I HAVE MY OWN BAR CODE
The Hospital
I have written a lot about the countdown; so let me pick up the story on the morning we went to hospital. We habitually run early, so Robert and I pulled up in front of The Rogue Valley Medical Center at 9:30 for a 10:00 a.m. check in for a 12:00 surgery.
Then we sat in various waiting rooms until we were called. Forms and signatures followed. My friend Leslie turned up just as I was signing my first set of forms. My doctor pal, Ruth, made an appearance. They buoyed me up with hugs and good wishes.
As always, Robert was my rock. He was sitting at the kiosk handing over a large check to cover our deductible. Hospital/surgical is one of the few things our puny insurance actually covers. What a relief that turned out to be, as test after test stacked up over the days to come. When they finally admitted me, I received two wristbands -- something new had been added -- I now had my very own barcode. That meant that anytime day or night when someone came into my room to poke me with a needle, or woke me up to give me something to help me to sleep, or to take my temperature, I was asked for my name and date of birth, and then they scanned me, like a jar of olives.
After the forms were seen to, we sat. Hurry up and wait. Leslie and I made small talk and finally settled into a comfortable silence. Robert read his iPad and shared tidbits from the London Times. I could feel his nerves. He was holding himself together, and I was afraid he might go, “Boing.”
Time to Go
I was taken away into a small white room and placed on a table with wheels. I exchanged my street clothes for a monkey suit. It was a new fangled hospital gown, designed to hook up to hoses that blew in hot air (in case one got cold). Can you imagine how uncomfortable that was? Not to mention it had a scratchy grey lining. At this rate, I would have a rash even before they put surgical tape on my skin. I shed that quickly and opted for the old fashioned unbelievably ugly gown that opens in the back and bares your bum. You would think someone might have designed something better. I heard a rumor that in Italy they wear Armani gowns. I must google that. I hope it’s true.
R. sat across from me, and we sighed a lot. I told him to poodle off and take care of his errands – medical paraphernalia purchases, grocery store, and maybe a visit to the gym. Plenty of time before they would be rolling me out of the recovery room. Reluctantly, he departed.
The surgeon was running two and one half hours late. Robert called to see if I was out of surgery only to discover I was still in waiting mode. He had run out of errands and was about to return to the hospital in the hopes of seeing me whole and breathing, mission accomplished. But no -- more waiting, more angst.
I felt impatient, nervy, bored. They inserted an IV in my wrist, and my mind began to slide out sideways. Then my friend, Cathy, turned up. She was a nurse at the hospital, on call and kitted out for work. We talked for two hours, revealing the secrets of our past. Then Glenna showed up for a short time She presented me with a stuffed dog we named Duncan. He was dispatched to my waiting room, and I was left alone waiting and waiting and waiting. Finally my nurse appeared and the drugs began in earnest. The rest is a blur until I awoke in room 5353.
Post surgery was grueling. I was in intense pain and at the mercy of my nurses. They were kind and skilled, BUT there weren’t enough of them to go around. When asked, they openly discussed the under-staffing problem. That meant some days I waited up to 25 minutes to be escorted to the bathroom. I finally had to resort to ringing the red bell ( for forth time) and say,
“ If you don’t come soon, I shall wet the bed.”
I asked one of the nurses to relate her strangest story. She told me about an eighty-year-old man who lay in his bed for two weeks without a single visitor, card or flowers. But whenever she entered the room, he was talking. It turned out he was keeping a running dialogue with a jar that rested on the table beside his bed. It contained his wife’s ashes. She had been dead for eight years.
When you are in the hospital, you are helpless; you are trapped. There is an overwhelming sense of immediacy, intimacy and authenticity. No wasting time, no wasting breath, no wasting of our precious lives.
I had a steady stream of visitors until I was discharged. That first night, Dr. Jake and Leslie held my hand, fed me ice chips and offered succor and love. Jake also brought along an entourage of animals that star in my new book. My friends were fantastic. Of course, my Rock popped in and out regularly, bringing foods that appealed – there weren’t many of those; I was nauseous and too exhausted to chew.
The following days included numerous visits from loving friends and conversations I dozed through. Balloons appeared, books stacked up by my bedside. I was gifted with candy, flowers, prunes (most important) and dried figs (also highly prized) and deliciously scented body lotion. I also began working with my physical therapist, a sympathetic thin young man named Dave, who spoke lovingly of his family and talked about the trip to Paris he and one of his daughters were planning. He was a delight and we worked hard, flexing glutes and quads, lifting and lowering my painful and unresponsive leg and ambling up and down the hallway on my walker. In England they are called zimmers. A much friendlier moniker, don’t you think? Protectively, he stood behind me as we drifted up the corridor. We passed other dedicated and pathetic souls as we step-rolled our way up the hallway, negotiated a three-point turn and step-rolled back. Our bums were hanging out, but we were too focused and fatigued to care. There was a surprising sense of bonhomie throughout my hospital stay.
On day three, R. decided it was time to spring me from my sickbed, and so he did. R. can work miracles. Once he rescued me in the middle of an Indian desert. We were touring, and I felt too ill to stay on the bus. He summoned up a taxi, seemingly from space and delivered us safely to a hotel in Delhi. It would not have qualified for the five star category, but it felt like the Peninsula to me. Nothing ever tasted so good as that iced coffee and cream they brought to our miniscule room. Well, except for the ice chips after surgery. Cottonmouth is an on going challenge.
Three gifts awaited me at the time of my discharge: a shiny new grey walker and two toilet seats, one for our bathroom commode and the other for the bidet. But wait there’s more. I also am the proud owner of two grabbers. I don’t know what else to call them. They consist of long poles with pincers on the end that enable the disabled to pick up things off the floor, or slide them into one’s reach. I am quite attached to my grabbers. One is affixed to the side of my zimmer with Velcro and the other protrudes from the top of my green felt bag, hanging on the opposite side. It looks like I am packing, but in reality I could not orchestrate a dual draw, since I always need to have one hand in contact with something solid.
A note about walkers, aka, zimmers. (We had a car called a Zimmer. It was purple. It was ridiculous, but that’s another blog.)
In the hospital, I used a walker with two wheels in the front and two yellow tennis balls on the back. They were notched the way you cut chestnuts before roasting and then the two back legs were inserted. It was comical, but very practical – quiet and non-abrasive to the floor.
Unfortunately this was a non-starter at home. If Mumbles were confronted by a rolling vehicle with two tennis balls, he would have been a dog possessed. To avoid this, Robert fitted the back feet with white slides that glided. They are called skis.
In the glossy pre-op magazine they hand out prior to surgery with all the dos and don’ts telling you how fantastic you are going to feel afterwards, there was one paragraph that promised I would be able to play tennis, ski and golf. This became a corny household joke. “And she’ll be able to ski and play golf,” Robert would say to our dinner guests: “Funny that, because she could never do that before. This surgery must be a miracle.” I know it sounds silly, but I’m big on silly and nonsense, too. It siphons off the stress.
Once home, I found getting around on the zimmer quite doable, tiring of course, painful, but it gave me freedom. However, getting up and ready to roll – “Ouch.” Getting in and out of vehicles – “Ouch!”
On and off of chairs -- “Ouch again!” Toilets seats -- “Ouch in triplicate!” Getting in and out of bed took two of us. I was unable to lift my leg without assistance. You get the drift. It is unbelievably enervating and worky for everyone concerned. Any change of position became a monumental undertaking. There was not going to be anything spontaneous in this recovery.
The pain was unpredictable: at times a massive ache, then piercing and burning. “Stay ahead of the pain,” a chorus of voices admonished me, and I finally gave it. If you don’t follow these wise instructions, it’s like trying to catch up with an Olympic runner who has already lapped you several times. It only gets worse. But I feel a little muzzy as a result. Cheerful but muzzy.
My First Week at Home
I have become a place that people want to escape from.
In the past I have been a destination retreat offering succor and restoration to one’s spirits and psyche, but this hip surgery thingy has rendered me a totally needy and functionally helpless individual.
“Yuk.” First of all I loathe ordering people around, but no matter how polite I am, or how cunningly I phrase my requests, they are unrelenting.
“ I need to take my Coumadin. Please can you bring me the Psyllium with an extra glass of water? Thank you sooo much.” (Think The Closer intonation.).
"On your next trip to the den, would you be kind enough to carry the New Yorker through? When you get up – don’t make a special effort -- would you mind bringing me more water?” and so it goes.
It took me days to ask someone to top up the vase with the extravagant and glorious bouquet sent by my friend Anne. I could feel the blooms gasping.
At least I can get on and off of the toilet by myself, and today, and for the first time since getting home, I was able to lift my operated leg (left), as they say, onto the bed by hooking the foot of my right leg under the ankle of my left. A real coup. One of my favorite phrases, “It’s the little victories” has taken on new meaning, so has “It’s relative.”
Since getting home from the hospital, I haven’t spent much time outdoors -- too dicey with uneven lawn and so forth -- but this morning Robert accompanied me and my walker to the front drive area, a large tarmacked circle surrounded by a jungle of bamboo, hibiscus, lilies, wild grasses and other abundant plantings. I was in awe. I took in overlooked details of flowers that had bloomed there for years. I regarded the bamboo with new eyes of affection. The air smelled the way a sweet summer morning should. And I learned that there is a slight incline from the parking area to the mudroom door. “Pant. Pant.”
A word about my angels, Lizbeth and Robert.
Our friend Lizbeth drove down from Lincoln City to spend the first week with us. Robert was going to need help, and she was the perfect candidate.
The week went quickly. Lots of buzz in the house. Delicious meals prepared by a collaboration of my two caregivers. Lizbeth took regular, throw-the-ball-breaks with Mumbles. Thank Dog. He was thrilled to see me but intimidated by my walker and kept cowering as I approached on my wheels-cum legs. He is used it now, but my feelings were quite hurt when I arrived home and he didn’t leap for joy.
We attached two receptacles to the arms of my transport, and now it looks a little like performance art. The adornments include: woven wristbands, peacock feathers, a Japanese purple and teal brocade bag and a lime green felted tote, embellished with red leaves. Commandeering it all was a determined woman in black nightgown advancing like an obsessed snail on a mission.
R. and L. did get into little fusses. They are both strong personalities with definite ideas about how things should be done. I would hear scuffling from the kitchen but just sighed and returned to my novel.
It is very strange not to be able to work or do anything other than heal. This is my career. I am still talking on the phone and mentoring the women that I have been working with for years; that always brings joy, but the fatigue I feel every day is a surprise. I must handle my body and movements with utter mindfulness and tender care. One false move could be fatal. Healing is a meditation in slow motion.
Soon it was time for Lizbeth to depart, and then there was a spontaneous visit from another dear young woman, Jennifer, who drove up from Mount Shasta. We had met many years ago, through my yoga classes. She was a devoted student and as years passed, we became heart friends. We didn’t see each other often, and now here she was chez-nous, cooking with Robert and doing the chores I loved but could no longer do: feed the fish, fill bird feeders, tend the flowers, etc.
We had plenty of time to catch up on our lives. I learned of her new house, fiancé, job change, and she even drove me to the doctor when my foot turned a hue of blue and everyone was worried. That led to a hospital visit to rule out a blood clot. I had plans that afternoon to celebrate my birthday with a passel of women friends. Being sick is inconvenient to say the least, but the secret is revealing itself to me again and again.
Let it unfold, Mari. Let go of any idea of how things should go, feel, look, be. Find moments of gratitude and keep your sense of humor and perspective, without ever falling into the abyss of earnestness.
The one welcome outcome of that doctor visit was permission to shower -- well my rendition of a shower --which involved sitting on the chair that doubled as bidet seat and awkwardly maneuvering the spray attachment around my fragile form while not dropping the soap. Whatever you do, Mari, do NOT drop the soap. No grabber in the shower.
Jen, too, has departed and the Rock and I are on our own. He is learning to barbeque and cook all manner of things. I stand by, or lean by, offering suggestions and encouragement. I have mastered the art of napping for the first time in my life, and strangely the desire for caffeine has left me. I miss the ritual of my tea, but this body just doesn’t want to be aroused in any way. It wants calm and a quiet environment conducive to reapairing.
A note about a subject taboo. Skip this if you don’t like to talk about bodily functions.
So when I got home, I was horridly constipated. Goes along with the beast of anesthesia, medication and inactivity. I ended up calling my proctologist at home to ask her advice. She is another angel in my life and has become a true friend through the years. Besides, she is a Mari, too. I have had anal surgery in the past and the lack of internal movement was of great concern to me, if of no interest to you. I was in the danger zone. Who but your bosom friend or family would give you an enema and wipe your ass beyond your infancy? Lizbeth got big points for that, and I got big relief. I said to Mari, if there had been a choice between visiting the Louvre and visiting the Loo, it was a no-brainer. Defecating won out with room to spare. Her response was, “Welcome to my world.”
Since I’m on the subject of nether regions, let me elaborate a little further. Now I suggest you tune out if you are not a dog person.
Mumbles has warmed to my walker. So now, when I sit on the toilet, walker parked facing me, Mumbles brings his toy: Carrot face or Madame Stretch, Monsieur Renaud or Madame Oiseau. I put Mumbles in down pose, “Couches!” and he looks at me with that amazing one-pointed border collie focus. He waits. The suspense builds. I place his toy on my handlebars and release him, “D’accord!” He lunges with joy and gives the item some stick, i.e. shakes the bejesus out of it. Dogs, too, are resilient and adaptable. To survive we must continue to adapt, adjust, accommodate. Toss in a soupçon of loving-kindness, and the recipe continues to nourish. Simple but full of substance.
The edema made me look as though I had a turtle foot at the end of my left leg, but the blood clot was ruled out. “Whew.” I am faithfully doing of my physical therapy exercises and walking. I am cultivating patient acceptance as much as possible. I feel a wee bit better today. For the first time, I imagine that there might be a normal life after surgery.
It has been interesting to watch my mind and how equanimitous my spirits have been throughout. I have had bouts of fear and loneliness, but on the whole I find myself practicing the Ordinary Dharma. This is a grace.
For someone who feels she never can do enough, it is an epiphany. I admit that there are signs of stress. I feel somewhat superstitious and easily caught up in minutia: items must be in their right place; actions must be fulfilled in a precise manner.
Signing off now. Time to ice and elevate.
Please skip on the lawn on my behalf or blow a kiss to the sea.
I did limp out to the Koi pond, Robert holding my left hand and a cane in my right. There are 12 lilies blooming. Pink and white. It is thrilling.
Stay in love,
Your turtle-toed Hipster
Oh a quick turtle-toe note – I heard a great new euphemism. We are not getting old, we are exhibiting vintage refinement.
