Days passed meaninglessly, with only the respite of visitors to keep me
watchful of the hours, that and the medication schedule, which changed
dramatically after the 3rd day post surgury.
The reason for the twitching and shaking was discovered to be a result
of an allergy to the Demerol that they'd been pumping through my system,
and with my pain killer changed over to Morphine, things got slightly
better, so far as pain relief went.
Days passed, and I became stronger, more tolerant of the constant and
unremitting pain that would jar me out of a night's sleep, but there were
concerns far greater then those of pain, for example, I'd been lying in
bed for half a week with unwashed hair.
Now, normally, this would be of little to no concern to me, I went camping,
I was used to not being able to take a shower for a couple of days, but
I'd been lying in the road, with a cut on the temple, and as a result, my
hair had dried and snarled into fierce spikes, knotted, and matted into
clumps of hair, tar, dried blood, and gods know what else.
I've never really been one to be concerned with my looks, but this, this
was beyond what I was used to, so my mother asked about exactly how one
would bathe a patient's hair when they were effectively bedbound.
She was told that the only way my hair would be unsnarled and washed, was
to go downstairs to the "beauty parlor" and pay $40 to have it done.
Ridiculous.
So a plot was hatched, that very day, we would get me into a wheelchair,
I would drape my head backwards over the sink, and we'd condition it
heavily, then try to comb the worst of it out.
In theory, a good idea.
We managed the getting me into the wheelchair portion of the plan quite
well, with only a small bit of extra pain on my part, and wincing on my
mother's.
However, when we wheeled me into the bathroom, a small additional problem
surfaced, there was no way that we could fit me, my leg, (which stuck
straight out from me with the massive cast on) and my mother into the
bathroom at the angles ideal for me having my head over the sink.
Being the creative woman that she is, my mother grabbed a garbage can
and a glass and proceeded to drape my head back over the garbage can,
while refilling the glass, again and again, just to get my hair wet
enough to add the shampoo.
Again, in theory, a good idea.
In practice though, it didn't work out so well.
The water ran down my back and puddled on the floor behind me, the shampoo
got in my eyes, and the garbage can leaked what little soapy water had
found it's miraculous way in there, onto the floor
. About an hour and a half later, we tried to drag a brush through the
damp masses of knotted hair that had been throughly soaked in conditoner
to soften said snarls.
It never works quite the way you envision it though..
My hair, long as it was, resisted the brush, and seemed to prefer being
yanked out by the roots as opposed to being deknotted.
She kept trying to tug the brush through my hair, until the brush just
snapped.
Another brush was produced, and the battle resumed.
An hour passed before she grudgingly gave up on the job at hand, it
would do, at least until I got home and into a bathtub to do it properly.
We got me back into the bed, although, thinking back, I have no idea
how, the cast itself must have weighed at least 50 pounds, and I was
supporting none of that weight myself, my mother left to go spend time
with my sister, and I lay back on my pillows and waited for my medications
to arrive, the high point of my afternoons.
The nurse who usually came with my medications was not the person who
walked into the room, however, it was someone new, a perky little person,
not in a nurse's uniform opened the door with a chart in her hand.
I looked at the tag on her collar, and immidiately felt some small
hostilities towards her.
A physiotherapist.
I knew what was coming next, or at least somewhat.
"Let's get you out of that bed and outside in the fresh air", she chirped
at me.
I wanted to strangle her, but desisted, knowing that it was the only way
that I would ever get any "better".
Still, I wasn't going to be horribly co-operative with her.
"Trust me" she said, and kept saying as she dragged my leg over the edge
of the bed and towards the floor.
"Trust me, I'm not going to let your leg drop."
My leg was dangling over the edge of the bed, and I was just about to put
my other foot down to the ground when she, (you guessed it) dropped my leg.
It clanged against the metal parts of the bed, and I could feel the
reverberations travel from my ankle, up to my hip, and travel back down
in quick, hot waves of pain, each one worse then the previous.
I'll admit, I was not the nicest person after that.
I questioned her lineage quite loudly, and called into question where she'd
gotten her medical degree.
In short, I swore like a sailor, and threatened her life.
She took little to no notice of my language, or the volume in which I was
saying these things, and kept trying to pull me out of bed, with not so
much as an apology.
After more threats of retribution which I was in no shape to deliver, I
was in the wheelchair once more, and being taught how to get in and out
of bed myself.
It probably would've been considerably easier, had I not gotten tangled in
the IV tubing and knocked the pole holding the bag which had been dripping
into my arm onto the floor, adding to the large puddle that was seeping
under the bathroom door from the earlier attempt to wash my hair.
While the cleaning staff was called to mop up the mess on the floor, and to
unclog the sink, (which had been clogged since I was put into that room) I
was wheeled around the hospital grounds, and frankly, I wasn't too
impressed with what I saw.
Until we reached the "smoking room" that is.
I was, at the time, a smoker, and having not had a cigarette for several
days, I was in a worse mood for it.
I was wheeled over to the window, given my purse, which contained my
cigarettes, and an ashtray, and was quite promptly left alone.
As I happily lit up for the first time in far too long, I looked around
the room at the other occupants, and wondered exactly how one became
social in a hospital setting like this.
Turns out that I didn't have to initiate conversation, as someone asked me
if I had a "light" not too long after I arrived.
I wheeled over to them, handed them my lighter, and introduced myself.
They were quite polite and nice, asked me what I was "in for", told me that
they'd been in hospital for 2 weeks "this time".
Not understanding the "this time" reference, I asked (as politely as
possible) why they had been admitted.
They explained that they had Crone's disease, and that they were going
through a bad patch, so they had to come in for treatment when that
happened.
I was somewhat surprised, not knowing much about Crone's, other then it
made you dreadfully ill sometimes, and that it was partially treatable,
but not curable.
It was then I realized that I'd been spending the last few days feeling
extremely sorry for myself, and that I had no right to do so.
I was going to get better, but this person who was being very nice, was
not ever going to "get better".
My Father arrived as I was wrapping up my conversation with my new friend,
and I asked to be taken back to my room.
We sat and talked, once we managed the struggle with my leg that would be
inevitable to get me back into bed, and I apologized for the way that I'd
been behaving.
He told me that none was needed, that he wouldn't accept it, and that
he'd be back as soon as possible, he'd been missing work and needed to get
there for the next day.
I was hugged once more, and he left.
I sat and thought about how "unfair" life could be, and which road I
wanted to follow, to wallow in self pity and never get out of bed, or to
gain strength from it, after all, the pain would pass, and I'd be back to
myself in no time, just a broken leg, after all.
The nurse arrived with my evening dose of Morphine, and my thoughts fell
apart like confetti in a strong wind, scattered to the 4 winds.
The next two weeks passed in much the same way, with the pain slowly
becoming lessened, day by agonizing day, with friends visiting and well
wishing, my Father coming and bringing me paletable food whenever
possible, Sean almost constantly by my bedside, and a slew of doctors and
nurses passing through.
The day before I was to leave the hospital, a siren broke the silence of
the room, and a voice boomed over the loudspeaker, "Condition Yellow, this
is not a drill, initiate lockdown procedures immidiately"
I had no idea what that meant until the nurse that was on duty for that
shift took a cursory glance around my room, and then locked the door.
I was somewhat startled, to say the least, for I had no idea what was
happening.
The sirens continued their blaring out of the "Code Yellow" for several
hours, while I waited impaitiently for someone to explain what was going
on, and to bring my medications, which were long overdue.
Finally, someone came to release me from the prison that my room had
become, and before they could run off, I asked them to explain exactly
what the code thing was all about.
"A Code Yellow only happens when one of the paitients from the psych ward
is roaming other floors, presumably a dangerous one at that", I was told
just before she wisked away to tend to the other detainees.
I was extremely glad to be leaving the hospital.
Before I could be sent home however, one more bit of unpleasantness awaited
me, they were going to have to recast my leg, as it would be several weeks
before I'd be going back for a checkup.
I was put in something called a "half-slab", which is a long slab of
plaster down the back of the leg, and in my case, once more, from hip to
toes, and then wrapped with bandages until it tightens properly against the
leg to afford some stability.
Remembering just how badly the last casting job had been done, I was more
then somewhat nervous about the procedure, but the casting part of it seemed
to go fairly well.
When they removed the old slab from my leg, I looked on with a horrified
fascination once more, as this piece of meat, held together with metal
staples, with a large black scab on one side, actually belonged to me.
Sort of like slowing down near a car accident, or peeking through your
fingers at a horror film.
You know you shouldn't be looking, and you know you're going to be sorry
that you did, but you go ahead and do it regardless.
Once my leg was covered again with clean bandages and plaster, I somewhat
forgot about what was lurking underneath, and happily, I did so.
Arrangements were made for me to have followup appointments at another
hospital, as I already had an Orthopedic surgeon there, and I as I had
known him for some time, there was already a certain degree of trust in
place there.
I was helped into a van, and soon was speeding my way back home, to my
room, to more familliar and comfortable surroundings.
I was helped into the house, using the reverse crawling method to get up
the stairs, not being so adroit on my crutches as of yet, and lay back in
my own bed.
Almost instantly, I fell into contented sleep.
