Category Archives: Health and wellness

Learning to Hold My Tongue

05 Monday Mar 2007

Posted by in Health and wellness

≈ Leave a comment

Last week, I invited a friend from Dell and his wife to dinner. I was happy to have someone visit. It made me feel as if my life was getting back to normal.
 
Rich, however, was very busy at work and was spending every waking hour dealing with various issues. He’d wake up at 4 a.m. or so, work for a few hours, get me out of bed, dressed and fed then run back upstairs to continue working, often until late at night. Because he was so focused on work, the house had become very messy.
 
Determined to have a tidy house for my guests, I negotiated my wheelchair into the laundry room and grabbed the broom. Over the course of two days, I was able to wheel around the house, sweeping the debris into piles. I also washed some of the windows, balancing on one leg − with one hand on the wheelchair and the other washing the windows.
 
After I was satisfied with my cleaning efforts, I set to work making an easy dinner… beans made in a crock pot the day of the dinner, salad, and iced tea. Later in the afternoon, I got down the plates, silverware, glasses, napkins, and placemats. It took several hours to get everything done because I needed to wheel over to various places in the kitchen, lock the wheels of the wheelchair, stand up, grab the item, carefully sit down, then wheel over to the table.
 
An hour before our guests arrived, I was dead tired and Rich had yet to come downstairs to help. I was seething inside, feeling his first responsibility was to me then work. However, I decided to lie down and hold my tongue.
 
Rich came down momentarily and profusely apologized for not helping. He also decided to help me relax by gently massaging and stretching my leg. This was the first time that Rich had done more than simply lift my legs onto the bed or help me stand up. For the past few weeks, Rich has tried to minimize touching my left leg and hip, fearful that he’d cause me pain.
 

It was an epiphany.

 

In the past, I’d been quick to get upset with Rich when he didn’t do what I wanted or not clean up his messes. He’s often pointed out that my expectations of him and others are often unrealistic. Instead of taking a deep breath and evaluating whether an issue truly existed, I blurted out my dissatisfaction.
 
Holding my tongue that night was easy. And the reward so wonderful. I closed my eyes and concentrated on relaxing my leg as Rich attempted to soothe the pain and my exhaustion. And while I knew he was very tired, he remained cheerful throughout dinner.
 
The next morning, I woke to find my computer set up along with my breakfast. Having solved his work crisis that morning, he spent an extra few minutes with me, running upstairs to get a pair of socks for my feet and wrapping me in his favorite sweatshirt.
 
While the night before, I would have had the fleeting satisfaction of making Rich feel guilty for having focused so much on work, I now realize that holding my tongue strengthens our relationship and helps us work together to tackle a situation. Rich is not my adversary or critic. He’s my partner, my best friend and my biggest cheerleader.

Home Again. Home Again. Hippity-Hop

23 Friday Feb 2007

Posted by in Health and wellness

≈ 1 Comment

On Saturday morning, Rich took me home. He had to scramble to get everything ready, including buying a queen-sized, pillow-top bed to place in the family room, complete with soft jersey sheets, navy blue velour blanket, and super soft and fluffy comforter and matching shams. He also bought three cushy pillows and a cute ornamental pillow with a giant Easter egg on it.
 
Along with gingerly placing me in the car, he had to load a wheelchair, walker and combo commode/shower chair. These items had been delivered to HealthSouth the day before for me to take home. The wheelchair is rental. The others are my mine to keep. Oh goody, I always wanted an elevated commode.
 
While it should have been a joyous occasion, I had my reservations. Life had become easy and known at HeathSouth. In addition, my being in rehab all day, enabled Rich to concentrate on work and class while someone else gave me my medicines, cooked my food, oversaw my exercise and therapy sessions, and attended my various needs.
 
Now, he was to become the sole caretaker of me.
 
A few days after my accident, my Honda FIT, which we ordered in August, arrived. I had temporarily been driving Rich’s Kia until the FIT arrived. We now have the FIT and Rich’s Dodge Dakota. The latter would be impossible to get me into so it’s good that the FIT arrived… even if I can’t drive it for months.
 
The FIT is adorable. It’s like a giant red Chicklet and so easy to get in-and-out of, even in a wheelchair. All the seat fold down so we could easily “fit” in the wheelchair, walker, commode, flowers and plants given me, clothing, and other personal items. While I envisioned my virgin ride in the FIT being very different (i.e. my dancing around the car before I plopped behind the wheel and zoomed out of the dealership), it was gratifying looking out the large windows and waving goodbye to Brackenridge and HealthSouth.
 
Once we got home, the fun began.
 
First, Rich wanted to see if I could get into the new bed. The pillow-top bed with the coverings was 4-5 inches above my butt. There was no way I could get into it without Rich lifting me onto the bed. Not good. He had remove the frame and put the box spring and mattress onto the floor.
 
Next, we realized that the wheelchair, even with the door removed, didn’t easily fit into the bathroom. I’d had to “park” in the hallway and use the walker to make some tricky turns into the bathroom and onto the “pot,” which I quickly discovered was much lower than those at HealthSouth.
 
That night, I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair, something I hadn’t done in five days. The task proved very difficult for Rich and painful and exhausting for me. We originally tried the walker, but after getting me balanced on the ledge in front of the shower, we quickly realized that we were at checkmate. I couldn’t step into the shower with my bad leg and I could safely hop off the ledge into the shower using my good leg and the walker.
 
The solution was to place the wheelchair over the ledge so I could step into the shower with my good leg. The problem was negotiating the wheelchair around the large glass shower door. It took multiple tries to get me in-and-out of the shower and to optimally position the shower chair. Half an hour later, I was washed and in bed − shaking with cold and pain. Poor Rich was shattered.
 
On Sunday, we continued to work out the kinks of my coming home. Rich built me a carpet-covered bench on which I can do my leg exercises. He also bought me a set of hand weights to strengthen my upper body. The glass shower door was removed to make it easier to get me in the shower. I conceded and allowed Rich to place the raised commode − with sturdy handles on the sides − over the toilet. Rich went shopping and got easy-to-prepare foods along with skim milk, non-fat yogurt and cottage cheese, fresh fruits and vegetables, and juices. We also set up my computer downstairs so I could check emails and write this blog. 
 
On Monday evening, I started to have a very painful burning in my left “butt check.” After spending a large part of Tuesday and Wednesday in bed because of the discomfort, we contacted my orthopedic surgeon. Several x-rays on Thursday confirmed what the doctor and my mother-in-law believed − my nerves were coming alive and rebelling. While unpleasant, it’s a part of the healing process.
 
The best part, my pelvis is starting to knit together and is considered “stable.” It was interesting to see the fractures. I was convinced that the fracture along the back of my pelvis was a clean “line” that could slip-and-slide if I put any weight on the leg. Instead, it’s jagged like a zipper so the bone is somewhat locked together. Evidentially, the massive impact to the left-side of my body pushed in my pelvis, snapping it before it returned to its original position, leaving a fracture, but no separation. I was very lucky.
 
I now have up to 8-weeks to wait until the bones thoroughly knits together and I can start to walk. By three months, I’m supposed to be fairly mobile and pain-free. In six months, the doctor said I’ll feel great and a year from now, the accident will be a memory.
 
The upside. I get to eat lots of non-fat dairy food and hard-boiled eggs. Screw the cholesterol in the eggs. I need the calcium, protein and minerals. Plus, a hard-boiled egg for breakfast with a little Mrs. Dash, a piece of fruit and glass milk is heavenly. Yogurt has become a staple at lunch. And Rich has been cooking some nice dinners of fresh salads, lean meat, and a little starch. My appetite is light because I take 12-14 pain pills a day!!!
 
Twice a day, I take an anti-inflammatory to relieve pain and swelling. Every four hours, I can take up to two hydrocodone/acetaminophen pills, which are part narcotic and reduce pain by binding to the opioid receptors in the brain and spinal cord. These pills can dull the pain within 20-minutes.
 
Every morning, Rich wakes me up around 5 a.m. to give me two hydrocodone/acetaminophens so I can tolerate getting out of bed several hours later. Within ten minutes, my body is flushed with “heat” as the pills flow through my veins. It’s a strange sensation. Unfortunately, they make me tired so I need to take a nap everyday afternoon and I’m often “fuzzy-brained.”
 
At least, I’m home and getting stronger. My pain is under control and I’m with my amazingly patient and caring husband!  

Road to Recovery

18 Sunday Feb 2007

Posted by in Health and wellness

≈ Leave a comment

(written 2/15) After an accident, it’s hard to believe that life will ever return to normal. A few days after the accident, I could barely read a magazine, let alone consider going back to work. While I probably won’t be zipping around with a walker or crutches for a many, many weeks (I love my wheelchair), the fog is starting to lift and I can happily focus on doing daily activities rather than laying in bed and wondering who’s going to enter my room next.
 
Since Sunday evening, I’ve been at the HealthSouth rehabilitation hospital in downtown Austin – across from Brackenridge Hospital. Rich worked hard to get me placed in a rehabilitation program within four days of my accident.
 
On the appointed day, two nursing assistants from HealthSouth arrived with a wheelchair and cart to carry over my clothes and the numerous flower bouquets I’d received. They wheeled me through the Brackenridge trauma center, past the room where they conduct CAT scans, past the salt-and-pepper-haired trauma doctor who was studying a chart, through the hallway that was lined with gurneys a few rainy days earlier, and past the many trauma bays where people arrive broken and often, never go home.
 
I cried my first night at HealthSouth. I’d become accustomed to Brackenridge and my little room with the narcissus-bordered wallpaper, Wedgwood blue trim, and floral curtains. It was my haven in the madness.
 
With so little control over my life, going somewhere that required I learn new nurses, doctors, rooms, routines, expectations, and other patients seemed overwhelming. However, with so many aspect of my accident, I was lucky once again. I was placed in a room by myself with a window that stretches from one wall to the other. The view is amazing. I sleep with the drapes open and can see the spectacular Frost Bank, Sheraton and Omni Hotels, and the colorful lights from other downtown Austin office buildings. As I was told, people pay big bucks to have such a view. It was comforting to wake up in the middle of night or early in the morning and see the view.
 
One of the focuses of rehabilitation is interactions – with therapist, nurses, doctors, and other patients. "Interacting" isn’t easy for a bona fide introvert like me who prefers to be alone and not ask for help.
 
Nevertheless, the first morning of my rehabilitation, I was happy when JoAnne, an occupational therapist, helped me out of bed and wheeled me into the shower. It was heavenly to wash my hair and scrub away the blood on my legs. Once in clean clothes – purple pajamas and socks with rubber on the bottom – I was given breakfast before an assessment with a physical therapist.
 
Every day is supposed to get easier. I measured ease by the amount I cried. The first day was filled with tears from the pain and frustration of struggling to do the simplest tasks, coupled with my left leg and hip constantly cramping. Two things made it tolerable… lots of pain medicine and a wheelchair. Being able to wheel myself the bathroom and around the halls was a huge boost to my confidence and the ultimate goal of becoming independent. The pain medicine is trickier.
 
With me, I’d take the medicine in the morning; feel great for many hours then wait for a nurse to "automatically" give me more. The nurses are very busy with other patients and I don’t want to be pesky. The problem was that I’d end up in tears and unable to complete therapy. After a few days, it became clear that my medicine not only had to be significantly increased, but I needed to stick to a schedule. Twice a day, I’m given a long-acting painkiller (along with other pills) then every four hours, I can have one to two short-term painkillers. Sound like a great plan, except the pills make me dopey (adding to my frustration), irritate my stomach and interfere with other aspects of my bodily functions. Grumble.
 
The pills also make it difficult for me to tell time. It sounds strange, but I’m having difficulties with numbers. My head "thinks" words, but can’t figure out the numbers on the clock! In occupational therapy, I have to sit in front of a machine and pedal my arms as if I’m on a recumbent bike. The clock is directly in front of me, but I can’t internalize what it says. I see the numbers and the second hand going around, but I can’t figure out how to add 15 minutes to what I see. Very bizarre.
 
Today, after spending four full days in rehab, I’ve been cleared to go home in a day and a half. In total, I spent 9 days in the hospital and rehab. I can’t believe how much time has passed. It’s been an eternity in light of my having never had a serious injury or broken bone or been in a hospital, outside of a short half-day stay for a medical procedure.
 
I did find the silver lining in what happened. I learned that I’m not an island. I need other people and that my action definably impacts others. I learned that my health is everything and it is my responsibility to maintain it through good nutrition and exercise. I learned to consider the plight of others before lamenting my own. And I learned that love – my love for Rich – can motivate and propel me to achieve what I thought was impossible.

Kindness in the Chaos

13 Tuesday Feb 2007

Posted by in Health and wellness

≈ 1 Comment

Brackenridge Hospital, in downtown Austin, is the area trauma center. While I desperately wanted sympathy as they wheeled me, strapped onto a board, onto the examining room, there was none. With trauma, time is everything. The faster the doctors can make a diagnosis, they faster they can remedy a cure.
 
The gentle, reassuring voice of Hector in the ambulance, was replaced by the brusque, no-nonsense medical slang of two technicians (or maybe they were interns) in light blue scrubs. They asked the same questions I’d wearily responded to before – what’s my name, was I driving to work, what day is it… where does it hurt… what’s my age.
 
With special scissors, they cut through my favorite, orange sweater and bra strap. They offered to pull off my pants, but I screamed in protest. My pants, like my underclothes, immediately became victims of their scissors. The thick, heavy leather jacket from a friend lay beneath my crippled body. They’d thoughtful pulled my arms out of the sleeves.
 
I didn’t want to be difficult, but flaying my arms seemed to be the only control I had over my body besides crying and screaming. The nurses and technicians grew angry with my flaying.
 
I wanted to say, "Fuck you," but knew my pain wasn’t their fault. Their determination to quickly diagnose was a necessary evil before morphine could be surged through my veins and my leg propped up on a pillow.
 
First, the x-ray technicians needed to take pictures of my spine, leg and abdomen. Fortunately, I was on a table that enabled them to slide the film underneath me and not lift my body. The head technicians called me sweetie and apologized when he caused additional pain.
 
A second shot of morphine was administered and the staff grew less concerned with my condition, seeing that my spine wasn’t broken and my injuries centered on my pelvis, ribs and possibly a collapsed lung. Rich had arrived, which further eased the pain and fear. He helped pull the leather coat out from under me and showed me where the shoulder belt had cut into the leather. He also called Rebecca, the only number I had in my cell phone of someone at Dell.
 
The next concern was internal injuries. The board that I’d been laying on was removed and I was wheeled to the CAT scan. This technician and his helpers were very nice and sensitive to my pain. Using a sheet, they gingerly lifted me onto the half-tube that enters the circular CAT scan. I felt safe and protected in the gently curved tube that slowly moves in-and-out of the machine. They’d propped pillows around my body so it was easy to close my eyes and relax… until they injected the dye.
 
While not painful, it was very unnerving, thick and warmish like a spicy soup coursing through my veins. While it lasted only a few minutes, it sent me into a panic. By the time I was wheeled back to the trauma center, I was hyperventilating and hysterical. Poor Rich tried to soothe me as my blood pressure rose to 100 over 110. I tilted my head back and watched the monitor as my blood pressure escalated, but I was unable to articulate what was wrong aside from the horror of the morning coupled with the pain like a shelf of books had tumbled onto my chest. There was a book titled, "work," another labeled "home life," an encyclopedia called "hiking and biking" landed on my stomach, and finally a small tome called "meeting Rich’s needs" fell on my head.
 
Hearing my cries, the trauma team injected me with a more powerful painkiller and quickly inserted a catheter to drain my bladder and make me more comfortable. After I stabilized, they decided to do another CAT scan to determine if my lung had collapsed since I complained of pain on my left side and had difficulties inhaling. This scan didn’t involve injecting dye. Plus, my veins were thick with painkillers.
 
With all the test results in, the trauma doctor, who resembled a character from a TV show with shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair and a calm demeanor, relayed the bad news. I had fractured my pelvis in four places and had every reason to be "green" with pain.
 
The trauma surgeon, a short, elderly man who was attended by two perky interns, didn’t seem overly concerned. He said that they wouldn’t be "performing surgery today." He then hung out in my room and lamented over how flimsy cars are now made. In the "old days," he explained, the cars were made of steel and people didn’t get such serious injuries from accidents. I tried to appear interested as he lectured about airbags that didn’t really work and having a car crumple around a person didn’t save them from terrible injuries. While his bedside manner letf a lot to be desired, it did give me comfort. After all, if I had sustained truly crippling injuries, he wouldn’t have been so cavalier.
 
Around 12:30, six hours after the accident, I was transferred to the trauma ward on the eighth floor of Brackenridge. I had a private room with a view of the University of Texas. Kristin and her helper (I wish I could remember her name), removed my cut-up clothes and put me in a hospital gown. They brushed away some of the crushed glass from my body and from my hair. She examined every inch of my body, gave me some painkillers and tried to reassure me that I was going to be okay.
 
There is kindness in chaos. It just takes a few days to remember the good parts or as Rich keeps telling me, "find the silver lining."

Driving Down the Road

12 Monday Feb 2007

Posted by in Health and wellness

≈ Leave a comment

It’s Thursday morning around 6:30 a.m. I’m driving down the freeway in the far right-hand lane in Rich’s Kia. Traffic was light and the freeway damp from a light dizzle. Maybe I wasn’t paying attend or simply misjudged the speed of the car in front. I slammed on my brakes and the cars skidded to the left across two lanes.
 
Your life is supposed to flash before you at times like this, but it didn’t. I just thought “Oh no, something bad is going to happen. Maybe I won’t live.”
 
The next thing I remember was wondering why I was asleep and dreaming such a strange dream with so many voices and the creepy horror that you’ve passed out. “Open your eyes” my brain tells my head. And I do. I’m so confused. At first, I don’t know where I am. It’s all very surreal. I closed my eyes trying to recall what happened.
 
A man named “Joe” is in the passenger side holding my hand. He’s trying to keep my hand from touching the glass that’s shattered on the seat. And he’s saying over-and-over again, “You’re going to be okay. Just don’t move.”
 
The pain hits me like I’d fallen and I can’t breath. Nothing can take away the pain. Not Joe’s soothing words. Not the reality that I’m alive. Nothing. I’m in so much pain. I can see my leg twisted, my ankle pinned between driver’s side. The rest of my body is sprawled across the passenger side. The pain. The pain. I know that I’ve broken my hip.
 
I can only scream and try to squirm into a more comfortable position. But Joe won’t let me. Soon a nurse, obviously on her way to work identifies herself and tells Joe to move. I hate the nurse. She’s clinical and deeply concerned that I’ve broken my spine. She’s not soft-spoken and kind like Joe.
 
And now a paramedic appears. He too, like the nurse is on his way to work. He demands that I not move. He grips my head and offers no comfort for my twisted hip. There’s so much confusion and the nurse is wondering why it’s taking so long for the paramedics to appear. So much pain. So much horror.
 
 “Were others hurt,” I wonder? “Why are so many people standing around? And is the front of a truck really pushed into the driver’s side of the Kia. I can reach over and touch its headlight.
 
It doesn’t matter. I just want the pain to end.
 
Soon the police, the paramedics and the firemen show up. They use flashlights to ascertain how my leg is pinned in the driver’s side. Someone crawls into the back seat to hold my head steady. The truck is backed up and the driver’s side door is removed. It seems like an eternity until they pull me out of the car and strap me to a board. I’m loaded into an ambulance where I close my eyes – hoping to pass out. Hoping to end the pain.
 
I fantasized about seeing Rich within minutes since the hospital is moments from the crash site, but they took me to the Brackenridge Trauma Center. My clothes are cut off. X-rays are taken. IVs are started. They poke and prod as I scream and flay my arms. Everyone is so angry at my intolerance. But I don’t care. I want Rich. I just want Rich to hold me.
 
So much time passes before a social worker arrives and calls Rich. Oh god, my life has come down to two things. Let me see Rich and end the pain. Both are important, but if only I could see Rich, everything would seem so much better.
 
Time drags. And the pain doesn’t subside. More morphine is administered. The x-raying continues along with the prodding.
 
Rich arrives. Nothing else matters. Rich is by my side.
 
Five long, painful days later, I write this blog, once again waiting for Rich to arrive. My pelvis has been fractured in four places – a lengthy fracture across the back and three in the front. Two of my ribs are cracked. My body is bruised. The pain is somewhat controlled with medicine. My life has been turned upside down.
 
Crying is my own relief.
 
I’m in a rehab center to learn how to tolerate the pain and learn how to walk on one leg with a walker for the next 6-8 weeks.
 
Rich says there’s silver lining in what happened. I’m still looking.