr.G has booked a surgery for my right wrist for late October. He is keen to not let the KD progress as it has in my left. While I am willing to do almost anything to be rid of the pain in my right, I understand his logic. In the meantime, I can only be.
To Eric, my tireless
Beast of Burden:
For KD sufferers in the late stages, there is no respite at rest or in action. A cast can at least eliminate the fear of further injury, prevent one from over-using, and provide a convenient cradle in which to nestle the lame appendage.
Similar to this love-hate affair with one's cast is the compromise one accepts with public reaction. There is relief in the fact that people are more careful around you, more solicitous, sometimes more helpful. There is frustration in the reality of constant questions, annoying quips (middle-aged men with floating duck rings), and the worst, medical opinion. Most people believe you have a broken arm. Others might inquire and with the brief details you provide them conclude you have something akin to carpal tunnel syndrome. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
It is so childish, so small-minded, but every so often I am enraged by this and want this well-meaning stranger to feel very bad about my condition. I want to establish my case in the hierarchy of illness. I will solemnly reveal all the sad details of my disease and its worst case scenarios. I will watch as the stranger's face drops a little. It's mean. I can't resist it.
With one arm casted and the other virtually useless I have given up the pretence of being capable. My reluctance to ask for help has all but slipped away. I can't cook, drive, or write any longer. I now have a housekeeper. I order my groceries online and they are delivered promptly. I am working out a system that will let me live my life and fulfill my responsibilities. I miss small things though. I miss reading to my youngest at bedtime, snuggled beside him on the pillow. My hands can only bear the weight of the lightest of books. So we sit up and lay the book out on the duvet, my 3-year old turning the pages. It's not so bad.
Dr.G has booked a surgery for my right wrist for late October. He is keen to not let the KD progress as it has in my left. While I am willing to do almost anything to be rid of the pain in my right, I understand his logic. In the meantime, I can only be.
To Eric, my tireless
Beast of Burden:
| The Rolling Stones - Beast Of Burden .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Monday, December 13, 2010
In Progress - Part 4: Cruel Summer
I'm watching Eric unload the car, humping tents and poles and coolers stuffed with food. Kieran is helping in that non-committal way teenagers do - a pillow here, a pop bottle there, dragging his body from the car to the picnic table.
It's our annual, end-of-school-hop-on-the-ferry-drive-to-the-interior camping trip and we've just arrived at Paul Lake Provincial Park. The campground is full - it is Canada Day after all - and we are perched at the end of what is essentially a parking lot. A parking lot with spectacular views of the lake and a cool shower close by. It is hot and dusty and my teenager is moaning. I want to jump in the lake so desperately.
But there are chores to do - setting up camp and all that implies: assembling tent poles, inflating mattresses, organizing food and drink and camp chairs and camp stoves. I am not doing a damn thing. I am standing, sitting, pacing. I am about as useful as a turnip.
The day before we left the island, I saw John, my cast man at the orthopaedic clinic. He was casting me for the third time in 6 months, but this time it was my right arm.
A month previous, in my desperate search for a surgeon, I had paid $500 for a surgical consultation at a private clinic in Vancouver. This new surgeon examined me and proposed the exact procedure I didn't need at a cost of about $8000. He did, however, cut off the 4 1/2-month-old cast that encased my left arm. I had been anxious to have it removed, something no one would do without a surgeon's requisition. I didn't have a surgeon, yadda yadda...there is a hole in the bucket dear Liza, dear Liza...so I guess that was worth the $500.
Anyway, John was acting on orders from Dr.G. and was prepping his materials when I asked for a light summer colour in fibreglass. Sorry, but we're all out of gortex right now, I can only do a plaster cast, John shouts from the computer. Turns out, there is no gortex in any of the hospitals on the southern part of the island. Will take about 2 weeks, John tells me. When did I start living on Gilligan's Island? It's the beginning of summer and I'm about to leave for the lake for a week. Me and my old-school plaster cast. I can't quite believe it.
So here I am, Mrs. Turnip, with a left arm so weak I can't trust it with a cup of coffee and a right arm weighted down in layers of plaster, dreaming about swimming in the lake and helplessly watching my husband do virtually everything.
As the week passes, we settle into a routine of early morning walks, midday swimming, and afternoon excursions. The same families seem to gather at the lake shore by mid-morning and there is an easy rapport amongst us all. I've wrapped my plaster in a plastic grocery bag, securing it with elastic bands. I splash a little at the water's edge when the heat becomes unbearable.
One of the dads around that week, middle-aged with a bit of paunch and goofy look, makes a new wisecrack about my cast every morning. What does the other guy look like? Time to stop skateboarding, hey! It makes me crazy. I see him lumbering towards me with a floating duck ring under his arm. He's smiling and about to greet me with something spectacularly unfunny about my cast. I sigh.
It's going to be a long,
Cruel Summer:
It's our annual, end-of-school-hop-on-the-ferry-drive-to-the-interior camping trip and we've just arrived at Paul Lake Provincial Park. The campground is full - it is Canada Day after all - and we are perched at the end of what is essentially a parking lot. A parking lot with spectacular views of the lake and a cool shower close by. It is hot and dusty and my teenager is moaning. I want to jump in the lake so desperately.
But there are chores to do - setting up camp and all that implies: assembling tent poles, inflating mattresses, organizing food and drink and camp chairs and camp stoves. I am not doing a damn thing. I am standing, sitting, pacing. I am about as useful as a turnip.
The day before we left the island, I saw John, my cast man at the orthopaedic clinic. He was casting me for the third time in 6 months, but this time it was my right arm.
A month previous, in my desperate search for a surgeon, I had paid $500 for a surgical consultation at a private clinic in Vancouver. This new surgeon examined me and proposed the exact procedure I didn't need at a cost of about $8000. He did, however, cut off the 4 1/2-month-old cast that encased my left arm. I had been anxious to have it removed, something no one would do without a surgeon's requisition. I didn't have a surgeon, yadda yadda...there is a hole in the bucket dear Liza, dear Liza...so I guess that was worth the $500.
Anyway, John was acting on orders from Dr.G. and was prepping his materials when I asked for a light summer colour in fibreglass. Sorry, but we're all out of gortex right now, I can only do a plaster cast, John shouts from the computer. Turns out, there is no gortex in any of the hospitals on the southern part of the island. Will take about 2 weeks, John tells me. When did I start living on Gilligan's Island? It's the beginning of summer and I'm about to leave for the lake for a week. Me and my old-school plaster cast. I can't quite believe it.
So here I am, Mrs. Turnip, with a left arm so weak I can't trust it with a cup of coffee and a right arm weighted down in layers of plaster, dreaming about swimming in the lake and helplessly watching my husband do virtually everything.
As the week passes, we settle into a routine of early morning walks, midday swimming, and afternoon excursions. The same families seem to gather at the lake shore by mid-morning and there is an easy rapport amongst us all. I've wrapped my plaster in a plastic grocery bag, securing it with elastic bands. I splash a little at the water's edge when the heat becomes unbearable.
One of the dads around that week, middle-aged with a bit of paunch and goofy look, makes a new wisecrack about my cast every morning. What does the other guy look like? Time to stop skateboarding, hey! It makes me crazy. I see him lumbering towards me with a floating duck ring under his arm. He's smiling and about to greet me with something spectacularly unfunny about my cast. I sigh.
It's going to be a long,
Cruel Summer:
| Bananarama - Cruel Summer .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
In Progress - Part 3: (Don't) Lean On Me
Pain is a personal thing. Explaining your own physical pain is challenging, it is almost pointless. And dull. Not that that stops any of us. My head is killing me. My arms are going to fall off. I can't move my back. It's sore. It's swollen. It's tender. It throbs. It stings.
It burns. Burning. A burning pain. This is the only word I can find that fits me - the only description I can muster that matches the sensation in my wrist.
In describing my pain this way, I feel that I'm disrespecting true burn victims. Victims. Not mere sufferers or simply patients. The extraordinary pain of a burn makes one a victim, as if you were shot in your own bed by a crazed stranger. Something horrible has been done unto you. Something unexpected. Incomprehensible. Irrevocable. I am dishonouring many I know: acquaintances, a dear friend - men and women who daily tolerate extraordinary, unrelenting pain. I think of Natalie and I am ashamed.
However much I know I am not on fire or even smoldering, I can only say and feel that it burns. In my imagination, a slow burn, like a subterranean Saskatchewan coal seam, is methodically laying waste to the core of my hands - until it is spent.
"Some smolder deep within abandoned mines; others blaze forth in exposed seams of coal. Like forest fires, coal fires can be sparked either by natural phenomena such as lightning or by people's carelessness. Beyond their potentially devastating effects on mining communities, coal fires change the landscape and damage the environment. "
But what I think I know about pain at this moment, even after surgeries and disease and childbirth, will be shattered, blasted apart in a few months time. Burning has its own vocabulary. Burn. Singe. Sear. For now, I have my slow burn.
Doctors have a system for helping patients articulate their pain. The 1-10 scale. You know it: So where does it hurt? Here? How does it feel now? When I do this. On a scale of 1-10? 1 being little pain.
Of course, the relativity of pain renders this assessment tool almost useless. One man's 10 is another man's 5. The man that has broken his back understands 10 just a little differently from the man who has suffered a bout of indigestion. Nevertheless, somehow, both you and your doctor learn something about you.
And then there is the hierarchy of suffering. Me and my Natalie. Many, if not all of us, in our quest for validation and treatment, seek to paradoxically *score* higher on and refute the hierarchy. But the hierarchy is meaningless. In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.
I can almost bear the burn. There is no painkiller that can reach inside a dying bone and soothe it. No tonic or lotion. There are just forgetting drugs: wine, laughter, love, distraction. These I have in abundance, when I remember to take them. And accept them.
God bless my husband for easing my pain and my load - thank you, Eric, for showing and saying time and again:
Lean on Me:
It burns. Burning. A burning pain. This is the only word I can find that fits me - the only description I can muster that matches the sensation in my wrist.
In describing my pain this way, I feel that I'm disrespecting true burn victims. Victims. Not mere sufferers or simply patients. The extraordinary pain of a burn makes one a victim, as if you were shot in your own bed by a crazed stranger. Something horrible has been done unto you. Something unexpected. Incomprehensible. Irrevocable. I am dishonouring many I know: acquaintances, a dear friend - men and women who daily tolerate extraordinary, unrelenting pain. I think of Natalie and I am ashamed.
However much I know I am not on fire or even smoldering, I can only say and feel that it burns. In my imagination, a slow burn, like a subterranean Saskatchewan coal seam, is methodically laying waste to the core of my hands - until it is spent.
"Some smolder deep within abandoned mines; others blaze forth in exposed seams of coal. Like forest fires, coal fires can be sparked either by natural phenomena such as lightning or by people's carelessness. Beyond their potentially devastating effects on mining communities, coal fires change the landscape and damage the environment. "
But what I think I know about pain at this moment, even after surgeries and disease and childbirth, will be shattered, blasted apart in a few months time. Burning has its own vocabulary. Burn. Singe. Sear. For now, I have my slow burn.
Doctors have a system for helping patients articulate their pain. The 1-10 scale. You know it: So where does it hurt? Here? How does it feel now? When I do this. On a scale of 1-10? 1 being little pain.
Of course, the relativity of pain renders this assessment tool almost useless. One man's 10 is another man's 5. The man that has broken his back understands 10 just a little differently from the man who has suffered a bout of indigestion. Nevertheless, somehow, both you and your doctor learn something about you.
And then there is the hierarchy of suffering. Me and my Natalie. Many, if not all of us, in our quest for validation and treatment, seek to paradoxically *score* higher on and refute the hierarchy. But the hierarchy is meaningless. In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.
I can almost bear the burn. There is no painkiller that can reach inside a dying bone and soothe it. No tonic or lotion. There are just forgetting drugs: wine, laughter, love, distraction. These I have in abundance, when I remember to take them. And accept them.
God bless my husband for easing my pain and my load - thank you, Eric, for showing and saying time and again:
Lean on Me:
| Al Green - Lean On Me .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Sunday, December 5, 2010
In Progress - Part 2: The Beat Goes On
This was what I had feared most. This was my monster under the bed. "To salvage" means to save from peril, from complete destruction. My wrist is one step from annihilation. All those months under the gortex and fibreglass, it was disintegrating quietly. It had done everything I had imagined it could. And here it and I are, at least with a chance of salvaging.
Yet I also have a nagging feeling - could it have been this bad all along? In the coming days, still obsessed and preoccupied, I will cross-reference MRI results and doctors' notes. From a report done 7 months after my initial diagnosis, one sentence haunts me: The lunate looks very similar to the previous study done in December 2007.
I have not let go of my anger and sense of betrayal over my (lack of) treatment by the Victorian group of plastic surgeons. Even though I am now in the gifted and concerned hands of another surgeon, I cannot forget what has happened. Did Dr. D actually know this all along? Was this the reason for his arrogance and reluctance?
I know how petty and sad this seems. It is petty and sad. There is no end to my conspiracy theories. Nothing will satisfy my need for validation. My family, my friends, and my neighbours listen to me patiently. It will be many months before there is a letting go, a peace established within myself but also, significantly, with Dr.D.
In the meantime, my monster has not only reared his ugly, bony head, but is waggling his slimy tongue at me. Surprising even myself, and despite my suspicions and bitterness, I almost immediately begin coping, strategizing. The worst case scenario is being played out and there is nothing to do but accept it and move on. That is all there is.
A rant, a drink, and a few tears later, Elvira and I are on our way back to St. Paul's. Unfortunately, the day has progressed and with no known protocol for queue jumping, we wait with dozens of others until our need to get to the ferry terminal becomes urgent. I don't get to see Dr. G again this day but after five more hours in Friday afternoon gridlock and a ferry ride, I am home, exhausted, sharing the news with my husband.
There is also a voicemail from Dr. G. He regrets that he didn't get to see me again and leaves a detailed explanation of why he must do the salvage procedure and an insistence that I cast my right wrist immediately. It seems a small and natural gesture, this 3-minute follow-up call, but I recognize and respect it for what it is: an anomaly, a gift.
And The Beat Goes On:
Yet I also have a nagging feeling - could it have been this bad all along? In the coming days, still obsessed and preoccupied, I will cross-reference MRI results and doctors' notes. From a report done 7 months after my initial diagnosis, one sentence haunts me: The lunate looks very similar to the previous study done in December 2007.
I have not let go of my anger and sense of betrayal over my (lack of) treatment by the Victorian group of plastic surgeons. Even though I am now in the gifted and concerned hands of another surgeon, I cannot forget what has happened. Did Dr. D actually know this all along? Was this the reason for his arrogance and reluctance?
I know how petty and sad this seems. It is petty and sad. There is no end to my conspiracy theories. Nothing will satisfy my need for validation. My family, my friends, and my neighbours listen to me patiently. It will be many months before there is a letting go, a peace established within myself but also, significantly, with Dr.D.
In the meantime, my monster has not only reared his ugly, bony head, but is waggling his slimy tongue at me. Surprising even myself, and despite my suspicions and bitterness, I almost immediately begin coping, strategizing. The worst case scenario is being played out and there is nothing to do but accept it and move on. That is all there is.
A rant, a drink, and a few tears later, Elvira and I are on our way back to St. Paul's. Unfortunately, the day has progressed and with no known protocol for queue jumping, we wait with dozens of others until our need to get to the ferry terminal becomes urgent. I don't get to see Dr. G again this day but after five more hours in Friday afternoon gridlock and a ferry ride, I am home, exhausted, sharing the news with my husband.
There is also a voicemail from Dr. G. He regrets that he didn't get to see me again and leaves a detailed explanation of why he must do the salvage procedure and an insistence that I cast my right wrist immediately. It seems a small and natural gesture, this 3-minute follow-up call, but I recognize and respect it for what it is: an anomaly, a gift.
And The Beat Goes On:
| Sonny & Cher - The Beat Goes On .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In Progress - Part 1: There's No Other Way
The rain is bucketing down, sheets of it, constant and punishing. How will we find the hospital if I can't even see the road?
Elvira is sitting beside me, white-knuckled, possibly praying. She is a good friend. I am thinking how ironic it would be if we are in a car crash and rushed into St. Paul's emerg by ambulance. Would I hop off my stretcher, broken leg askew, or worse, and say right then, must pop up to see Dr.G about this pesky wrist thing. Morbid thoughts? Maybe. Oddly, I am buoyed by them - it puts my condition in perspective. Now if we can just get there.
This first visit will be one of many and the route my mind and car are mapping through these unfamiliar and busy Vancouver streets will become as etched and automatic as the drive from my home to the grocery store. The parkade, the street, the fastest hospital elevator, and the waiting room protocol become small lessons I will quickly memorize and master.
We are both in dainty summer dresses and sandals, no jackets or umbrellas, completely unprepared for a rainy day downtown. I don't know what we were thinking. We weren't thinking we'd be spending the whole day in the city. My appointment is for 9:30 a.m. It is now 9:45. The ferry was late and the roads were brutal. We bolt from the covered parkade for the side door of St. Paul's. It is, by chance, the exact door through which we should be entering. Not knowing this, we follow the blue and yellow lines around St. Paul's until we eventually ask at an information desk. We are guided back to the door we initially came in. We're off to a good start.
I am worried that Dr.G won't see me now - I am worried I have insulted him by my lateness. I don't know it yet but he is going to raise the bar on waiting room wait times. Whatever the national average is, multiply that by 5.
What is both wonderful and terrible about St. Paul's is that it is a teaching hospital. What is both wonderful and terrible about Dr. G is that he is an excellent, well-respected surgeon. The wonderful and terrible thing about my new surgeon working out of St. Paul's is that it will be almost 3 hours before my name is called and I am ushered into an examination room. Late shmate.
The past 5 months have been hard and I've hardened myself as well - buttressing my body and fortifying my expectations. My cynical self is completely unprepared and undone by what happens next: it is Christmas again.
I am greeted with smiles, two interns, and two surgeons, one of whom I assume is Dr.G. I'm hoping he's the cute one on my right. Elvira is led out to the hall while four heads lean in and four sets of hands try to get their hands on my hands. The questions come; the range of motion and strength tests come; much nodding and writing and whispering takes place. Bilateral Kienbock's. My tiny examination room is literally abuzz. I feel special. I feel like I am finally going to get the treatment I need.
The cute surgeon leaves. He is not Dr.G. The three remaining men huddle around a large screen showing my MRI. I have no idea what they see. Dr.G is like an excited kid - he wants to show and explain everything to his interns, to me. He is constantly in motion. The interns move aside so I can see the image. I suspect Dr.G is a great teacher. He is patient and thorough. It is like there aren't 40 more people in the waiting room.
During my examination, we discussed all possible procedures, even MCD. Dr. G seems willing to try it or at least consider it. All treatment options are open.
I hear Dr. G say do you see this? but I'm not really following. I've been lulled and comforted by these knowledgeable men-of-action. I know what they are discussing is important, urgent, but to me it is a melodic background. I'm jarred to attention by Dr.G. Look right here. The lunate has collapsed oddly. On the left. Can you see?
I guess I can see it; I don't know. So what. You just told me you can do anything. I'm thinking these thoughts and I'm feeling strange again because one of the interns is now looking at me closely.
What he means is there is nothing we can do. A salvage surgery is your only option now. The intern says this softly and kindly and I am deeply grateful for him at this moment. Dr.G, too, is gentle, suggests I go have lunch before I come back to get my right arm casted and book the surgery for my left.
I've read about salvage procedures; they sound as horrible and permanent as the word itself. I am devastated. Screw lunch. Elvira and I run, hands like useless umbrellas over our heads, jaywalking across Burrard and down Georgia until we find a bar. We slip, dripping, into a booth. Two martinis please. Cold. Dry. Martinis. It's 1:25 in the afternoon.
There's No Other Way:
Elvira is sitting beside me, white-knuckled, possibly praying. She is a good friend. I am thinking how ironic it would be if we are in a car crash and rushed into St. Paul's emerg by ambulance. Would I hop off my stretcher, broken leg askew, or worse, and say right then, must pop up to see Dr.G about this pesky wrist thing. Morbid thoughts? Maybe. Oddly, I am buoyed by them - it puts my condition in perspective. Now if we can just get there.
This first visit will be one of many and the route my mind and car are mapping through these unfamiliar and busy Vancouver streets will become as etched and automatic as the drive from my home to the grocery store. The parkade, the street, the fastest hospital elevator, and the waiting room protocol become small lessons I will quickly memorize and master.
We are both in dainty summer dresses and sandals, no jackets or umbrellas, completely unprepared for a rainy day downtown. I don't know what we were thinking. We weren't thinking we'd be spending the whole day in the city. My appointment is for 9:30 a.m. It is now 9:45. The ferry was late and the roads were brutal. We bolt from the covered parkade for the side door of St. Paul's. It is, by chance, the exact door through which we should be entering. Not knowing this, we follow the blue and yellow lines around St. Paul's until we eventually ask at an information desk. We are guided back to the door we initially came in. We're off to a good start.
I am worried that Dr.G won't see me now - I am worried I have insulted him by my lateness. I don't know it yet but he is going to raise the bar on waiting room wait times. Whatever the national average is, multiply that by 5.
What is both wonderful and terrible about St. Paul's is that it is a teaching hospital. What is both wonderful and terrible about Dr. G is that he is an excellent, well-respected surgeon. The wonderful and terrible thing about my new surgeon working out of St. Paul's is that it will be almost 3 hours before my name is called and I am ushered into an examination room. Late shmate.
The past 5 months have been hard and I've hardened myself as well - buttressing my body and fortifying my expectations. My cynical self is completely unprepared and undone by what happens next: it is Christmas again.
I am greeted with smiles, two interns, and two surgeons, one of whom I assume is Dr.G. I'm hoping he's the cute one on my right. Elvira is led out to the hall while four heads lean in and four sets of hands try to get their hands on my hands. The questions come; the range of motion and strength tests come; much nodding and writing and whispering takes place. Bilateral Kienbock's. My tiny examination room is literally abuzz. I feel special. I feel like I am finally going to get the treatment I need.
The cute surgeon leaves. He is not Dr.G. The three remaining men huddle around a large screen showing my MRI. I have no idea what they see. Dr.G is like an excited kid - he wants to show and explain everything to his interns, to me. He is constantly in motion. The interns move aside so I can see the image. I suspect Dr.G is a great teacher. He is patient and thorough. It is like there aren't 40 more people in the waiting room.
During my examination, we discussed all possible procedures, even MCD. Dr. G seems willing to try it or at least consider it. All treatment options are open.
I hear Dr. G say do you see this? but I'm not really following. I've been lulled and comforted by these knowledgeable men-of-action. I know what they are discussing is important, urgent, but to me it is a melodic background. I'm jarred to attention by Dr.G. Look right here. The lunate has collapsed oddly. On the left. Can you see?
I guess I can see it; I don't know. So what. You just told me you can do anything. I'm thinking these thoughts and I'm feeling strange again because one of the interns is now looking at me closely.
What he means is there is nothing we can do. A salvage surgery is your only option now. The intern says this softly and kindly and I am deeply grateful for him at this moment. Dr.G, too, is gentle, suggests I go have lunch before I come back to get my right arm casted and book the surgery for my left.
I've read about salvage procedures; they sound as horrible and permanent as the word itself. I am devastated. Screw lunch. Elvira and I run, hands like useless umbrellas over our heads, jaywalking across Burrard and down Georgia until we find a bar. We slip, dripping, into a booth. Two martinis please. Cold. Dry. Martinis. It's 1:25 in the afternoon.
There's No Other Way:
| Blur - There's No Other Way .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
In Limbo - Part 8: Help! (at last)
If I had to pinpoint the day and time I started to get desperate and paranoid, it would probably be this day in April, that minute or two I spend on the phone with Dr. T. It’s not a clinical, official, paranoia, but I have definitely moved beyond what some call a healthy scepticism. I now have a very unhealthy scepticism. Whereas I may have felt like a drug dealer when “smuggled” in for my MRI, I now feel like a drug addict, looking for a fix. Please, doctor, won’t you help me out? Just a little?
There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles. The sense that time is slipping from you and taking with it your potential to live well or better or at all makes your heart race. The squeeze of time shortens your breath and flips your stomach. It makes small talk and eye contact difficult, and it pushes you to the edge of every seat, one leg rapidly shaking and tapping. Up and down, up and down. You are ready to take flight at any given moment.
Another thing occurs as you begin to identify with yourself as sick or disabled: you think you are too young. You feel ripped off. The irony of Kienbock’s, as well as many other much more serious conditions, is that it generally affects the “young”. Kienbock’s most commonly affects those aged 20 to 40. People just starting their working and family lives. At 37, I am a grandmother in the Kienbock’s family, but I have young children, a new husband, and a new business. I’m just getting started, I feel. I don’t think of myself as old. That youth is a relative concept doesn’t truly become clear until you’re older…or sick. And as they say, youth is wasted on the young.
You believe that the medical profession should be rushing to treat you. You’re a young, vibrant contribution to the world and they’re just letting you waste away. Doctors and medical caregivers, however, have a broader perspective of illness and aging. They realize early on that the big secret is that most of us don’t just suddenly keel over when we’re 90 and go gentle into that good night.
No, the secret is that our bodies start to break down slowly, lose function bit by bit: bursitis by herniation by emphysema by cancer by toothache. The secret is that there comes a day when one or several "medical" conditions, however minor or serious, exist in your body and there is no cure or treatment, there is simply management. Your body and its activities may be forever limited or altered and there may be chronic pain.
That doctors know this and that their patients can’t fathom or won't accept it is the great disconnect in medical care.
I can’t explain my new, sad sense of self to anyone, not my husband or my closest friend. I feel isolated and pathetically, alone. There is no need for this, for what is tantamount to self-pity, yet this new introversion smothers me, traps me.
My mother, as mothers do, sees the crazy in my eyes, my disconnect from “real” life and unbeknownst to me, is working her way up to a semi-friendly takeover of my medical care. When all is said and done – the numerous phone calls and faxes and costly private consultations (yes, there is a two-tier system in Canada!) - good old Mum has landed me a surgeon. A surgeon who has even treated Kienbock’s.
Dr.G works out of St. Paul’s in Vancouver. Each way, it is a 4-hour car and ferry journey from my home. But you know what, it’s all good because what I need most of all is:
Help!
There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles. The sense that time is slipping from you and taking with it your potential to live well or better or at all makes your heart race. The squeeze of time shortens your breath and flips your stomach. It makes small talk and eye contact difficult, and it pushes you to the edge of every seat, one leg rapidly shaking and tapping. Up and down, up and down. You are ready to take flight at any given moment.
Another thing occurs as you begin to identify with yourself as sick or disabled: you think you are too young. You feel ripped off. The irony of Kienbock’s, as well as many other much more serious conditions, is that it generally affects the “young”. Kienbock’s most commonly affects those aged 20 to 40. People just starting their working and family lives. At 37, I am a grandmother in the Kienbock’s family, but I have young children, a new husband, and a new business. I’m just getting started, I feel. I don’t think of myself as old. That youth is a relative concept doesn’t truly become clear until you’re older…or sick. And as they say, youth is wasted on the young.
You believe that the medical profession should be rushing to treat you. You’re a young, vibrant contribution to the world and they’re just letting you waste away. Doctors and medical caregivers, however, have a broader perspective of illness and aging. They realize early on that the big secret is that most of us don’t just suddenly keel over when we’re 90 and go gentle into that good night.
No, the secret is that our bodies start to break down slowly, lose function bit by bit: bursitis by herniation by emphysema by cancer by toothache. The secret is that there comes a day when one or several "medical" conditions, however minor or serious, exist in your body and there is no cure or treatment, there is simply management. Your body and its activities may be forever limited or altered and there may be chronic pain.
That doctors know this and that their patients can’t fathom or won't accept it is the great disconnect in medical care.
I can’t explain my new, sad sense of self to anyone, not my husband or my closest friend. I feel isolated and pathetically, alone. There is no need for this, for what is tantamount to self-pity, yet this new introversion smothers me, traps me.
My mother, as mothers do, sees the crazy in my eyes, my disconnect from “real” life and unbeknownst to me, is working her way up to a semi-friendly takeover of my medical care. When all is said and done – the numerous phone calls and faxes and costly private consultations (yes, there is a two-tier system in Canada!) - good old Mum has landed me a surgeon. A surgeon who has even treated Kienbock’s.
Dr.G works out of St. Paul’s in Vancouver. Each way, it is a 4-hour car and ferry journey from my home. But you know what, it’s all good because what I need most of all is:
Help!
| The Beatles - Help .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
Monday, November 22, 2010
In Limbo - Part 7: Out of Control
My cast is starting to break down. Not the fibreglass of course, but the layers of gortex underneath. It’s been 3 months. Those layers that haven’t matted together and begun their own, moist, science experiment are flaking and flying off into space, drains, dinner.
My GP dutifully requisitions a cast change and I pop down to visit John, my cast man. He asks how I’m doing; we briefly discuss the “incident” with my former surgeon. John says that he’s kind of a serious guy. Who’s your new surgeon, he asks. I tell him that it’s a Dr. T and ask if I’m pronouncing it right - I haven’t seen him yet. John tells me Dr. T is a good guy but did you know he works in the same office as Dr.D? I do know and I’m certain it won’t be a problem. He’s a professional after all.
I’m a little shocked by my arm when it’s unwrapped and naked under the hospital lights. It looks tiny and white but also a bit hairy and dirty-looking. John tells me that it is just dead skin and hadn’t you just come back from Mexico when I put this on? My January tan has flaked off and stuck itself to my old gortex padding. Gross.
I choose a baby blue wrap to celebrate spring and drive home with a fresh 75 dollar cast, still hot from the molding and shaping, my shrinking arm pulsing underneath. Four days until I see Dr. T. I am excited, nervous, and relieved all at once.
The phone rings the next morning and I mumble a hello through a mouthful of toast. May I speak with Fiona Bramble? It is Dr.T. He’s terribly sorry but he has reviewed my case and feels he is unable to treat me. My second, sneaky, MRI has just been forwarded to him. It confirms that I now have bilateral Kienbock’s. It is beyond my expertise, he says.
I have been waiting to see him for almost 3 months.
My appointment is in 2 days, I say. I know, which is why I am calling you personally. I am very sorry. I ask him what I am supposed to do now. He replies that he doesn’t know. Good luck, he says.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, and I’m not. I’m stunned. And angry. So angry I can’t move or speak for several minutes.
When I can speak, I pick up the phone. I call my husband. He can’t believe it either. He almost doesn’t believe me, I feel. I call my GP’s office. Maggie, her receptionist, has known me a long time. Maggie has some understanding of my case and condition. I need to see Gillian right away, I tell her. She asks what is happening. My voice shakes when I tell her about the call from Dr.T. There is a pause. I’m sorry, did you say Dr.T called you himself? I don’t understand. That is highly unusual. That word doesn’t mean much to me anymore.
I am starting to feel crazy again. I have cried more in the last four months than in my entire life. It’s not because my wrists hurt. Or because my feelings are hurt. I have lost control over my body. Over my life.
The tears come, hot and furious.
Out of Control:
My GP dutifully requisitions a cast change and I pop down to visit John, my cast man. He asks how I’m doing; we briefly discuss the “incident” with my former surgeon. John says that he’s kind of a serious guy. Who’s your new surgeon, he asks. I tell him that it’s a Dr. T and ask if I’m pronouncing it right - I haven’t seen him yet. John tells me Dr. T is a good guy but did you know he works in the same office as Dr.D? I do know and I’m certain it won’t be a problem. He’s a professional after all.
I’m a little shocked by my arm when it’s unwrapped and naked under the hospital lights. It looks tiny and white but also a bit hairy and dirty-looking. John tells me that it is just dead skin and hadn’t you just come back from Mexico when I put this on? My January tan has flaked off and stuck itself to my old gortex padding. Gross.
I choose a baby blue wrap to celebrate spring and drive home with a fresh 75 dollar cast, still hot from the molding and shaping, my shrinking arm pulsing underneath. Four days until I see Dr. T. I am excited, nervous, and relieved all at once.
The phone rings the next morning and I mumble a hello through a mouthful of toast. May I speak with Fiona Bramble? It is Dr.T. He’s terribly sorry but he has reviewed my case and feels he is unable to treat me. My second, sneaky, MRI has just been forwarded to him. It confirms that I now have bilateral Kienbock’s. It is beyond my expertise, he says.
I have been waiting to see him for almost 3 months.
My appointment is in 2 days, I say. I know, which is why I am calling you personally. I am very sorry. I ask him what I am supposed to do now. He replies that he doesn’t know. Good luck, he says.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, and I’m not. I’m stunned. And angry. So angry I can’t move or speak for several minutes.
When I can speak, I pick up the phone. I call my husband. He can’t believe it either. He almost doesn’t believe me, I feel. I call my GP’s office. Maggie, her receptionist, has known me a long time. Maggie has some understanding of my case and condition. I need to see Gillian right away, I tell her. She asks what is happening. My voice shakes when I tell her about the call from Dr.T. There is a pause. I’m sorry, did you say Dr.T called you himself? I don’t understand. That is highly unusual. That word doesn’t mean much to me anymore.
I am starting to feel crazy again. I have cried more in the last four months than in my entire life. It’s not because my wrists hurt. Or because my feelings are hurt. I have lost control over my body. Over my life.
The tears come, hot and furious.
Out of Control:
| The Chemical Brothers - Out Of Control .mp3 | ||
| | ||
| Found at bee mp3 search engine | |
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