Back in the Hospital (I could not think of a catchy title)

I started feeling crummy last week, with a pain in my side and no appetite.  I slowly got worse until finally the pain was so bad it was making me sick.  When Nicole, my home health aide, arrived on Thursday, she took one look at me and said “I am taking you to the ER.”

When we got there she peeled up and parked all crooked, as though I were a trauma victim bleeding to death.  We hadn’t brought my wheelchair because we figured there would be one at the ER.  But there wasn’t.  So my sweet Nicole, who takes such good care of me, had a Terms-of-Endearment-Shirley-Maclaine melt down, yelling “What kind of hospital doesn’t have wheelchairs?!?!”

Well they dug one up, registered me, realized I was a minor VIP (past director in the system and daughter and son-in-law both still working for the hospital) and the testing began.  They diagnosed exactly what I knew it was.

An inflamed gall bladder.  Cholecystitis.  Mundane, middle aged, ordinary.  Embarrassingly banal.  Minor surgery, admitted in the morning, home by evening.

Unless you have MS, lymphedema and a partially paralyzed diaphragm.  Then it is a medical emergency, a crisis that requires consults with a cast of thousands:  anesthesiologists, surgeons, pulmonologists and, I swear, passers-by on the street.  The consensus: the surgery to remove the gall bladder is simply too risky.  I was facing days in the ICU, prolonged intubation and a possible tracheotomy (an opening cut into my throat into which a tube would be inserted).  Not to mention a slow and horrifying death.

So now the plan is to do a less invasive procedure that will hopefully quiet down the gall bladder, prevent it from getting gangrenous and buy some time to figure out some more options.

In the meantime, a mass has been found on my liver.  Because all the other stuff was not enough.  So I had an MRI for that yesterday.  I had to leave the hospital because they had to use a special machine.  When the EMT’s arrived to transport me, the first guy took one look at me and, at the top of his voice, announced “No way is she going fit on our stretcher”.  I could feel my face get hot, I was so mortified.  The nurse and aide gasped.  Even his partner looked uncomfortable.  Trying to maintain some shred of dignity I told them I never had a problem “fitting” on a gurney before. How about I just try it?  He ignored me, went into the hall to call his dispatch and loudly asked how long it would take to get a bariatric stretcher.  Four hours.  I would not make my appointment.  But I knew I didn’t need it, that I would be ok on a regular gurney.  Finally he reluctantly agreed to let me try, all the while muttering dire warnings about hideous discomfort to my fat, fat, fat body.  And guess what?  I fit, as I knew I would, with room to spare, and was completely comfortable.

This guy is now my candidate for The Asshole Hall of Fame.

On the plus side, when I got to the MRI center, the tech was my old friend Nicky, who has been doing my MRI’s since I first got sick in 2005.  He is the most incredibly kind man.  After one MRI a few years ago, when I was in tears from so much pain, he actually got down on his knees, put on my socks and sneakers and tied them for me.    I had forgotten he told me he moonlighted at this place.  His sweet demeanor and constant concern for my comfort was a real gift.

Then when I got back to the hospital, the staff had a surprise for me.  They had been so upset over how the EMT had treated me, they moved me to a private room and presented it with a big “TA DA!!” like a Christmas present.  They are the best.  So, so kind.  It makes a huge difference.

My friends on Facebook have also overwhelmed me with their love and caring.  Message after message of support, encouragement, prayers and reassurance are like lifelines.  I am so lucky.

So now I am just hanging out, day four in the hospital, waiting for the results of the MRI to diagnose what is going on with my liver.  Tomorrow I should have the minor procedure.  My pain level is pretty high, so I am existing from shot to shot.  One doctor was just in and asked how I was doing.  I said my pain level was up there and the medicine just wasn’t helping as much anymore.  He didn’t respond, but asked a few more questions and then said, ok, glad you are doing well see you tomorrow.  Um, what about my pain? I ask.  Oh…well, make sure you ask for your medicine when it is due.  Smile.  Bye.

Sigh.

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A Member of the Club

My mother has told me that I adored the original Mickey Mouse Club, which came on around supper time in the New York City area in the late 1950’s.  I was a real Disney kid, weaned on all the fairy tales, and I can tell you they did not serve me well.  Even though I perpetuated the game with my own daughters, anthropomorphizing animals and advising someday a prince would come.  Why should my therapist have all the fun?

I watched so much television as a child it is a wonder I ever learned how to read.  Before the Mickey Mouse Club was other children’s programming, such as cartoons, and horror shows like Queen for a Day, which my mother would make me turn off if she found me watching it.   But I would be glued to the set for the Mouseketeers.  I especially liked the serials, such as Spin and Marty and The Hardy Boys. 

But Annette?  I was not a fan.

Even at that age, four to about six, I was unimpressed by her 'talent’.  To be honest, I really thought she was a wimp.

I never was into the beach blanket movies, I hated the giggly, girly-girl, manipulative behavior they promoted.  I never wanted to be that sort of girl.  If I couldn’t get a boy with my brains I didn’t want him.

Needless to say, I didn’t get many.

But that was ok.  I didn’t want to be Annette.  By the sixties I was heavily into the counterculture.  (wait a minute, I need to give anyone who knew me then time to laugh).  Let me amend that.  I was heavily into a suburban, white, Irish Catholic, unbelievably naïve, adolescent girl’s version of the counterculture.  I hung out in New York City.  But not too late.  I went to demonstrations.  But only with a friend.  I watched depressing movies (Panic in Needle Park was a fav), but I still read Sixteen magazine.  I dressed in jeans and cotton peasant blouses.  Unless my aunt was treating me to a dress from an exclusive boutique.

My friends and I did actually hang out with drug addicts.  Our CYO project was dancing with them at the local mental hospital, like some kind of deranged USO Canteen.  I still can’t believe my parents let me do that.  Although it did put me off serious drugs forever.  When I learned that heroin addiction could cause you to lose your teeth, it was like taking the WCTU Pledge. 

So, I had no interest in Annette, except as a vague nostalgic memory.  She was a boring goody two shoes. 

When she revealed her diagnosis of MS, I had other things on my mind then as well, she still barely registered on my radar.  That year, 1993, was the year my husband died.  I hadn’t worked in 15 years, I had four children to support and no life insurance.  Annette was the least of my worries.

Even when I found out I had MS as well, I did not feel any kinship.  I was in the club alright, but the one no one wanted to belong to.    MS is funny.  Many people assume that just because you have the same illness, you automatically have a bond.  People with and without MS assume this.  I still felt I had as much in common with Annette as the man in the moon.

But, ironically, her death has linked us.  She died of the infamous "Complications of MS".  MS does not kill you by itself, it allows one of it's many henchmen to do the dirty work.  It could be a systemic bladder infection, paralytic illeus, pneumonia, infected bed sores or any of a slew of other miserable, painful, things that induce gratuitous suffering.   

Annette was only 70, twelve years older than I am.  Her grandchildren will not know her, she will not see them grow up, graduate from college, start families, all things my kids benefited from, as my grandparents lived till their nineties.  With MS, we do not have that gift.  We have pain, weakness, disability, limits.  I know that may sound like I have a bad attitude, but that is the reality.  I do enjoy my life and I am grateful for what I still am able to do.  But I hate being the Sick Grandma, the one who can’t run around and play.  Sheppy, 6, hugs me gently and pats me like I am breakable.  Maddy, 2, is always sticking bits of tape on me to fix my boo-boos.  I don’t know my other precious, year old grandson at all, my son declines to include me in their lives.  While it is like having my heart wrenched out, I miss them so much, maybe it is better that way.

Now that Annette has died, I finally feel a connection with her and I am so, so sorry for all she lost and all she will miss, for all who loved and will miss her.  I am counting on God’s promise that we will all be healed with Him and I like to keep an image of her shaking her cheerful, perky little head and saying, “Oh, no honey, it’s fine!!  All better now!”   Oh, Annette, I so hope so.  That’s the club I want to join.  See ‘ya real soon.

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A Bump in the Road

I’ve been pretty sick for the past few weeks with lymphedema and cellulitis in my legs.  The pain is consuming and I haven’t been up to doing much, but to distract myself I have been watching old comedy shows, including Frasier, which I think is the wittiest, funniest show ever.  It never fails to make me laugh.

Here is one person’s compilation of her favorites:


 

I could probably post another hundred and still keep going.  It is just endlessly funny.

Ironically and unexpectedly, one episode made me cry instead.    Frasier is telling Roz how wonderful it is to be a parent.  He says:

“You don’t just love your children, you fall in love with them.  It’s that same rush, that same overwhelming desire to see them, to hold them, to bore other people to tears with every detail about them…”

That really hit a nerve.  That is the way I feel about being a mother to my children.  I don’t see them nearly as much as I’d like to and that makes me sad.  I miss them so much.   But I think of them all the time.  It is hard not to.  Not only are they in my heart and my memories, but their pictures are everywhere and I even have my son Ryan’s cat, who is curled up next to me on my pillows as I type this.

Miss Perri

So watching these old shows has been a little like life itself – lots of laughing and some crying too.

Fingers crossed the specialist appointment I have next week can help my legs and relieve this pain.

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A Reminder

This is a hard time for me right now. Lots of expensive work going on in the house. Some distressing family issues. Of course, the worry, actually the mind numbing, hyperventilating panic, of being out of work. And I am so weary of being in pain all the time.

But a friend sent me a video that was a good reminder of the importance of prayer, especially for those who have caused me grief. My church’s mission statement is essentially “God’s Unconditional Love Practiced Here”. We are obligated to pray for those who have hurt us.

I have a long list currently:

• The simpletons who laid me off.

• Family members who inexplicably and hurtfully don’t speak to me.

• The plumbers who destroyed my basement and then called me names.

• The pain doctor who blew me off.

• The guy whose careless driving wrecked my car this summer.

• People who leave ignorant, hate filled comments after online news articles.

• People in general who irk the piss out of me.
  

This is for them:



(e-mail readers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rn041uWncU)

Well I never said I was a saint. The mission statement says ‘practice’.

I need a lot of practice.

And Around and Around and Around and Around….

Despite three surgeries, including, ultimately, a replacement, my shoulder has caused me unceasing, breathtaking pain since I fell, in March of 2008.

My orthopedic surgeon, my neurologist and my physical therapist have all been caring, supportive, and have offered as many potential solutions as they could. The pain management specialist was a Useless Wanker, but you already knew that. The steroids helped for a blissful few weeks, but the pain is creeping back.

We are all pretty much at the end of our ropes with frustration (except for the Useless Wanker, who didn't give a rat's ass). But now there is no consensus on what is causing the pain, which should have been relieved by the replacement.

The orthopedist says it is neurological. Go to the pain management specialist.

The pain management specialist (Useless Wanker!) says it is neurological. Go to the neurologist.

The neurologist says it is orthopedic. Go to the orthopedist.

I am going in circles.



HELLLLLPPPPP!!!!!!

(And mind that you don't cross me or you'll end up in my blog as a Useless Wanker. lol)

The Brush Off

When Dr. Wonderful recommended a pain management doctor, I was eager to take advantage of another specialist, a part of a team. I felt hopeful, especially after I researched the different modalities used to treat pain caused by the kind of spinal cord damage that I have.

It is time consuming and exhausting to get to multiple doctor appointments. It is stressful going to someone new. But Dr. W. had said this guy was the best and ‘a good listener’, so I envisioned a consult where I would tell him my history, we would discuss all my options and he would be a guide for my best choices.

The office is sumptuous in a tacky way and very smoothly operated. A tech, who spoke so quickly I didn’t understand a word she said, took my vitals. A Physicians’ Assistant came in and asked where my pain usually was. She did a half-baked neuro assessment and looked at the MRI films I brought with me. She examined them with a furrowed brow and I suspected she had no idea what she was looking at. I pulled up another film. “Do you want the sagittal or the medial view?” heh heh I was proud of that.

She said what she put up, a side view of my cervical spine, was plenty. Then she said the doctor would be right in.

He did appear after a few minutes. I was sitting on the examining table, as I had been told to. He stood on the other side of the room leaning against a cabinet, reading some notes. He asked where my pain was. He frowned and said, “This problem is neurological, there is nothing I can do for it. I will give you Lyrica and you come back in 4 weeks.” He made for the door. I thought of my research and said “But don’t you treat people with pain from Transverse Myelitis?” “No” he said, “call your neurologist, that is who should take care of that. The Lyrica will help.”

And he was gone.

He never examined me, never even came near me, didn’t ask my history, barely even asked me a question, never mind was a good listener. He literally was in the room for less than three minutes.

I sat there for a second, simply stunned. I had thought I would be leaving full of hope at the possibility of a reduction of my constant pain in the future. Instead, I got the bum’s rush. I was so upset I was literally breathless. By the time I got to the car I was crying. What the heck just happened? Where was the ‘team approach’? This doctor could not have been less interested in me. The visit was a complete waste of time.

I guess there are other pain specialists out there. But when you are sick, chasing down good care, finding someone who is not like Dr. You’re Boring Me, is utterly demoralizing. You get labeled as demanding or difficult when you hold someone to high standards, even though everyone should.

Some people think I am brave, but really I’m not. I’m a miserable coward. The likelihood of having intractable pain for the rest of my life leaves me reeling. The idea that a physician who treats pain would be so indifferent and dismissive is infuriating, beyond frustrating. The prospect of having to fight to get what I need is overwhelming.

I don’t know how he is going to bill my insurance company when he never did anything. I don’t know how I am going to handle this, if I will bother letting him know how upset I am. I do know I am furious that I was dismissed the way I was, especially after the research I did. I know there is treatment out there and I am going to find it.

But first I need a lie down. And then maybe an entire peanut butter cream pie from Wegman’s. Washed down with vodka. Lyrica-schmyrica.

I feel better already.

The Accident, Chapter Four: Surgery and Beyond

By that Friday afternoon I was scheduled for an open reduction/internal fixation of my four-part proximal humerus fracture, to be done as a same day surgery at a local surgery center. That comforts me a little. Just a surgery center. Well, it couldn’t be too bad then. The MS was not a complicating factor that would have it done in a hospital. So it would be simple. Sort of like having a tooth pulled or an ingrown toenail taken care of. My biggest concern was that I might have to have a urinary catheter. I am so shallow. Oh, and stupid. As a result of my ignorance, even as a nurse, I am completely and utterly unprepared for what I am in for.

The craziest part is when I called the center to find out what time I had to be there on Monday, the girl turned around from the phone and called to someone “What time is the Open Reduction on Monday?” Open Reduction. She said it. Right into my ear. And “open” means just what it sounds like. I know what an open reduction is. And it still never registered. I was primarily irritated that I had been demoted to a procedure, not a name.

My daughter Mary Kate brings me to the surgery center bright and early Monday morning, nine days after my fall. I am relaxed and cheerful. I am certain I will be sufficiently medicated to be comfortable and that this will fix my arm. Better in a few days, I’ll be. So I have no qualms. What a moron.

The staff is very nice. The nurse anesthetist shows me one part of the anesthesia they are going use, an interscalene block. A catheter will be put in my neck and medicine will go in there that will completely numb my shoulder and arm. With that I will only have sedation for the surgery, not general anesthesia. So I need neither intubation nor catheterization (yay, I can leave on my knickers!). An attached pump will go home with me, pumping medicine to the blocked area for four days, by which time the pain will be reduced. Well, that sounds great!, I think. I am still cheerful and relaxed. Especially since I still have my knickers on. They will give me a little something to relax me while they insert the catheter in my neck. And to be honest, except for a brief memory of being wheeled into the operating room, that is the last thing I remember until I am offered ginger ale in the recovery room. According to my parents, this is six hours later.

Dr. Wonderful appears in the Recovery Room with copies of my x-rays. He proudly shows off his work: a plate and about a billion screws that are holding my arm bone pieces together. I look at it as though it belongs to someone else. “Wow” I say while sipping ginger ale. I feel no connection to that hardware whatsoever. I had no idea there was going to BE any hardware, so it doesn’t sink in.



This is not my actual arm, but it's what the inside of it pretty much looks like now.

What I don’t realize has happened, and won’t until days later when I look it up on the internet, is this: I was placed on the operating table and put under conscious sedation, meaning I was heavily sedated but not completely unconscious. Because of the drugs used, I wouldn’t remember anything. The operating table was then raised into a seated position. Every bit of me, except for my right shoulder, the area to be operated on, was covered in surgical drapes, including my head and face (Can we talk about my claustrophobia? I practically need to be sedated just typing this.).

My right lower arm is swathed in sterile wrappings. With a scalpel, Dr. Wonderful makes a cut from the top of my shoulder six inches down my arm, which is then spread wide open and held in place like that with metal surgical retractors for the extent of the surgery. Muscles and blood vessels and nerves are pushed and/or cut out of the way to reveal the bone. The broken pieces of the head of the humerus were fitted together and fastened.


Dr. Wonderful then decided on the size of the plate needed and number of screws. Holes were drilled into my arm bone with an electric drill, the plate was fastened onto the bone and broken pieces with the screws until everything was nice and put together. Throughout the surgery the surgical site is continually flushed and suctioned to keep blood out of the way. Additionally, my arm was repeatedly manipulated and x-rayed during each step of the operation to make sure everything was fitting together as it should. At the end, I was sutured up and sent on my way.


Alrighty then. Not quite like having a tooth pulled. No wonder it freaking hurts.


I go home. My arm is numb and I have plenty of pain medicine. I sleep off and on over the next day and I feel…ok. Then a few things happen. First, my legs swell up like two giant slugs attached to my body. To the extent that anyone looking at them gasps. There is no delineation from my thighs to my ankles and my feet look like giant marshmallows with little dots where the toes are. Add the fact that my skin is as white as paper, this is not a pretty sight. I look like the Michelin man from the waist down.


I call the surgeon’s office. They tell me to call the surgery center. And to keep my feet up. Which is what I have been doing since I fell, but whatever. So I call the surgery center. They tell me to call the surgeon. And to keep my feet up. I call the surgeon back. They tell me to call my regular doctor. And to keep my feet up. I call my regular doctor. His office is closed for a few days. I am surprised the answering service does not tell me to keep my feet up. I call the surgeon back. They are not pleased that the hot potato has landed back with them. “Ok, well, keep your feet up and I’ll tell the doctor. We’ll call you back.”


And I also now realize that my arm isn’t really numb anymore. The pump was supposed to be effective for four days. This is the third day, but there should be another 24 hours plus to go. Then I notice the neck of my t-shirt is wet. Right where the catheter is. As a matter of fact, the catheter is leaking. The numbing medication that is supposed to be going into my arm is now dripping down my chest.


I call the surgery center about the catheter and they tell me to come in, the anesthesiologist will adjust the catheter for me, and he fastens it with surgical glue. He also gives me a nice bolus of analgesia, which numbs me for a blissful couple of hours. The nurse anesthetist says, “You know, I thought it looked a little out of place when you left the OR.” Oy vey. Maybe THEN would have been a good time to adjust it? But I keep my mouth shut, because otherwise everyone has been so nice to me. She points out my swollen legs to the anesthesiologist. “Hmmm.”, he says. “They weren’t like that on Monday.”, she says. “Hmmm.”, he says, “Keep your feet up.”


At home the surgeon’s office has called back about my legs. Get a pair of Jobst stockings. These are stockings that are about two inches by two inches and you have to get your whole leg into them and they perform miracles. However, the real miracle is getting them on. What no one has taken into consideration, including me before I plunk down $85 for the stockings, is that it is hard enough to get them on with TWO hands. With one, it is impossible.


Before I can even get too upset about the legs, like magic they go back to normal. The interscalene block catheter comes out. And then I settle into my routine of the next four weeks. Living from pain pill to pain pill, completely incapacitated, unable to drive, unable to dress without assistance, unable to lie down to sleep, sleeping in a chair. It will be seven weeks before I can sleep through the night. The pain and the stress have a terrible impact on my MS symptoms, ramping them up, causing major issues with walking, cognition, tremors and numbness. My daughter has to help me put my underwear on and does my hair. My mother and friends and church cook for me. I can’t even spread butter on toast!


The six inch long incision is breathtakingly ugly. Gradually it sinks in that I have had major surgery. That this is going to take a long, long time to recover from. And I become extremely depressed. I feel as though my body has let me down by breaking. I feel as though life has let me down by throwing me this incredible curve when I am already dealing with so many disasters, MS and being out of work. I feel like Dr. Wonderful let me down by not telling me what the surgery entailed. But, to be fair, I asked no questions either. Part of that may be because I was demented by pain, narcotics and lack of sleep, but…they could have given me a clue. The picture of my face in the waiting room that morning should be next to the definition of ‘clueless’ in the dictionary. But here’s a scary fact: according to my daughter, who was with me, Dr. Wonderful did explain exactly what was entailed when we were in his office that Friday morning before the surgery. I just couldn’t hear it.


I have home physical therapy ordered. Janet, who comes to the house three times a week, is wonderful. She is cheerful and no-nonsense, patient and kind. She is tolerant when Bella the Maniac Shih-Tzu jumps all over her like, well, a maniac. She manipulates my arm gently to get back my range of motion. She is relentlessly encouraging and supportive. She tells me to rest and take care of myself and how to manage my arm and pain better. She worries about me and my blood pressure. She scolds me when I do too much. She is a major contributor to my healing process. I love her.


Gradually I start getting out a little, but a simple trip to the supermarket exhausts me. My sweet father drives me everywhere, doctor’s appointments, the supermarket, even a job interview. Yes, I went to a job interview two weeks post-op in a sling. (I didn’t get the job :(). We go to the supermarket and can’t find a parking spot, so we park in the designated “Parent with Child” spot, at 76 and 53 years of age, giggling like two little kids. I do have to say it is a treat spending that time with my father, like I was little again.


After eight weeks, the incision is completely healed (although still hideous). And so are the bones in my arm. Dr. Wonderful gives me the good news: I can drive again! It has been two months since I fell. My life screeched to a halt that day and is very, very slowly creeping back to normal. I am not there yet. I now go to out-patient physical therapy three times a week (Mike is a great therapist, but I do miss Janet!). My arm is gradually, painfully getting strength and motion back. I can dress myself now and sort of do my hair.


It is going to take me a long time to process this experience. There has been a lot of bad, a lot of craziness but much good as well. Many people came through for me, supporting and encouraging me, telling me they loved me and thought about me and were devastated for me. Dr. Wonderful was wonderful. He put me back together. I am trying to focus on all that instead of how hard it was to get appropriate care, how horrifyingly brutal the injury and surgery turned out to be, how this accident impacted my sense of safety and how long it is taking me to return to my interrupted life.


I am getting better every day. And that’s the story!

The Accident, Chapter Three

So. Monday comes, after a torturous weekend. I called the first name on my insurance list, we’ll call him Dr. Smith. I told his clerk I had broken my arm on Saturday and had been advised by the ER I had to be seen right away Monday morning. In a bored voice, she told me they couldn’t see me until Thursday. Oh, I think, she didn’t hear the broken arm part. So patiently I repeated myself and said I needed to see someone today. Sorry, she said. I asked if there was anyone else in the practice. No, she said, sorry.

Starting to feel panicky, I was trying not to cry. I thanked her and called the next name on the list, we’ll call him Dr. Jones.

Dr. Jones’ clerk was very pleasant and told me they could see me that morning. I couldn’t drive, so my wonderful sister rearranged her whole day to take me. We get there and the door says ‘Dr. A. Smith & Dr. B. Jones’. Dr. Smith was in the same office as Dr. Jones. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Their practices were separate but they shared the office and their appointment clerks sat next to each other. But that first woman, Dr. Smith’s clerk, with utter indifference, turned me away without an appointment. She never even asked the woman sitting next to her if Dr. Jones had anything available.

Dr. Jones was very sweet, very attentive and approximately 300 years old. I know, I’m being silly. He was actually more like 400 years old. He asked me how old I was so many times my sister started to giggle. Then he “lost” my x-rays, coming in and out of the examining room over and over, patting his pockets and muttering “They must be around here somewhere!”. I thought maybe it was a little comedy act he was putting on to help me relax. No such luck. He decided I needed another set to be taken by his technician.

The tech, we’ll call her Merciless Cow, told me to lie on the table, which was almost impossible for me due to the pain. I asked if I could have something under my shoulder to support it. The Merciless Cow acted as though she had never heard of such a request before. She finally roughly shoved a rolled up towel under my broken shoulder, took the x-rays while I tried to keep from passing out, then, without warning, she yanked the towel out from under my arm. I screamed so loudly my sister heard me in the waiting room and I actually briefly lost consciousness. The doctor ran and got me water and smelling salts.

He tells me that the head of the humerus bone in my arm is shattered into four fully separated pieces. That I will need shoulder replacement surgery. That I need a CT scan. That he doesn't do that kind of surgery, someone else will have to. But come back to see him, ummmm, Friday. After I have the CT scan that his office is arranging for Thursday.

My sister and I stumble back to the car in shock. I can hear his voice in my head saying ‘shoulder replacement, shoulder replacement’ over and over. REPLACEMENT!?!?!?! I am only 53 years old. Oh my God. I am in agony. My sister looks at me and says, "If you need surgery and a CT scan and your arm is broken in four places, why the fuck didn't he just admit you?!?!" So I start crying, because now I am in pain AND scared and I say I don't know. So all the way home she's yelling "I'm turning around and taking you to the ER" and I'm saying, "No, just let me go home and take some Percocet" and she's saying "You can't wait another WEEK to take care of four broken bones in your arm!!" Crying and yelling, crying and yelling, all the way home. Where I proceed to almost faint again.

Within a few hours, I give in. Mary Kate takes me back to the ER. Surely they will admit me. Surely they will help me. They give me IV dilaudid, which helped me sleep for about 2 consecutive hours, if nothing else. The doctor never even touches or looks at my arm. He does read the x-ray and tells me, you’re going to love this, “I’ve seen worse”. Come closer, doctor dear, so I can kick you in your testicles and then tell you I’ve seen worse.

At midnight, they send me home with oral dilaudid, promising it would help. I am too exhausted to dispute this. I wake up in pain at 2 am and it was too soon to take it again. Dozed. Wake up again at 3, still too soon. Dozed. Wake at 4, took one, dozed until 4:20, wake up in agony as if I took nothing.

So now I sat there doing Lamaze breathing with fiery knives of overwhelming pain slicing down my arm, which was three times its normal size and dark purple. Everything else, my cut and bruised legs and knees, my scraped hands and wrists, my cut face, are nothing in comparison. I am at my wit’s end.

At approximately 9 a.m. Tuesday, my son calls. His friend is engaged to the son of an orthopedic surgeon in my area, try that practice. I call there and that morning finally meet…Dr. Wonderful.

Dr. Wonderful is pleasant, handsome and take charge. He is also beautifully dressed. The whole package. (What can I say, I’m wounded but I still have eyeballs!) “First thing,” he says, “We have to get your pain under control.” Now I want to marry him. He then proceeds to list all the other things I will need: home care, a shower bench and, best of all, after the pain meds, a raised toilet seat. Heaven! It’s funny how your priorities change when you can’t sit down to pee without shrieking. Surgery is probably going to be needed, but not until the swelling and bruising go down over the next few days.

I float out of there on a cloud of optimism, with a fistful of prescriptions and a soft focus vision of Dr. Wonderful in silver armor on a white horse. Someone has listened to me. Someone is taking care of me. Someone cares!!!

I order my toilet seat and shower bench and they arrive so quickly it’s as though the guy had been standing behind a tree in my yard just waiting to be asked in someday. Because I cannot lie down, I settle, loaded with drugs, into an armchair in my sunroom. It is not too bad. I have the TV, a comfy chair, lots of light and as long as I DO NOT move, I am relatively comfortable.

I am blissfully unaware that I will be living in that chair for the next five weeks.

A sunroom during the day is a cheerful, cozy place, even if the weather is bad. Mine is full of overstuffed furniture to cuddle into whether reading or watching TV. A sunroom at night, when it is after midnight and all the lights are out and everyone else is in bed, is a spooky, gloomy place, full of the echoes of the things that happen during the day, a pair of the girl’s shoes under the bench, a book left by the reader that has slid to the floor. It is also unbelievably noisy. I live on a busy street, on a corner. There is nothing to muffle sound and many cars and trucks go by, even in the middle of the night. And I heard every one of them, even with all the windows closed. I would just start to doze off when some rattletrap would lumber by. It was hard enough to try to sleep sitting up, scootched into the left corner of the chair so my right arm was not touching anything but the pillows I had supporting it.

I went for a CT that Thursday. The doctor wanted to see if the pieces were displaced, or moved out of order. If they were all neatly tucked together, I might be able to get away with nothing more than a sling for a few weeks. I have to say, I was utterly certain this was going to be the case. I did not think, not for a single second, that I would have to have any surgery. That seemed preposterous to me. I was young and healthy. Well, young-ish and healthy-ish. My bones would never be so contrary as to be displaced! Honestly! The idea!

I was so out of it by Thursday, I barely remember going for the CT. I know I went to Dr. Wonderful on Friday too, but I hardly have any memory of that either. The medication, pain and lack of sleep were taking their toll. I know the doctor did tell me on Friday that he suspected the bones were displaced to the degree I would need surgery, but he wanted to check the CT results when he was at the hospital that afternoon. If they were, surgery would be early the following week. “Oh, like Wednesday?” I said. “No, like Monday.” he replied.

Hmmmmm. Well, that’s silly anyway. I’m not having surgery, I think to myself. As usual, as I have said on this site before, I was completely wrong, wrong, wrong.

Next: Under the Knife!

The Accident, Chapter Two

After falling and retrieving Bella from her lark through the neighbor’s yard, I staggered into the house. The sweet college boys that were doing odd jobs for me were eating the pizza I had ordered for them. One of them looked at me and said “Did you know you were bleeding?” No one can accuse his parents of wasting their tuition money.

I advised him I indeed was aware that I was bleeding and, additionally, I had broken my arm. They all clamored to drive me to the hospital right away. But my daughter Mary Kate had just run to the bank and, unreasonably, I wanted to wait for her. So, I assured them, I would be ok for the few minutes it would take her to get home. And I went to sit in the den. As usual, I was completely wrong. I was definitely NOT ok waiting.

I sat at my desk with everything in my body throbbing in concert with my heart, which was galloping. The minutes seemed to be weeks long. I was getting shocky and nauseous, there was no sign of Mary Kate, so I gave in and two of the boys drove me to the ER.

I must have looked ghastly, because one of them kept up a cheerful, nervous patter all the way there. Every bump in the road reverberated through me and I focused on not throwing up, which would have been the final ignominy.

At the hospital, I was seen right away, one of the perks of my daughter working there. The boys stayed until Mary Kate arrived. That is when the dam broke and I, someone who NEVER cries, began to weep in horrible, hiccupping sobs.

I could barely answer the questions the doctor was asking me. When I went for x-rays, the tech was incredibly nice and gentle, but I involuntarily shrieked every time she moved my arm. This is just one sample:

Me: sob sob hiccup sob
Tech: Ok, Marie, I am just going to move your arm a little (gingerly moves the arm 1 centimeter).
Me: loud scream I’m sorry, sob, sob, I’m so sorry.
Tech: That’s ok, I just need to move it a little more (even more gingerly moves the arm ½ centimeter).
Me: loud scream Oh sorry, sob, sob, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Tech: Ok, just let me see how this one came out.
Me: sob Is it broken? sob
Tech (grimacing): It looks like it…
Me: BOOOOO HOOOO HOOOOO

Before this, back in the exam room, I had told the nurse the pain was nine out of ten. Hey, I didn’t want to be greedy. When I returned from the x-ray I said, sobbing all the while, “I have to change it. Can I change it? I need to change it. It’s a ten. It’s a ten. I was wrong about the nine, it’s a ten, not a nine. The nine was completely wrong, it’s a ten. Can I change it? Is it ok to change it? Because I have to change it to a ten…” And I kept going. I NEEDED PAIN MEDICINE.

The doctor eventually came in and mildly confirmed it was broken. So be sure to follow up with your orthopedist on Monday. Like I had a bunion or something. And I meekly said ok, they gave me a sling, a single Percocet and sent me on my way with my smashed arm and mangled body.

Much, much later I started to process the ER visit. The Percocet, predictably, did nothing to touch the pain. I was in agony. Every movement hurt. And, I thought, “my” orthopedist? Like I keep one on retainer? I couldn’t have even told you the name of an orthopedist in my county. But there was nothing I could do until Monday morning. They had sent me home and I had acquiesced. This was Saturday night. I suffered through another day, just waiting for Monday morning, and, I thought, some relief. Silly me.

The next hilarious, fun-filled chapter in The Plucky Adventures of Marie, Casualty Girl:

Marie Tries to Find Adequate Medical Care

Ha ha ha ha

There's No Justice In This World

In addition to being old and fat, I have MS. Most of my brain is in complete denial about this. Because it is ridiculous to think of myself, a normal, ordinary person with here-to-fore peasant-like good health, as having a serious chronic disease.

Every time I go to the neurologist, I futilely ask if perhaps there has been some mistake. But he doesn’t mince words: “Oh, you definitely have MS” he says cheerfully in his cute English accent.

There is nothing good about having MS. Absolutely nothing. Some people say, “I have MS, but MS doesn’t have me”. This is rationalization that borders on the delusional. The MS tentacles insinuate themselves into every aspect of your life: mobility, thinking, elimination, stamina, sexuality, everything. When you have MS, your life of doing things without a thought is over.

Pain is part of the MS package. Pain from damaged nerves that does not respond to conventional analgesics. I have been crippled with neck, back, hip and leg pain for weeks. Nothing was helping. My neurologist just prescribed Neurontin, which is to treat neurogenic pain. I finally began to get some relief.

But wait, there’s more!! Because what do I find in the drug information about Neurontin? It causes WEIGHT GAIN. That is what every info sheet says: weight gain. Weight gain, weight gain, WEIGHT GAIN AND WE DO MEAN YOU MARIE YOU BIG FAT PIG!!!!!!

And according to those who know, we’re not just talking a few pounds. We’re talking up to 30 pounds!

God help me, I would rather be in pain than continue to be fat. How sick is that? But I will give the med a try and see what happens.