Part 58 Showering with another woman
The following morning I erupt into a coughing fit in my second unsuccessful attempt to eat pancakes. I keep trying to consume the solid foods they bring me, because despite the effects of the surgery I am told the doctor actually managed to successfully widen my esophagus. I am visited by an attractive young occupational therapist named Kathy, who appears to be just briefly out of college. She is to assist me in achieving some semblance of independent living. The first obstacle is getting me bathed. I undress in the bathroom, then step inside the shower, and get positioned on a seat inside the shower. I modestly cover myself and turn on the water. She enters the room. It is a scene right out of an adult movie that in any other situation I might be aroused by, but today I am simply embarrassed to be here in this way. I’m sure there are places she would rather be too. She gives me tips like pouring the shampoo on the ledge, then putting the bottle down, scooping the gel into my right hand, and washing. Fortunately for both of us, I am able to finish my bath with little other assistance needed. After I get out of the bathroom, she helps me get a shirt on (guide your left arm through first using your right to assist, then pull your right arm back through the right sleeve). Little things, but I’m sure if left to my own devices I would be wrapped like a pretzel and talking like a sailor.
A physician friend Ken drops by in the afternoon. He is an optometrist, with no expertise in my area of pathology, but just the fact that he is a medical doctor and a familiar face gives me some sense of comfort. Becah arrives later, and even though I am saddened by my situation I am always better when she is near. Loved ones heal just by showing up. She watches me eat a potato, and after we go outside to spend a little time in the sun.
Later in the day Dr. Ki- , an older, brown haired physician with moustache and glasses comes in my room and informs me that he will oversee my rehabilitation treatment, which will last until he deems me ready to leave. I will be moving tomorrow to begin this next phase of my hospital regimen. Despite his pleasant demeanor and reassurances that I will recover, my mind is flooded by thoughts of how none of this is supposed to be happening. I came to the medical center for a routine procedure, not for an extended hospital stay to fix my broken body. Besides, we have planned a Florida vacation that is to begin soon. I want to be lying in the sun and listening to the breaking waves, somewhere far, far away from this dreadful place.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Part 57 Back in the corner with glazed eyes
Two days after my accident I am recovering very slowly in my hospital room on the twenty second floor, with a great view of downtown, just across the street from where my procedure took place. My brother Craig comes to visit very early. I’m not really sure when he enters the room. I am still dazed and not tracking well, but I hear his voice and recognize him. Others come by too. Steve and Melynda are here at some point, and I even attempt some communication. My friend Mike comes by later that day (ironically, he celebrated his birthday two days ago), with gifts, a portable DVD player and some movies. He doesn’t stay long; I am dragging and probably lousy company.
I am soon introduced to the hospital staff that will be caring for me. I am immediately upset that I will have to answer a myriad of questions from all these strangers who parade into my room. Dr. Ly- is the oncologist, a tall stocky man with a slow, folksy delivery compliments of his southern upbringing that is in direct contrast to the manner of my original oncologist. To his credit, Dr. Ly- is very thorough and seems knowledgeable in his area. He is accompanied by Dr. Wa-, an female Oriental resident physician. Things brighten considerably when a gorgeous brunette enters and introduces herself as Christine, my speech therapist. After I adjust to her appearance, I realize that she is also intelligent and offers techniques and a program for me to follow to help me swallow my food better. Becah chats with her and is suitably impressed. I try the pizza for dinner that Becah brings, without much luck. After that, Becah pushes me out in my wheelchair onto the floor and everyone comments about my flashy yellow hospital socks, trying to bring a smile to my somber face. At night, when everyone is gone, I watch “Woodstock” on my DVD. I am lonely and depressed.
The next few days I try to acclimate myself to this place. I meet a flurry of new people – technicians running tests on me, nurses at shift change, physicians - but I am still in shock and in utter disbelief that I cannot even raise my left hand. Christine drops by and accompanies me for a swallow study to determine what foods I can ingest. She waves later when she sees me in the hall, and quips “here comes the miracle boy!”, encouraging my meager efforts at showing some progress. Becah is even trying to smile despite being miffed when Christine showers me with compliments while grinning all the time. “Stop flirting with my husband”, Becah says good-naturedly, but with a firm edge to her voice. Look at me, all beaten up, and two women are still fussing over me.
It is the first official day of summer. Surf’s up. Somewhere, but not here. I manage to eat the grits and yogurt for breakfast but the eggs and pancakes are beyond me. The day is most memorable when I reach to untangle a wire on the side of the bed and accidentally tear out my feeding tube. Without too much of a problem it is replaced. During the day I am weighed – an amazingly poor 143 pounds! I am wasting away! Quick, get me out of here fast!... At night I watch a Brian Ferry in concert DVD on my new portable player while an Astros game plays on the hospital set. I am not sure that either one diverts my attention from my situation.
What I cannot get over is the fact that I am here indefinitely now. I expected to have a routine procedure, not to be hospitalized, partially immobile, and falling apart. Nothing I can do gets me out of this realization.
Two days after my accident I am recovering very slowly in my hospital room on the twenty second floor, with a great view of downtown, just across the street from where my procedure took place. My brother Craig comes to visit very early. I’m not really sure when he enters the room. I am still dazed and not tracking well, but I hear his voice and recognize him. Others come by too. Steve and Melynda are here at some point, and I even attempt some communication. My friend Mike comes by later that day (ironically, he celebrated his birthday two days ago), with gifts, a portable DVD player and some movies. He doesn’t stay long; I am dragging and probably lousy company.
I am soon introduced to the hospital staff that will be caring for me. I am immediately upset that I will have to answer a myriad of questions from all these strangers who parade into my room. Dr. Ly- is the oncologist, a tall stocky man with a slow, folksy delivery compliments of his southern upbringing that is in direct contrast to the manner of my original oncologist. To his credit, Dr. Ly- is very thorough and seems knowledgeable in his area. He is accompanied by Dr. Wa-, an female Oriental resident physician. Things brighten considerably when a gorgeous brunette enters and introduces herself as Christine, my speech therapist. After I adjust to her appearance, I realize that she is also intelligent and offers techniques and a program for me to follow to help me swallow my food better. Becah chats with her and is suitably impressed. I try the pizza for dinner that Becah brings, without much luck. After that, Becah pushes me out in my wheelchair onto the floor and everyone comments about my flashy yellow hospital socks, trying to bring a smile to my somber face. At night, when everyone is gone, I watch “Woodstock” on my DVD. I am lonely and depressed.
The next few days I try to acclimate myself to this place. I meet a flurry of new people – technicians running tests on me, nurses at shift change, physicians - but I am still in shock and in utter disbelief that I cannot even raise my left hand. Christine drops by and accompanies me for a swallow study to determine what foods I can ingest. She waves later when she sees me in the hall, and quips “here comes the miracle boy!”, encouraging my meager efforts at showing some progress. Becah is even trying to smile despite being miffed when Christine showers me with compliments while grinning all the time. “Stop flirting with my husband”, Becah says good-naturedly, but with a firm edge to her voice. Look at me, all beaten up, and two women are still fussing over me.
It is the first official day of summer. Surf’s up. Somewhere, but not here. I manage to eat the grits and yogurt for breakfast but the eggs and pancakes are beyond me. The day is most memorable when I reach to untangle a wire on the side of the bed and accidentally tear out my feeding tube. Without too much of a problem it is replaced. During the day I am weighed – an amazingly poor 143 pounds! I am wasting away! Quick, get me out of here fast!... At night I watch a Brian Ferry in concert DVD on my new portable player while an Astros game plays on the hospital set. I am not sure that either one diverts my attention from my situation.
What I cannot get over is the fact that I am here indefinitely now. I expected to have a routine procedure, not to be hospitalized, partially immobile, and falling apart. Nothing I can do gets me out of this realization.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Part 56 Re-entry/I return to the living
The first day after this crisis I am still dazed, although I am able to speak. I spend most of my time, however, lying in bed, still in a state of shock over the events that have transpired. Becah assists the nurses and assistants as they reposition me, rolling me over on my side to prevent bed sores. I am helpless to doing anything.
Becah talks to me about what has happened to me. I realize the clanging that upset me so much came from the machine sounds from the MRI. Doctors come by and offer their theories of explanation. One physician surmises that I suffered a stroke. Another doctor reports that it should be more accurately called a TIA (or transient ischemic attack). This is described as being a “mini stroke” caused by disruption in cerebral flood flow with contralateral body paralysis (in my case, the event taking place in my right brain affecting the left side of my body). Typical symptoms include dimming of vision, slurred speech and mental confusion. These effects are typically resolved within 24 hours.
Another chilling possibility is that I suffered an allergic reaction to Demerol. For some reason, the anesthesiologist opted to not give me propofol or ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬versed, commonly administered sedatives, which they had used before on me, and instead tried a drug which, while commonly used on patients in previous generations, is now given infrequently (Dr. Bu- will later tell me he was taught in school to never administer this anesthetic because of the potential for severe adverse effects).
I listen to explanations, but little is really sinking in at this time, except that I am lucky to be alive.
The first day after this crisis I am still dazed, although I am able to speak. I spend most of my time, however, lying in bed, still in a state of shock over the events that have transpired. Becah assists the nurses and assistants as they reposition me, rolling me over on my side to prevent bed sores. I am helpless to doing anything.
Becah talks to me about what has happened to me. I realize the clanging that upset me so much came from the machine sounds from the MRI. Doctors come by and offer their theories of explanation. One physician surmises that I suffered a stroke. Another doctor reports that it should be more accurately called a TIA (or transient ischemic attack). This is described as being a “mini stroke” caused by disruption in cerebral flood flow with contralateral body paralysis (in my case, the event taking place in my right brain affecting the left side of my body). Typical symptoms include dimming of vision, slurred speech and mental confusion. These effects are typically resolved within 24 hours.
Another chilling possibility is that I suffered an allergic reaction to Demerol. For some reason, the anesthesiologist opted to not give me propofol or ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬versed, commonly administered sedatives, which they had used before on me, and instead tried a drug which, while commonly used on patients in previous generations, is now given infrequently (Dr. Bu- will later tell me he was taught in school to never administer this anesthetic because of the potential for severe adverse effects).
I listen to explanations, but little is really sinking in at this time, except that I am lucky to be alive.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Part 55 Becah’s tale
We went to Baylor outpatient clinic for a second attempt to stretch John’s esophagus in order for him to eat. We got there early and he was taken back to pre-op. The procedure started on time. It took much longer than I imagined though and when I realized I was half way through a novel I had started that morning I got worried. About ten minutes after I inquired about when I would see John, a nurse came to get me and took me back to the recovery area. When I walked in, everyone was panicking. John looked like we was having a grand mal seizure to me and kept repeating over and over, “Please help me God, please help me God…” I asked Dr. Ra- what happened. He said, “he got too sleepy during the procedure and we had to give him Narcan to wake him up quickly. We think he is having a reaction to the Narcan. We have called 911. He will be transported to St. Luke’s ER across the street. You can follow in your car.” I said, “it looks like he is having a seizure to me.” I was told it was not a seizure, but either a reaction to medicine, a stroke, or a brain metastasis. These are all bad, but I was praying for a med reaction at best. We quickly left for St. Luke’s where the stroke team was waiting for us at the entrance.
There were four neurologists working on John. He was numb from the neck down, he could not see anything, and he continued to jerk rapidly and plead for God to help him. Doctors and nurses came in and out of the room rapidly. I begged for answers. There were none. He was making jerking movements too much and had begun to vomit, so an MRI was unable to be performed. Stroke protocol was not initiated because the brain metastasis could not be ruled out without first assessing the problem using the MRI. I looked at Dr. S, who would later become our neurologist of choice, and said, “what can we do”? He said, “Nothing, right now.” I said through tears, “so we are kind of screwed then, one way or the other.” He said, “yes”.
So we waited. My mom was in the room, then my best friends Jeannette and Frances joined us. We all just waited. John continued to jerk for hours. Finally the movements ceased. My mom left to go relieve GG, who was at our house with our children. Frances left too. Jeannette and I stayed in that tiny ER room, waiting and waiting. John finally slept. We had no answers. He was paralyzed and blind but he had stopped jerking. I was grateful for that small miracle. At about 10 p.m. we were told he was stable and being moved to a room on the “neuro” floor. I asked about an MRI, now that he was still. They said they would try again later that night. So we moved, waiting for the answer.
Finally, when the time was deemed right, the MRI was initiated. We would eventually have some answers.
We went to Baylor outpatient clinic for a second attempt to stretch John’s esophagus in order for him to eat. We got there early and he was taken back to pre-op. The procedure started on time. It took much longer than I imagined though and when I realized I was half way through a novel I had started that morning I got worried. About ten minutes after I inquired about when I would see John, a nurse came to get me and took me back to the recovery area. When I walked in, everyone was panicking. John looked like we was having a grand mal seizure to me and kept repeating over and over, “Please help me God, please help me God…” I asked Dr. Ra- what happened. He said, “he got too sleepy during the procedure and we had to give him Narcan to wake him up quickly. We think he is having a reaction to the Narcan. We have called 911. He will be transported to St. Luke’s ER across the street. You can follow in your car.” I said, “it looks like he is having a seizure to me.” I was told it was not a seizure, but either a reaction to medicine, a stroke, or a brain metastasis. These are all bad, but I was praying for a med reaction at best. We quickly left for St. Luke’s where the stroke team was waiting for us at the entrance.
There were four neurologists working on John. He was numb from the neck down, he could not see anything, and he continued to jerk rapidly and plead for God to help him. Doctors and nurses came in and out of the room rapidly. I begged for answers. There were none. He was making jerking movements too much and had begun to vomit, so an MRI was unable to be performed. Stroke protocol was not initiated because the brain metastasis could not be ruled out without first assessing the problem using the MRI. I looked at Dr. S, who would later become our neurologist of choice, and said, “what can we do”? He said, “Nothing, right now.” I said through tears, “so we are kind of screwed then, one way or the other.” He said, “yes”.
So we waited. My mom was in the room, then my best friends Jeannette and Frances joined us. We all just waited. John continued to jerk for hours. Finally the movements ceased. My mom left to go relieve GG, who was at our house with our children. Frances left too. Jeannette and I stayed in that tiny ER room, waiting and waiting. John finally slept. We had no answers. He was paralyzed and blind but he had stopped jerking. I was grateful for that small miracle. At about 10 p.m. we were told he was stable and being moved to a room on the “neuro” floor. I asked about an MRI, now that he was still. They said they would try again later that night. So we moved, waiting for the answer.
Finally, when the time was deemed right, the MRI was initiated. We would eventually have some answers.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
CHAPTER 6
LIGHTS OUT
Part 54 Something has gone terribly wrong…
It is dark. What disturbs me most is the banging. This clamoring in my ears. It is incessant. Why don’t they turn it off… What is going on? I’m trying to get back to sleep…Am I dreaming? This doesn’t feel like home. I sense that I am somewhere else. Where? Am I alone?
There is much confusion in my mind. It continues for some time. I may be crying out, but maybe that is all in my head, as often happens in dreams.
It should be over by now. I don’t know how much time has elapsed. Maybe quite a while. I am awakening, very, very, slowly. I hear voices. My vision clears gradually, and the shroud of darkness lifts. The sun is diffused through the blinds in the window next to my bed. I have guests in my room, but I am uncertain who they are. I hear people talking about me (to me?). Becah must be one of them. Someone speaks to my left. I turn my head to see. It feels like everything is in slow motion. I try to raise myself up on my elbows, but something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.
I have no sensation on the entire left side of my body. I cannot lift my left arm.
I try to move my legs. The right one moves. The left does not. I am frightened. This is no dream. This is real.
LIGHTS OUT
Part 54 Something has gone terribly wrong…
It is dark. What disturbs me most is the banging. This clamoring in my ears. It is incessant. Why don’t they turn it off… What is going on? I’m trying to get back to sleep…Am I dreaming? This doesn’t feel like home. I sense that I am somewhere else. Where? Am I alone?
There is much confusion in my mind. It continues for some time. I may be crying out, but maybe that is all in my head, as often happens in dreams.
It should be over by now. I don’t know how much time has elapsed. Maybe quite a while. I am awakening, very, very, slowly. I hear voices. My vision clears gradually, and the shroud of darkness lifts. The sun is diffused through the blinds in the window next to my bed. I have guests in my room, but I am uncertain who they are. I hear people talking about me (to me?). Becah must be one of them. Someone speaks to my left. I turn my head to see. It feels like everything is in slow motion. I try to raise myself up on my elbows, but something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.
I have no sensation on the entire left side of my body. I cannot lift my left arm.
I try to move my legs. The right one moves. The left does not. I am frightened. This is no dream. This is real.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Part 53 Abbreviated summer, or prelude to lights out
GG has come over to watch the kids for a few days of the upcoming week. I must drive to complete some errands and business during the two days before my next procedure on the 16th. The day arrives, and I have the support of my wife and her mother, with me at the hospital. I am prepped by some new nurse faces this time, but they seem professional and have a sense of humor. One starts my IV without multiple jabs to find a good vein (always a plus in my book). I look for some consistency, since this facility is still new to me. The nursing staff is so important, because these are the first people who interact with you in the operating area and make an indelible impression. It will be a while before the anesthesiologist comes by. And it will certainly be a while before the pro doctor Ra- makes his grand entrance, striding swiftly in, accompanied by his residents and flashing an amiable smile with a confidence that instantly puts me at ease. But the first procedure was uneventful, so I really have no need to worry about this one. And this time all this will be taking place not in the hospital itself but in an adjacent outpatient area. Confidence is in the air.
The anesthesia slides into my tube. Before they wheel me into the procedure room, I am unconscious.
Boxers in the ring, after the fight is over, have claimed that they never saw the punch coming that knocked them out. I too was sparring with the unknown, gaining a little confidence now and then while having what I considered a healthy respect for my opponent. I try to cloak myself in optimism in general, in part because I genuinely feel that way and was raised to believe that way, but also because it is a practical strategy to function optimally in this world.
Regardless of your orientation and determination, though, life unravels in its own way, with its own bag of surprises.
Birds crapping
Last night when I went to check on Bree, the budding songwriter, she showed me her latest song, "Birds chirping". She lovingly showed it to me, very proud of all she had written. As you can imagine, I was aghast at her spelling of chirp. I quickly showed her the correct spelling "churp". I am such a good mother and teacher. :)
At least I thought I was until her daddy saw the lyrics. He quickly asked me what happened here. I said, "Oh Bree misspelled churp but I showed her the right way. Wasn't that cute?" To which he replied,"Becah, look at this! Does that look right to you?." "Uh no, oops" was my reply. John shook his head and laughed.
I want you to know it was really all just a set up to make him feel smart. Parents please do not be alarmed if someday I am assigned to be your child's teacher. I am very good at braiding hair so even it your child can't spell, I will always make sure their hair looks good.
At least I thought I was until her daddy saw the lyrics. He quickly asked me what happened here. I said, "Oh Bree misspelled churp but I showed her the right way. Wasn't that cute?" To which he replied,"Becah, look at this! Does that look right to you?." "Uh no, oops" was my reply. John shook his head and laughed.
I want you to know it was really all just a set up to make him feel smart. Parents please do not be alarmed if someday I am assigned to be your child's teacher. I am very good at braiding hair so even it your child can't spell, I will always make sure their hair looks good.
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