Friday, October 26, 2012
Spine fusion--What? No turtle suit?
Months ago, when I was still trying to evade the surgery, I saw a man wearing what was apparently a brace - much of his front torso was covered with a plastic shell like a turtle shell. I was sure I would have to wear such a thing if I had the surgery. How the devil did he even get in and out of the car? No. Please no!
Fast forward to the second day in the hospital. The PT (physical therapist) presents me with a huge, heavily padded black thing with many vertical posts and lots of strings. It would frighten any NFL stalwart or the average stevedore. My new brace.
I sit on the edge of the bed while they put this thing around me. It fastens with velcro in the front. My breasts are squashed somewhere inside it. The PT directs me to hold up my bust while he re-fastens the velcro. I have been measured for this, but it's clearly too tall. I wonder who will hold up my bust while I put the thing on at home.
There are two strings with little velcro fasterners on the ends. They more or less snug the middle of the thing closer to my waist. If I put it on over my pants, then I can't get them off to go to the bathroom. I compromise and sort of pull my pants over the brace. So much for modern health design.
I get it away from him and figure out how to fasten it shut when I take it off so it's corralled on the handle of my walker-- if it falls on the floor I'm not allowed to bend over and get it. There is no one at home to pick it up.
I soon learn that the thing will settle on or near my incision and hurt. At times I tell the nurses that it hurts. They nod. I remind myself that it's not the turtle suit.
The occupational therapist tells me I'm buying a set of tools. One is a flimsy sponge on a stick. I can use it to wash my feet. One is a flimsy "grabber." They confess it will break if I use it to push off my socks. Clearly socks are about all it is strong enough to pick up.
The bright side is that the nurses are kind, and I have some some dear frinds who come and spend time with me. And the friend who gets me to eat some bits of turkey and yams. And some lovely flowers from my daughters. And I can stand up and walk a step or two. Progress.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
THE FIRST 24 HOURS OR SO AFTER SPINE FUSION
There's this question they ask you a hundred times or more in the hospitals: on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you can imagine, what's your pain right now? I'm not good at those numbers. I think I already mentioned that the July night I needed the ambulance, the pain in that leg was my 10.
The night after surgery, I don't think it got over 7 or 8. Yes, I know, my 7 or 8 might be someone else's 11 or 14. I don't remember a lot except just lying there. Once or twice I thought about how they say we don't remember labor pains.
There was a computer for medicine in the room, the billboard-bright screen aimed right at my face. Well, they always told me you don't get any sleep in the hospital.
The next morning, if I remember correctly, a physical therapist showed up (could that have been the very next morning!) The first basic skill for fusion patients is a brand new way to get out of bed safely. (This is also the first, very subtle, reminder that maybe the surgery hasn't made me good as new.) And I thought I'd been getting out of bed just fine since I was two.
This new method is called log rolling for no verifiable reason. The term log-rolling made me sure I would roll out of bed and land face down on the floor. Actually all it means is that your shoulders stay in the same plane as your pelvis--no twisting at the waist (as I had been instructed when I was first diagnosed with the spine problem, but sometimes forgot about.)
The first or second time I saw the PT, I asked about protecting the rest of my spine from the weight and solidity of the new fused lump. The PT (and all the ones to follow) assured me that this was a real danger and a real concern. To protect myself, another new idea, the BLT: no bending (in emergency, bend a bit from the hip only,) no lifting over 5 pounds or so, and again, NO twisting.
By then I had far more new information than I could enjoy.
The night after surgery, I don't think it got over 7 or 8. Yes, I know, my 7 or 8 might be someone else's 11 or 14. I don't remember a lot except just lying there. Once or twice I thought about how they say we don't remember labor pains.
There was a computer for medicine in the room, the billboard-bright screen aimed right at my face. Well, they always told me you don't get any sleep in the hospital.
The next morning, if I remember correctly, a physical therapist showed up (could that have been the very next morning!) The first basic skill for fusion patients is a brand new way to get out of bed safely. (This is also the first, very subtle, reminder that maybe the surgery hasn't made me good as new.) And I thought I'd been getting out of bed just fine since I was two.
This new method is called log rolling for no verifiable reason. The term log-rolling made me sure I would roll out of bed and land face down on the floor. Actually all it means is that your shoulders stay in the same plane as your pelvis--no twisting at the waist (as I had been instructed when I was first diagnosed with the spine problem, but sometimes forgot about.)
The first or second time I saw the PT, I asked about protecting the rest of my spine from the weight and solidity of the new fused lump. The PT (and all the ones to follow) assured me that this was a real danger and a real concern. To protect myself, another new idea, the BLT: no bending (in emergency, bend a bit from the hip only,) no lifting over 5 pounds or so, and again, NO twisting.
By then I had far more new information than I could enjoy.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The Spine Fusion really happens
Back to September 11:
My dear pal, Tom, calmly gave me a hug and drove me to Adventist.
They took me to a big open room and a bed between a couple of curtains. The surgeon and the anesthesiologist came and greeted me. An attendant took my clothes, and put me in some anti-clot stockings (which I found out later were several sizes too small.
In the operating room, the anesthesiologist told me "you're getting your margarita now" and a half second later, I was out.
I had expected to wake up screaming and to continue screaming until they tossed me into a broom closet to avoid scaring the others. Instead, there must have been some anesthetic still in me, since I woke feeling fine and talking to the nurse.
Eventually, I was taken to a private room, shown my big IV tree, and handed something with a push button--my pain drug pump. I decided I did not want the pain meds with their accompanying nausea. But just in case I might change my mind, I clutched the little pump.
It was a long first night, but not quite as bad as I expected. I had survived. I was alive. 'Nuf said.
My dear pal, Tom, calmly gave me a hug and drove me to Adventist.
They took me to a big open room and a bed between a couple of curtains. The surgeon and the anesthesiologist came and greeted me. An attendant took my clothes, and put me in some anti-clot stockings (which I found out later were several sizes too small.
In the operating room, the anesthesiologist told me "you're getting your margarita now" and a half second later, I was out.
I had expected to wake up screaming and to continue screaming until they tossed me into a broom closet to avoid scaring the others. Instead, there must have been some anesthetic still in me, since I woke feeling fine and talking to the nurse.
Eventually, I was taken to a private room, shown my big IV tree, and handed something with a push button--my pain drug pump. I decided I did not want the pain meds with their accompanying nausea. But just in case I might change my mind, I clutched the little pump.
It was a long first night, but not quite as bad as I expected. I had survived. I was alive. 'Nuf said.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
The spine fusion and I
The past month has been a blur. That ambulance ride in July to St. Joseph started a whirlwind of visits to and from doctors, a new pattern of painkiller shots, and a date for surgery. (If I didn't say so last month, I thank Dr. K again for his visits to the first hospital long past when he should have been at home in bed.)
The surgery schedule prompted many, many phone messages, and a clear phone call that surgery would be 2 days sooner than scheduled originally, at a hospital I had never seen.
I hadn't been able to drive since the ambulance ride to emergency in July, so a wonderful person drove far out of her way to take me to registration at Glendale Adventist. The registration was a nightmare in more than one way, and leads me to a story I have to tell.
After a couple of needles, for some reason I was led to a windowless room and told to wait. All the chairs were too tall for my short legs, but there was a makeshift loveseat the right height. I sat. And sat.
After a little while, a woman came in with a tiny older woman, perhaps her mother. She pointed at one of the tall chairs, and motioned for the tiny woman to sit. The next time I looked I notice that the little woman had badly swollen legs and feet. She had taken her feet out of her wedge shoes, which, from the tall chair, she could barely reach with her toes. Her "daughter" was busy talking with a nurse and did not look at her.
I wanted to go over and suggest the mother come and sit by me, where she could reach the floor. Then I was afraid it would cause friction with the frustrated-looking daughter. So I did nothing.
What's wrong with this picture?
-The nurse and the daughter did not even look at the mother, who was presumably the patient. Nor did they speak to her.
-I wimped out and finally did nothing.
-Our view from our cheerless room of gloomy furniture was into a huge, lavish, glass-walled room, not for patients, but for visitors and relatives. Big, comfy chairs were in groups around coffee tables, and coffee was available.
Again I ask: what's wrong with that picture? Who is important in a hospital?
More later. ..
The surgery schedule prompted many, many phone messages, and a clear phone call that surgery would be 2 days sooner than scheduled originally, at a hospital I had never seen.
I hadn't been able to drive since the ambulance ride to emergency in July, so a wonderful person drove far out of her way to take me to registration at Glendale Adventist. The registration was a nightmare in more than one way, and leads me to a story I have to tell.
After a couple of needles, for some reason I was led to a windowless room and told to wait. All the chairs were too tall for my short legs, but there was a makeshift loveseat the right height. I sat. And sat.
After a little while, a woman came in with a tiny older woman, perhaps her mother. She pointed at one of the tall chairs, and motioned for the tiny woman to sit. The next time I looked I notice that the little woman had badly swollen legs and feet. She had taken her feet out of her wedge shoes, which, from the tall chair, she could barely reach with her toes. Her "daughter" was busy talking with a nurse and did not look at her.
I wanted to go over and suggest the mother come and sit by me, where she could reach the floor. Then I was afraid it would cause friction with the frustrated-looking daughter. So I did nothing.
What's wrong with this picture?
-The nurse and the daughter did not even look at the mother, who was presumably the patient. Nor did they speak to her.
-I wimped out and finally did nothing.
-Our view from our cheerless room of gloomy furniture was into a huge, lavish, glass-walled room, not for patients, but for visitors and relatives. Big, comfy chairs were in groups around coffee tables, and coffee was available.
Again I ask: what's wrong with that picture? Who is important in a hospital?
More later. ..
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Elephants and industrial design
When my daughters were small, maybe before first grade, we often read a little book called Brave Baby Elephant. The kids may still remember it, because the title became a sort of secret byword for brave adventures.
The plot was that a pre-first-grade elephant decides that he will go "by himself, alone" up the stairs into the possibly dark second floor and brush his teeth without adult assistance. Of course, he succeeds. There were probably congratulations. So for a long time, we would describe some new plan to do almost anything "by myself, alone."
Why am I telling you this? I looked at the calendar and realized it's been a month since my first ever ambulance ride, and my walker and I have never gone past the front walk by ourselves. Muscles are disappearing, as they will when we are over 29 and under-exercised.
So today, I set out for Gelson's. By the time one risks the parking lot and gets into the store, it's easily two blocks from here. In said parking lot, an SUV and a kid on a skateboard each missed me by inches. Not many inches. Previously, I had hoped to be inconspicuous and non-invalidish. Bad idea. If I had been wearing Jimmy Chous, at least the woman in the SUV would have noticed me.
So my new walker design will include, of course, a London taxi horn, maybe a flashing red light as well. There probably is no law against having these on a walker.
The plot was that a pre-first-grade elephant decides that he will go "by himself, alone" up the stairs into the possibly dark second floor and brush his teeth without adult assistance. Of course, he succeeds. There were probably congratulations. So for a long time, we would describe some new plan to do almost anything "by myself, alone."
Why am I telling you this? I looked at the calendar and realized it's been a month since my first ever ambulance ride, and my walker and I have never gone past the front walk by ourselves. Muscles are disappearing, as they will when we are over 29 and under-exercised.
So today, I set out for Gelson's. By the time one risks the parking lot and gets into the store, it's easily two blocks from here. In said parking lot, an SUV and a kid on a skateboard each missed me by inches. Not many inches. Previously, I had hoped to be inconspicuous and non-invalidish. Bad idea. If I had been wearing Jimmy Chous, at least the woman in the SUV would have noticed me.
So my new walker design will include, of course, a London taxi horn, maybe a flashing red light as well. There probably is no law against having these on a walker.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Designs for the well, designs for the sick
I have a car that was the one I could afford. It has been running, except for about 10 or12 days in the shop, for over 20 years.
When I left the hospital recently, they (or Medicare) gave me a walker that will, with any luck, last 20 weeks. The man who adjusted it to my height told me not to give it away-- it was the only one I would get in this lifetime. A plastic guard at the bottom of one leg, to keep it from catching on the carpet, disintegrated in less than two weeks. I found the pieces in the alley leading to the laundry room. I guess I was supposed to carry the walker.
A week or so later, I was told to buy a shower chair.
This blog is supposed to be about getting what we need, so I should start a letter like this:
Dear Invacare:
About this shower chair. Really thoughtless design. It's not safe, except maybe for washing my feet.
The plastic seat and back are nice and shiny, so my soapy hand grasping for safety slides right off.
The back legs on this beauty do not cant backward. If I even brush against it, it tilts backward immediately, leaving nothing for me to grab onto. I'm back to showering standing up.
My roommate just got an exec chair for only $45 more than the shower chair cost. His chair wouldn't fall backward if hit by a small car.
What's wrong with this picture?
When I left the hospital recently, they (or Medicare) gave me a walker that will, with any luck, last 20 weeks. The man who adjusted it to my height told me not to give it away-- it was the only one I would get in this lifetime. A plastic guard at the bottom of one leg, to keep it from catching on the carpet, disintegrated in less than two weeks. I found the pieces in the alley leading to the laundry room. I guess I was supposed to carry the walker.
A week or so later, I was told to buy a shower chair.
This blog is supposed to be about getting what we need, so I should start a letter like this:
Dear Invacare:
About this shower chair. Really thoughtless design. It's not safe, except maybe for washing my feet.
The plastic seat and back are nice and shiny, so my soapy hand grasping for safety slides right off.
The back legs on this beauty do not cant backward. If I even brush against it, it tilts backward immediately, leaving nothing for me to grab onto. I'm back to showering standing up.
My roommate just got an exec chair for only $45 more than the shower chair cost. His chair wouldn't fall backward if hit by a small car.
What's wrong with this picture?
Friday, August 10, 2012
It's not easy being without Green
I'm a mystery fiction addict. I read the big boys--Michael Connolly and that crowd, because I like the way they write.
When a character in the book is on the run, hiding out, broke, or otherwise in trouble, he rents a dingy room that has a commanding view of the side of another building. No tree, no bush, no sky.
When I was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, my room had a window. It had a great window shade that kept out the hot sun, and unfortunately, the sky. I missed the sky.
This was not a big deal; I was only there for three days, and it was pretty luxurious as hospitals go. The nurses and aides were incredibly busy. I guess I could have thrown myself on their mercy on our many trips to the bathroom, and got the shade opened.
There is a "garden" at that hospital. It's really mostly concrete, with a double koi pond and real koi. As a patient, I saw it for only 3 seconds as I was rolled at high speed down a hallway/bridge to another wing.
Once, as a visitor, I noticed it could not be seen from my friend's room.
My goal these days is to ensure that hospital gardens are for patients to see, and to heal from. If you get tired of hearing about this, please give me a comment. And if you've been a patient who could see or touch a garden when in a hospital or convalescent home, please tell us where it is.
When a character in the book is on the run, hiding out, broke, or otherwise in trouble, he rents a dingy room that has a commanding view of the side of another building. No tree, no bush, no sky.
When I was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, my room had a window. It had a great window shade that kept out the hot sun, and unfortunately, the sky. I missed the sky.
This was not a big deal; I was only there for three days, and it was pretty luxurious as hospitals go. The nurses and aides were incredibly busy. I guess I could have thrown myself on their mercy on our many trips to the bathroom, and got the shade opened.
There is a "garden" at that hospital. It's really mostly concrete, with a double koi pond and real koi. As a patient, I saw it for only 3 seconds as I was rolled at high speed down a hallway/bridge to another wing.
Once, as a visitor, I noticed it could not be seen from my friend's room.
My goal these days is to ensure that hospital gardens are for patients to see, and to heal from. If you get tired of hearing about this, please give me a comment. And if you've been a patient who could see or touch a garden when in a hospital or convalescent home, please tell us where it is.
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