We went to see Dr. P. for a follow up appointment the week after I left the hospital. They took off my wrap. I had no idea that there was a half cast supporting the underside of my arm until they took everything off completely. My fingers were still not working, and I had to support my arm by holding it in my other arm to move it around. It just laid there on my leg palm up for most of that appointment.
Dr. P. checked the wound. It was all still black and extremely red. IF you weren't careful, you could glance at it and think I'd just taken a blade to my arm like Claire Danes on the Royal Tennenbaums. The glue was still holding the skin together.
Dr. P. also checked my sensory. He'd touch an area of my arm and I would feel it in a completely different place. It was still numb, like not even half awake. I couldn't really feel that he was touching me. He would ask me to wiggle each finger, and the only ones moving were still 3, 4 and 5. 2 was sort of twitching, and my thumb still wouldn't work. He said he didn't know what was going on, so he explained what happened in the procedure.
When you have an area operated on that has lots of muscles, tendons and nerves, they have to pick them up and move them out of the way before they can operate where they need to be. Basically, they took what looks like a binder clip to keep them away from the bone so they could saw and drill. Dr. P. said he thinks that this could have traumatized my nerves and that could be why there is poor response even after the anesthetics had flushed my body.
I ask him what the likelihood is that I'll be able to return to normal sensations and movements; he says that my condition is unusual. He thinks that it could take as long as 3 months considering my symptoms.
After he chatted with us, he sent us over to X-ray across the hall. I walk in with my wound wide open for everyone to stare at ... and they sure did. In Europe, staring is not associated with stigma like it is in the U.S. People love to observe others. It's actually considered rude to break eye contact if you're caught staring and act like you're doing something bad. It's acceptable to stare at anyone, for any reason. It's just something you get used to. On the one hand, it's not really that bad. They're never staring to make judgments or talk about you like Americans are. It's actually easy to get used to. However, when you walk into a room full of people with what looks like an attempted suicide wound that is screaming for attention, it gets incredibly uncomfortable. I knew I looked like a pathetic, bloated, sad person and it really looked like I attempted suicide.
I was happy to have to sit there for only a few minutes when they took me in to the X-ray. A few minutes later I was back in Dr. P.'s office, my husband clutching the X-ray photos and I delicately embracing my wounded arm. Dr. P. came back in and looked at the X-rays, said they were good, and that I should expect the healing process to take anywhere from 1 to 2 years. That meant, my bone growing back together. Only after it did could they remove the stabilizing screws and plate. They then wrapped me up and sent me home.
We went home that day with instructions to take my arm out of its wrap and half-cast to wash. I don't know if this was worse than the 3 straight weeks of nausea, but it was bad. I couldn't control the arm so I got really freaked out when it would flop around. It was like there were no bones in it, and it scared me. I kept thinking the screws are going to come loose or the plate will shift, or my bone will break and fracture further. It was horrifying to watch it wiggle around like rubber and not have any control. It also did not feel good. It was awkward and painful to say the least considering the mound of metal holding my arm together, and the skin glued over it.
Honestly, I think it scared my husband more than me because I'd get so freaked out I'd cry when he'd give me a bath. We lightly washed around the wound, but never over it. I wasn't allowed to soak it because of the glue holding it together. We had to pat it dry and make sure that it was completely dry before we wrapped it back up. But, he would charge through with his duty to take care of me. Usually, he feels helpless and doesn't know what to do because how can someone really do something about the pain? When it came to baths however, no problem. He was very careful and very good with me.
I don't really know how to describe this "rubber" arm to you. Not many people have had surgeries where their situation would be similar. I would best describe rubber arm like a newborn baby's neck. If you're not careful, it jerks and flops around dangerously. Let me tell you, it was the worst of the weird feelings in my arm that I've ever had when it comes to my Kienbock's Disease.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
I Can Do Nothing All My Myself
After leaving the hospital, things got difficult. My husband had to work all the time and we were expecting his parents to arrive in 3 weeks. I had class and I also taught music lessons to 6 kids during the week. Additionally, we lived in a 4 storey home, and have a dog. There just wasn't anyone who wasn't busy or exhausted who could do anything.
My husband had to take over all my normal duties around the house - which was no easy task. I practically laid in bed or on the couch all day unless I had to give lessons, or use the computer. Okay, I'll be honest. Using the computer was horrible, I didn't really use it ... I massacred it. I'd go check my email, check my facebook, check my bills, etc, and all of this would take so long because I couldn't type and I couldn't use the mouse with my right hand. I wasn't great with using the mouse backwards, and I often threw fits because I'd screw something up.
Take for example the day I was trying to do bills. See, I have this system where I check the bank balance online every day, input anything into a spreadsheet that we do our balance on, and then make sure bills are set up for payment on the 1st or 15th. Since we were in Germany, this was very important to do every day. And, to also check the daily exchange rates so we knew if we could get Euros or not. So, I'm doing this, and I have a difficult time keeping from clicking the wrong thing. So I'm clicking around on a site where I'm paying on our bills and because I'm trying to use the mouse left-handed, I hit the wrong button. I paid the bill twice because I accidentally left the payment page, went back in, pushed the paid button, and it said that I had two pending payments. Needless to say I get really frustrated.
Throwing fits became somewhat regular. The pain was intolerable, and I got hardly any sleep because of it. I had to constantly take baths and could only take them when my husband was home because I couldn't wash myself, I couldn't get in and out without his help, and I couldn't shave. That was awful. So, I'd have to wait until he came home at 7 in the morning, and then until he'd get up at 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I taught him how to wash my hair and face, and then he'd scrub the ever loving crap out of me. Since the surgery I'd been sweating a lot - partially because of the pain and partly because of persistent fevers. It's important to me to smell good - or at least clean. I hate feeling gross and since I'd never been sweaty like this in my life, it made me angry and self-conscious.
I'd also have to wait for my husband to cook, to clean, to do laundry, and to do my schoolwork. I took classes with a university that has a division specializing in military overseas. It's a nationally accredited university, founded in the 1800s, so it's all legit and they're famous for their courses abroad. Anyhow, I worked it out with my instructor that I would dictate my assignments to my husband so I could get them in on time. It made us bother really mad. I have a schedule when it comes to school, and he is always a distraction - a good one though. Anyhow, we'd pull two chairs up to the desk, He'd find the assignment in the classroom for me, and then I would dictate my answers. I think really really fast, and I type really really fast. My husband, on the other hand, takes information very slow. He'll think it over very carefully. Well, his careful mind and my speedy one did not mesh well. I would dictate to him, and he'd interrupt to ask a bunch of questions, and then he'd type slow and tell me I was talking too fast. Believe me, this is no way to write papers. I'd yell at him that I couldn't control the situation and that the least he could do was keep up, and he'd yell at me and tell me I was being mean .... We did this every assignment until the class was over. It was not conducive to my learning astronomy mind you, but we always made up afterwards and promised we'd try harder not to lose our tempers.
Things were rough for the next few months all together, but I think that whole winter was like living in hell. I'd be in pain, I'd scream and cry all the time because I had no pain killers, and then the nausea came. That was the worst. My family has allergies to anesthetics - remember my tooth drilling? Well, I knew that because of the block and the sleeper stuff that I'd had a lot of anesthetics pumped into me. I took to eating crackers and soda or water all day every day. Any time I tried to eat a regular meal, I'd get sick. I spent an entire two weeks in complete nausea before my husband had a day off and could take me in to see Dr. R. I was miserable, and I knew that she would help.
So, I go in to Dr. R. with my husband. I tell her that I haven't eaten a proper meal since before the hospital, that I've been puking every day and that I've had constant nausea that I can't get rid of. She tells me in her posh British accent that she'll fix me right up, and then says she'll throw in some pain meds. I'm only supposed to take the nausea pills when I feel nauseous, and only take the pain pills when I'm in pain.
Well, I can tell you honestly I took none of those pain pills. I'd gotten so used to nothing working that it wasn't worth it to pump more crap into my body and risk getting sicker. So, I took those anti-nausea pills when I needed to, and they worked. I'd get nauseous, pop the pill, and in about 2 hours, things would be better because it was just the pain then.
I was relegated to doing absolutely nothing all the time. It got boring really fast since I couldn't hold a book open or get comfortable enough to read, I couldn't play my Wii or PS3, I got much too frustrated to use the computer, so I spent most of my days napping and watching movies. It was pretty bad. If I wanted a drink, I had to get my husband. If I wanted a change of clothes, I had to get my husband. If I wanted to move something or I spilled something (which happened a LOT), I had to get my husband. I took to wearing exercise and pajama pants all the time so I didn't have to get him to take me to the bathroom and I only wore tops with bras built in so he never had to put them on and take them off - which would be too difficult with my arm. I think the only things I could really do were open and close doors, put on my house clothes, and carry small objects like my ice pack. It was horrible, demeaning, and just plain annoying.
My husband tried to be supportive and compassionate, but he was either at work, or sleeping. He did take good care of me the few hours he was awake. He wouldn't sleep in the same bed as me for fear of hurting me. When he came home from work in the mornings, he'd make sure I was up before he went to bed. If I wasn't, he'd wait until I was. I told him to stop being silly, but he didn't start sleeping in the same bed with me until I got my cast the day before his parents arrived. He spent 3 weeks like that. I loved him for it even though it was a little protective.
Doing nothing seems like it's not really a big deal, until you lose the use of your dominant arm completely. It was still swollen much too large, but the icing and exercising had helped me regain slight movement in fingers 3, 4, and 5. I couldn't move 1 or 2 still, they sort of twitched when I moved them, but progress was very, very slow and erratic at best.
My husband had to take over all my normal duties around the house - which was no easy task. I practically laid in bed or on the couch all day unless I had to give lessons, or use the computer. Okay, I'll be honest. Using the computer was horrible, I didn't really use it ... I massacred it. I'd go check my email, check my facebook, check my bills, etc, and all of this would take so long because I couldn't type and I couldn't use the mouse with my right hand. I wasn't great with using the mouse backwards, and I often threw fits because I'd screw something up.
Take for example the day I was trying to do bills. See, I have this system where I check the bank balance online every day, input anything into a spreadsheet that we do our balance on, and then make sure bills are set up for payment on the 1st or 15th. Since we were in Germany, this was very important to do every day. And, to also check the daily exchange rates so we knew if we could get Euros or not. So, I'm doing this, and I have a difficult time keeping from clicking the wrong thing. So I'm clicking around on a site where I'm paying on our bills and because I'm trying to use the mouse left-handed, I hit the wrong button. I paid the bill twice because I accidentally left the payment page, went back in, pushed the paid button, and it said that I had two pending payments. Needless to say I get really frustrated.
Throwing fits became somewhat regular. The pain was intolerable, and I got hardly any sleep because of it. I had to constantly take baths and could only take them when my husband was home because I couldn't wash myself, I couldn't get in and out without his help, and I couldn't shave. That was awful. So, I'd have to wait until he came home at 7 in the morning, and then until he'd get up at 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I taught him how to wash my hair and face, and then he'd scrub the ever loving crap out of me. Since the surgery I'd been sweating a lot - partially because of the pain and partly because of persistent fevers. It's important to me to smell good - or at least clean. I hate feeling gross and since I'd never been sweaty like this in my life, it made me angry and self-conscious.
I'd also have to wait for my husband to cook, to clean, to do laundry, and to do my schoolwork. I took classes with a university that has a division specializing in military overseas. It's a nationally accredited university, founded in the 1800s, so it's all legit and they're famous for their courses abroad. Anyhow, I worked it out with my instructor that I would dictate my assignments to my husband so I could get them in on time. It made us bother really mad. I have a schedule when it comes to school, and he is always a distraction - a good one though. Anyhow, we'd pull two chairs up to the desk, He'd find the assignment in the classroom for me, and then I would dictate my answers. I think really really fast, and I type really really fast. My husband, on the other hand, takes information very slow. He'll think it over very carefully. Well, his careful mind and my speedy one did not mesh well. I would dictate to him, and he'd interrupt to ask a bunch of questions, and then he'd type slow and tell me I was talking too fast. Believe me, this is no way to write papers. I'd yell at him that I couldn't control the situation and that the least he could do was keep up, and he'd yell at me and tell me I was being mean .... We did this every assignment until the class was over. It was not conducive to my learning astronomy mind you, but we always made up afterwards and promised we'd try harder not to lose our tempers.
Things were rough for the next few months all together, but I think that whole winter was like living in hell. I'd be in pain, I'd scream and cry all the time because I had no pain killers, and then the nausea came. That was the worst. My family has allergies to anesthetics - remember my tooth drilling? Well, I knew that because of the block and the sleeper stuff that I'd had a lot of anesthetics pumped into me. I took to eating crackers and soda or water all day every day. Any time I tried to eat a regular meal, I'd get sick. I spent an entire two weeks in complete nausea before my husband had a day off and could take me in to see Dr. R. I was miserable, and I knew that she would help.
So, I go in to Dr. R. with my husband. I tell her that I haven't eaten a proper meal since before the hospital, that I've been puking every day and that I've had constant nausea that I can't get rid of. She tells me in her posh British accent that she'll fix me right up, and then says she'll throw in some pain meds. I'm only supposed to take the nausea pills when I feel nauseous, and only take the pain pills when I'm in pain.
Well, I can tell you honestly I took none of those pain pills. I'd gotten so used to nothing working that it wasn't worth it to pump more crap into my body and risk getting sicker. So, I took those anti-nausea pills when I needed to, and they worked. I'd get nauseous, pop the pill, and in about 2 hours, things would be better because it was just the pain then.
I was relegated to doing absolutely nothing all the time. It got boring really fast since I couldn't hold a book open or get comfortable enough to read, I couldn't play my Wii or PS3, I got much too frustrated to use the computer, so I spent most of my days napping and watching movies. It was pretty bad. If I wanted a drink, I had to get my husband. If I wanted a change of clothes, I had to get my husband. If I wanted to move something or I spilled something (which happened a LOT), I had to get my husband. I took to wearing exercise and pajama pants all the time so I didn't have to get him to take me to the bathroom and I only wore tops with bras built in so he never had to put them on and take them off - which would be too difficult with my arm. I think the only things I could really do were open and close doors, put on my house clothes, and carry small objects like my ice pack. It was horrible, demeaning, and just plain annoying.
My husband tried to be supportive and compassionate, but he was either at work, or sleeping. He did take good care of me the few hours he was awake. He wouldn't sleep in the same bed as me for fear of hurting me. When he came home from work in the mornings, he'd make sure I was up before he went to bed. If I wasn't, he'd wait until I was. I told him to stop being silly, but he didn't start sleeping in the same bed with me until I got my cast the day before his parents arrived. He spent 3 weeks like that. I loved him for it even though it was a little protective.
Doing nothing seems like it's not really a big deal, until you lose the use of your dominant arm completely. It was still swollen much too large, but the icing and exercising had helped me regain slight movement in fingers 3, 4, and 5. I couldn't move 1 or 2 still, they sort of twitched when I moved them, but progress was very, very slow and erratic at best.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Bloody Sunday
There really wasn't much blood on Sunday. Sunday was just my discharge day. I was only to spend 3 nights at the hospital, and I had made arrangements with my husband to pick me up at lunch time - we had asked the day before when I could leave.
A doctor came in that morning to check me, and told me to come back to see Dr. P. Monday afternoon. He said to leave my bandages on and wait for Dr. P. I could ice it, and I should still do my exercises since my arm was still a balloon the size of Texas.
So, later that morning, I ate breakfast alone as usual, got dressed for the first time all by myself ... which took about an hour. I brought simple tank tops with those built in bras so I didn't have to worry about getting a bra over my head or hooked, and the tank top was wide enough to easily stretch over my head. That and pajama bottoms were all I had brought except the jeans I wore the day of the surgery. I also figured that I shouldn't walk around in Germany in pajamas. No one does. Seriously, the only time I have ever seen a German in their pajamas was when I stayed with my exchange partner, and in store advertisements. I went into the bathroom around 9 o'clock to start dressing. My husband said he'd be there around 10. It took me the entire hour to finally get my jeans zipped and buttoned with just my left hand. Then, I went back out to my bed, sat on the edge and tried desperately to pull my socks on one handed. Yeah, that was no fun.
I was completely ready to go at 10 and there was no sign of my husband. Remember how I said that he went AWOL? Okay, so he's not there. So I start to slowly and awkwardly get my things out of the locker, put away my books and things into my back pack and moved all the stuff by the open door of my room. Germans don't bother things that people leave lying around so I wasn't worried my DVD player would be stolen or anything.
It was about 10:30 when I had everything all packed up and moved to the door. My roommate's husband showed up, they packed her up, and then they were leaving. She actually said goodbye and hoped I'd feel better. I told her I wouldn't (of course, she didn't know this because the entire time we roomed together, she only said she'd clal the nurse that one time!!!) They said "Oh," and then they gave me their best wishes and left. I kind of felt weird about that. I still do. I mean, if you room with someone for 3 whole days laying 5 feet from them, and you don't bother to try and talk when you know the person is helpless in a foreign hospital ... what do you expect? I know they didn't understand me but I didn't really care. I just wish that she would have been kinder as a host. I mean, she had been in the room a whole day before I had been. Anyway, they toted out her millions of flowers and gifts and left me sitting by the door waiting.
I got tired of waiting at about 11 and called my husband from the room phone after the nurses came and took my bed out of the room to strip it down and clean. He didn't answer. I don't know how long I waited, but I called him again on his cell phone and he said he was on his way. I told him he was late. He said he overslept - he did have to work the night before. And that night too.
I was irritated. I love my husband dearly and we rarely have any problems but this just aggravated me. I had been waiting at the hospital for 2 hours for him to show up. I had to dress myself, pack myself, and sit there. I'm sure he apologized profusely, but it wasn't really his fault. I was just in a lot of pain and exhausted. I hadn't taken a nap yet.
We leave the hospital and ride down to the garage. When we get to the car, I see he was thoughtful enough to remember to get the pillow I specifically asked for the day before, for the car ride home. We have this gorgeous bedding that is Moraccan themed. It has all these matching pillows with various designs that we don't sleep with, but use to decorate our bed all nice and pretty. I asked him to bring this roll pillow that's about a foot and a half long, and maybe 10 inches around. He helped me get in the car and put on the seatbelt without strangling or injuring myself. Then he hands me the pillow. I gently lift my arm and tell him to stuff it between my chest and arm so it lays on it. I had figured that driving home would involve quite a lot of jostling. If I wasn't careful, I could be in more pain or end up making the wound worse, etc. This was a pure genius idea. I left that pillow in the car for months to use as a rest/barrier.
When we got home, Ihad my husband settle me on the couch in the living room with blankets, pillows, a movie, and water. He went back upstairs to bed. It was a rare day in our house that I allowed this, but I let my dog up on my legs. He lay across them and cuddled me. I remember I watched that Lucille Ball movie with the trailer, Arsenic and Old Lace, and the Marx brothers movie where they're on a boat in a tiny room.
My husband got up not long before he had to leave for work to shower and get ready. He got me some crackers and a soda because I was feeling nauseous, kissed me, and left. He looked like he got run over by a semi.
After he left it was around 9pm. I finished what I was watching, then dragged my pillows up the stairs with me. I made a cozy bed with pillows piled high on my right side so I could elevate my arm. Then, I went back downstairs for the ice pack. We have this huge ice pack that is a square. It's like a foot by a foot, so it would wrap nicely around my arm. I dragged it and a handful of towels upstairs. I had an easier time taking my pants off than I thought I would, got into bed, wrapped the towels around the ice pack, and then around my arm, propped it up on the pillows and tried to sleep.
A doctor came in that morning to check me, and told me to come back to see Dr. P. Monday afternoon. He said to leave my bandages on and wait for Dr. P. I could ice it, and I should still do my exercises since my arm was still a balloon the size of Texas.
So, later that morning, I ate breakfast alone as usual, got dressed for the first time all by myself ... which took about an hour. I brought simple tank tops with those built in bras so I didn't have to worry about getting a bra over my head or hooked, and the tank top was wide enough to easily stretch over my head. That and pajama bottoms were all I had brought except the jeans I wore the day of the surgery. I also figured that I shouldn't walk around in Germany in pajamas. No one does. Seriously, the only time I have ever seen a German in their pajamas was when I stayed with my exchange partner, and in store advertisements. I went into the bathroom around 9 o'clock to start dressing. My husband said he'd be there around 10. It took me the entire hour to finally get my jeans zipped and buttoned with just my left hand. Then, I went back out to my bed, sat on the edge and tried desperately to pull my socks on one handed. Yeah, that was no fun.
I was completely ready to go at 10 and there was no sign of my husband. Remember how I said that he went AWOL? Okay, so he's not there. So I start to slowly and awkwardly get my things out of the locker, put away my books and things into my back pack and moved all the stuff by the open door of my room. Germans don't bother things that people leave lying around so I wasn't worried my DVD player would be stolen or anything.
It was about 10:30 when I had everything all packed up and moved to the door. My roommate's husband showed up, they packed her up, and then they were leaving. She actually said goodbye and hoped I'd feel better. I told her I wouldn't (of course, she didn't know this because the entire time we roomed together, she only said she'd clal the nurse that one time!!!) They said "Oh," and then they gave me their best wishes and left. I kind of felt weird about that. I still do. I mean, if you room with someone for 3 whole days laying 5 feet from them, and you don't bother to try and talk when you know the person is helpless in a foreign hospital ... what do you expect? I know they didn't understand me but I didn't really care. I just wish that she would have been kinder as a host. I mean, she had been in the room a whole day before I had been. Anyway, they toted out her millions of flowers and gifts and left me sitting by the door waiting.
I got tired of waiting at about 11 and called my husband from the room phone after the nurses came and took my bed out of the room to strip it down and clean. He didn't answer. I don't know how long I waited, but I called him again on his cell phone and he said he was on his way. I told him he was late. He said he overslept - he did have to work the night before. And that night too.
I was irritated. I love my husband dearly and we rarely have any problems but this just aggravated me. I had been waiting at the hospital for 2 hours for him to show up. I had to dress myself, pack myself, and sit there. I'm sure he apologized profusely, but it wasn't really his fault. I was just in a lot of pain and exhausted. I hadn't taken a nap yet.
We leave the hospital and ride down to the garage. When we get to the car, I see he was thoughtful enough to remember to get the pillow I specifically asked for the day before, for the car ride home. We have this gorgeous bedding that is Moraccan themed. It has all these matching pillows with various designs that we don't sleep with, but use to decorate our bed all nice and pretty. I asked him to bring this roll pillow that's about a foot and a half long, and maybe 10 inches around. He helped me get in the car and put on the seatbelt without strangling or injuring myself. Then he hands me the pillow. I gently lift my arm and tell him to stuff it between my chest and arm so it lays on it. I had figured that driving home would involve quite a lot of jostling. If I wasn't careful, I could be in more pain or end up making the wound worse, etc. This was a pure genius idea. I left that pillow in the car for months to use as a rest/barrier.
When we got home, Ihad my husband settle me on the couch in the living room with blankets, pillows, a movie, and water. He went back upstairs to bed. It was a rare day in our house that I allowed this, but I let my dog up on my legs. He lay across them and cuddled me. I remember I watched that Lucille Ball movie with the trailer, Arsenic and Old Lace, and the Marx brothers movie where they're on a boat in a tiny room.
My husband got up not long before he had to leave for work to shower and get ready. He got me some crackers and a soda because I was feeling nauseous, kissed me, and left. He looked like he got run over by a semi.
After he left it was around 9pm. I finished what I was watching, then dragged my pillows up the stairs with me. I made a cozy bed with pillows piled high on my right side so I could elevate my arm. Then, I went back downstairs for the ice pack. We have this huge ice pack that is a square. It's like a foot by a foot, so it would wrap nicely around my arm. I dragged it and a handful of towels upstairs. I had an easier time taking my pants off than I thought I would, got into bed, wrapped the towels around the ice pack, and then around my arm, propped it up on the pillows and tried to sleep.
Friday, December 16, 2011
No medicine = good medicine?
You might be shocked (or horrified) to find that while I was in the hospital, I had almost no pain meds. Germans take a very holistic and homeopathic approach to treatment. They say that the Germans are excellent diagnosticians, but the Americans are better at treatment. I don't know if this is really true, but I do know that Germans still ascribe to remedy situations with as little drug as possible. People are still sent to spas to treat a variety of conditions and diseases in example - in fact, your medical insurance would cover this. And, many spas don't allow you in without a prescription, no lie.
So, when I was given practically nothing at the hospital, I wasn't surprised. Every now and then a nurse would come it, ask about my pain, then check if she could give me morphine (blood pressure, heart rate, etc.). In the entire time I was in the hospital, I had 2 small doses of morphine, an ibuprofen in the morning and evening that did absolutely nothing, and vitamins. When I was feeling nauseous, a nurse would come in and put on a saline drip. I don't know why this helped, but it did. I was nauseous a lot in the hospital.
Morphine is serious. It, however, also did nothing to treat my pain. I'm notorious for being difficult to treat pain-wise, so this didn't surprise me. I'd had morphine before following a very serious neck injury. I hate it. It's the worst feeling, ice entering your veins and numbing your senses ... but not the pain! Even though I was given a very small amount of medicine, it didn't work. This equals, to me, no medicine. I still had all the pain.
The second day in the hospital was better. My husband came around lunch time again and showered and changed me. I was given high praise for my German skills by a nurse to whom I had done the self-deprecation routine of "Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch," which means I only speak a bit of German. She didn't think so, but I told her it's hard to communicate in a hospital as opposed to communicating with a neighbor, a restaurant or grocery store. Those are words I know. Hospital words were not words they teach you in German class.
One of the words that I learned while I was in the hospital I sort of already knew, but I suppose it was more colloquialism. Krankenschwester is the term for a nurse. It literally translates to sick sister. Well, they simply refer to nurses in a general term - schwester. This is just like saying sister. It's kind of funny to me, but in a way is comforting. I mean, my sister never took care of me when I was sick. But, back in past centuries, the sisters of the church would be charged with the care of hospital and hospice patients. So it's not only endearing, it's historically significant. But, it's still funny they say sister. I keep thinking my sister, but nope!
Saturday was a bright day. We had a big row of windows in our room, and it was bright all the way up until sunset. Even though our room faced a side street as opposed to the main city square, we still got an awful lot of light. Germans are also excellent architecturally. They are pros at putting in windows that get lots of light. They definitely have an edge over American construction and architecture. Anyway, it was so bright that we didn't need the lights on. I read my school books most of the morning, and then my husband came again after lunch. He showered and changed me again, and we played a lot of Skip-Bo. I actually felt so good; I got out of bed and played at the table in our room. Then we went and walked around the floor that I was on when the doctors came to do rounds on my roommate. The entire hallway towards the middle of the building was a huge row of windows that faced down into the main lobby, and up to the greenhouse ceiling. From my floor, we could see this piece of artwork hanging from the ceiling. It was glass bits hanging on stringy metal rods. It looked like it belonged at the Tacoma Museum of Glass of something. After we walked around the whole hallway, we sat at some comfy chairs and a table just outside my room and played more Skip-Bo.
My husband left early to go order dinner from our favorite restaurant, this little Indian place in the pedestrian zone. They had delicious food and he wanted it bad. Plus, it takes them a long time to make the food because they cook nothing until you order. So, he was going to be down there for a while.
While he was gone and getting is Naan on, I got two visits. First, I got a visit from someone who is a patient liaison for our military insurance. She came down to make sure I was being communicated with basically. It was kind of a pointless trip, but I didn't exactly have anyone come visit me (even though we did have friends in Germany) or call me. So, I didn't mind much. Besides, she had a funny half-British accent. You could tell that she either married an American soldier, or lived most of her career in England.
After the insurance lady left, a doctor came in with a nurse and told me Dr. P. couldn't make it today, so he was filling in. He's the other hand specialist in the orthopedics clinic, and was quite a bit younger than Dr. P. He said they were going to take a look at my arm.
I'm weirdly excited. I was the freak who liked the day in chemistry class when our teacher showed us an autopsy - in fact, for 2 years I wanted to be a pathologist or a coroner. I also was the freak who liked watching those medical shows on body part reattachment. They used to have this exhibit at the Seattle Science Center that my dad took us to, and I would sit there and watch them reattach fingers, hands, toes, ears...
So the nurse cuts the bandages in half and peels them outward. I have a huge cut from my wrist to halfway up my arm. It's about 6 or 7 inches long. There are no stitches, and you can see these huge black scabs that have crystallized over the large gaps between the skin. I ask what they secured my wound close with. It was glue, he said. Cool. Off to the side of the bottom of my scar, there's a tube sticking out. What's that? It's to drain the wound he says. In fact, he says because there's been so little bleeding that they're going to take it out. Cool.
I'm not normally bothered by things like needles and shots. I'm not very squeamish. I can eat dinner though an episode of Bones or Hoarders and not even bat an eyelash. So, when the nurse tells me to look away, I kind of wrinkle my eyebrows. What? And miss this? Heck no! The doctor puts on gloves, and just yanks the little tube out. I didn't really feel anything except a weird sensation. I suppose it would be akin to removing a ring from your ringer, but inside your skin. It didn't hurt and just felt plain bizarre.
Some blood welled up and the nurse swabbed it away. The doctor then poked and prodded my arm and fingers. He tried to get me to grasp his hand. He said that the fact that I still couldn't feel anything or move my hand much was unusual. He asked if I was doing my exercises. I told him I was. I tried to remember to do them every hour, but I got tired a lot and napped before my husband showed up. So, I suppose I did it about 8 times the day before, and a few times today already. He suggests trying to do it every half hour. Okay, I guess. I really am not going to remember that recommendation much better, but whatever. I'll try.
I think because the doctor called him, the anesthesiologist shows up. He checks my nerves and sensory by poking and prodding too. He has me explain to him what I feel, if anything. I honestly can't feel much and can tell my nerves are deadened to a strange point. He says this is uncommon. He explains that in order to do the join leveling procedure, the doctor had to cut me open, pick up all my nerves, muscles and tendons, and move them to the side. It is possible they have not settled from this dramatic experience. He thinks I'll regain most of my sensory in the next month.
The doctors leave, and the nurse re-bandages me up. She also leaves to go get a new ice pack. I hated that thing to begin with, but I sort of am hooked now. I actually asked her for a new one ... oy!
My husband came back when I had almost finished dinner. It was a fish dish, and because he's allergic to fish, he couldn't have any. But, I ate about half my food this meal. I remember also that there was a dessert cup. I think it was quark with forest berries. There were Heidel berries and blue berries, and himmel berries ... it was delicious. I usually am very very picky about my fruit, and I'm lactose intolerant, but for some reason I ate it all. I felt bad when my husband showed up because he really should have tried it because he would have loved it. But, he brought his Indian food. He had chicken nurani and garlic Naan. It was so good. I ate a bite. I didn't feel bad about the smell either, because my roommate was sort of oddly obnoxious. She was always having visitors and being loud enough to keep me from napping or sleeping, her doctors kept kicking us out of the room, she had been leaving the window wide open all day and all night because of the heater in the room, and she never spoke to me except that one time she called the nurse when I was puking. So, I hope the smell either made her tummy hurt, or annoyed her.
My second day in the hospital wasn't too bad. It would have been nice to have had some actual medicine. The entire day was spent in excruciating pain but no one would have known it. I worried though. The pain was bad. I didn't know how I would make it through the next 1-2 years with this stupid bar and screws in my arm. I could feel them even though the doctor said I wouldn't. I could feel the wrongness in my bones. I could feel the sawed bone's tenderness. The pain was an enormous burden.
That night was my worst night of sleep. My roommate had guests until almost 11, and I spent the entire night rolling back and forth on my bed in pain, slamming the nurse's button. They'd come in, check my blood pressure and heart rate, give me a drink, and tell me to try to sleep. The pain that night was the worst I'd endure post-surgery. I think my body finally realized what had happened.
So, when I was given practically nothing at the hospital, I wasn't surprised. Every now and then a nurse would come it, ask about my pain, then check if she could give me morphine (blood pressure, heart rate, etc.). In the entire time I was in the hospital, I had 2 small doses of morphine, an ibuprofen in the morning and evening that did absolutely nothing, and vitamins. When I was feeling nauseous, a nurse would come in and put on a saline drip. I don't know why this helped, but it did. I was nauseous a lot in the hospital.
Morphine is serious. It, however, also did nothing to treat my pain. I'm notorious for being difficult to treat pain-wise, so this didn't surprise me. I'd had morphine before following a very serious neck injury. I hate it. It's the worst feeling, ice entering your veins and numbing your senses ... but not the pain! Even though I was given a very small amount of medicine, it didn't work. This equals, to me, no medicine. I still had all the pain.
The second day in the hospital was better. My husband came around lunch time again and showered and changed me. I was given high praise for my German skills by a nurse to whom I had done the self-deprecation routine of "Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch," which means I only speak a bit of German. She didn't think so, but I told her it's hard to communicate in a hospital as opposed to communicating with a neighbor, a restaurant or grocery store. Those are words I know. Hospital words were not words they teach you in German class.
One of the words that I learned while I was in the hospital I sort of already knew, but I suppose it was more colloquialism. Krankenschwester is the term for a nurse. It literally translates to sick sister. Well, they simply refer to nurses in a general term - schwester. This is just like saying sister. It's kind of funny to me, but in a way is comforting. I mean, my sister never took care of me when I was sick. But, back in past centuries, the sisters of the church would be charged with the care of hospital and hospice patients. So it's not only endearing, it's historically significant. But, it's still funny they say sister. I keep thinking my sister, but nope!
Saturday was a bright day. We had a big row of windows in our room, and it was bright all the way up until sunset. Even though our room faced a side street as opposed to the main city square, we still got an awful lot of light. Germans are also excellent architecturally. They are pros at putting in windows that get lots of light. They definitely have an edge over American construction and architecture. Anyway, it was so bright that we didn't need the lights on. I read my school books most of the morning, and then my husband came again after lunch. He showered and changed me again, and we played a lot of Skip-Bo. I actually felt so good; I got out of bed and played at the table in our room. Then we went and walked around the floor that I was on when the doctors came to do rounds on my roommate. The entire hallway towards the middle of the building was a huge row of windows that faced down into the main lobby, and up to the greenhouse ceiling. From my floor, we could see this piece of artwork hanging from the ceiling. It was glass bits hanging on stringy metal rods. It looked like it belonged at the Tacoma Museum of Glass of something. After we walked around the whole hallway, we sat at some comfy chairs and a table just outside my room and played more Skip-Bo.
My husband left early to go order dinner from our favorite restaurant, this little Indian place in the pedestrian zone. They had delicious food and he wanted it bad. Plus, it takes them a long time to make the food because they cook nothing until you order. So, he was going to be down there for a while.
While he was gone and getting is Naan on, I got two visits. First, I got a visit from someone who is a patient liaison for our military insurance. She came down to make sure I was being communicated with basically. It was kind of a pointless trip, but I didn't exactly have anyone come visit me (even though we did have friends in Germany) or call me. So, I didn't mind much. Besides, she had a funny half-British accent. You could tell that she either married an American soldier, or lived most of her career in England.
After the insurance lady left, a doctor came in with a nurse and told me Dr. P. couldn't make it today, so he was filling in. He's the other hand specialist in the orthopedics clinic, and was quite a bit younger than Dr. P. He said they were going to take a look at my arm.
I'm weirdly excited. I was the freak who liked the day in chemistry class when our teacher showed us an autopsy - in fact, for 2 years I wanted to be a pathologist or a coroner. I also was the freak who liked watching those medical shows on body part reattachment. They used to have this exhibit at the Seattle Science Center that my dad took us to, and I would sit there and watch them reattach fingers, hands, toes, ears...
So the nurse cuts the bandages in half and peels them outward. I have a huge cut from my wrist to halfway up my arm. It's about 6 or 7 inches long. There are no stitches, and you can see these huge black scabs that have crystallized over the large gaps between the skin. I ask what they secured my wound close with. It was glue, he said. Cool. Off to the side of the bottom of my scar, there's a tube sticking out. What's that? It's to drain the wound he says. In fact, he says because there's been so little bleeding that they're going to take it out. Cool.
I'm not normally bothered by things like needles and shots. I'm not very squeamish. I can eat dinner though an episode of Bones or Hoarders and not even bat an eyelash. So, when the nurse tells me to look away, I kind of wrinkle my eyebrows. What? And miss this? Heck no! The doctor puts on gloves, and just yanks the little tube out. I didn't really feel anything except a weird sensation. I suppose it would be akin to removing a ring from your ringer, but inside your skin. It didn't hurt and just felt plain bizarre.
Some blood welled up and the nurse swabbed it away. The doctor then poked and prodded my arm and fingers. He tried to get me to grasp his hand. He said that the fact that I still couldn't feel anything or move my hand much was unusual. He asked if I was doing my exercises. I told him I was. I tried to remember to do them every hour, but I got tired a lot and napped before my husband showed up. So, I suppose I did it about 8 times the day before, and a few times today already. He suggests trying to do it every half hour. Okay, I guess. I really am not going to remember that recommendation much better, but whatever. I'll try.
I think because the doctor called him, the anesthesiologist shows up. He checks my nerves and sensory by poking and prodding too. He has me explain to him what I feel, if anything. I honestly can't feel much and can tell my nerves are deadened to a strange point. He says this is uncommon. He explains that in order to do the join leveling procedure, the doctor had to cut me open, pick up all my nerves, muscles and tendons, and move them to the side. It is possible they have not settled from this dramatic experience. He thinks I'll regain most of my sensory in the next month.
The doctors leave, and the nurse re-bandages me up. She also leaves to go get a new ice pack. I hated that thing to begin with, but I sort of am hooked now. I actually asked her for a new one ... oy!
My husband came back when I had almost finished dinner. It was a fish dish, and because he's allergic to fish, he couldn't have any. But, I ate about half my food this meal. I remember also that there was a dessert cup. I think it was quark with forest berries. There were Heidel berries and blue berries, and himmel berries ... it was delicious. I usually am very very picky about my fruit, and I'm lactose intolerant, but for some reason I ate it all. I felt bad when my husband showed up because he really should have tried it because he would have loved it. But, he brought his Indian food. He had chicken nurani and garlic Naan. It was so good. I ate a bite. I didn't feel bad about the smell either, because my roommate was sort of oddly obnoxious. She was always having visitors and being loud enough to keep me from napping or sleeping, her doctors kept kicking us out of the room, she had been leaving the window wide open all day and all night because of the heater in the room, and she never spoke to me except that one time she called the nurse when I was puking. So, I hope the smell either made her tummy hurt, or annoyed her.
My second day in the hospital wasn't too bad. It would have been nice to have had some actual medicine. The entire day was spent in excruciating pain but no one would have known it. I worried though. The pain was bad. I didn't know how I would make it through the next 1-2 years with this stupid bar and screws in my arm. I could feel them even though the doctor said I wouldn't. I could feel the wrongness in my bones. I could feel the sawed bone's tenderness. The pain was an enormous burden.
That night was my worst night of sleep. My roommate had guests until almost 11, and I spent the entire night rolling back and forth on my bed in pain, slamming the nurse's button. They'd come in, check my blood pressure and heart rate, give me a drink, and tell me to try to sleep. The pain that night was the worst I'd endure post-surgery. I think my body finally realized what had happened.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
And the Food Was Excellent
Some of the things my husband and I did to prep for surgery and my inevitable changes in my body were to try and force my reliance on my left hand. I was incredibly nervous to know if I would ever write the same or not. Additionally, I was freaked out because I am a musician. I've been a musician since I was very little. My condition had weakened and deteriorated my musical abilities for years. I was once concert pianist material. That dream had long left, but I still wanted to teach. My college education had suffered massively because I was always in pain, I could never play the material, and I was always gone at doctor appointments.
In a frantic rush, my husband and I used the excuse that my mother had been asking for a CD of my original compositions. Since we didn't know if I'd ever be able to play the piano again (and I currently couldn't play the flute so that was out of the question), we videotaped my music. Some of it is kind of funny as I had a lot of screw ups and when I get irritated ... I tend to pound on the keys like a two-year-old and mutter obscenities.
Lying in the hospital for three days was a lot harder than I thought it would be. The doctor didn't know if I could play again. I was struggling with the pain and discomfort of not being able to feel anything in that arm, I felt miserable and nauseous all the time, and my husband went AWOL. I'm really not sure what the hardest part was. I always want to say the music was the hardest part.
Dr. P. came by the first morning. I had slept really really well surprisingly. He told me the second night is the worst. He didn't take off my wrap yet, and my arm was still three times its normal size. He asked me if I could feel anything. I told him all I could feel was pain; I couldn't actually feel my hand or fingers. He didn't know what to make of this, but said he'd talk to the anesthesiologist. Then, he gave me instructions. I was to lift my arm over my head ever hour (extremely difficult since my arm wanted to do that swinging door trick) and make a fist repeatedly for a whole minute. Additionally, he had charged the nurses to bring me ice packs to keep under or over my bandage for the next three days.
This was not an easy task my any means. First of all, I forgot. I tried to remember to do my exercise, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate, and I was completely exhausted from lifting my arm in the air for more than 10 seconds and trying to focus my brain on moving fingers that barely twitched. Secondly, no one reminded me. The nurses went about their work, and of course my neighbor didn't speak English well enough to understand more than the basics. Besides, she had her own problems. Lastly, the icing was awful. It was so painful, but it did stop certain feelings like the burning sensation. It also deadened the brash aching I knew was from the sawed bone and metal settling. Don't get me wrong, the pain was excruciating. We're talking I could have screamed and cried the entire time I was there if I didn't know how to breathe, compartmentalize, and focus.
Breakfast that morning was wonderful. Breakfast every morning there was wonderful. German food is just plain wonderful. I ordered a broetchen with cheese, an egg, and some orange juice. Every morning the nurses would bring me vitamins and an ibuprofen - which did absolutely nothing. I especially liked taking my zinc. I used to do this when I stayed at my exchange partner's house and I had the worst UTI in the world. Zinc goes in a glass of flat water, and fizzes until it dissolves. It tastes like lemon lime when you drink it.
It was around lunch time for Americans when a nurse came in to our room and said we needed to shower. This is unusual for two reasons. One, being that Germans are not that big on hygiene like Americans. They don't shower everyday and they often wear the same clothes 3 or 4 times in a row. Body odor isn't considered a bad thing, but I suppose we were in a hospital and I was sweating as the heater in the room had been turned way up since it was November and about 30 degrees outside. The second thing that was unusual about this was that they literally meant shower, and they weren't allowed to take off my bandages.
Now, I've never been completely naked in front of another woman who wasn't my own mother or sister, or my doctor - modesty wasn't big in our house and that's fine. Bodies are bodies, it doesn't really matter anyway. And, this was a hospital. There is no real modesty in a hospital. I had already seen my roommate topless anyway. Every morning, a special kind of therapist would come in and manipulate the soft tissue and muscles around her right breast and arm where she had obviously had surgery. But, the nurse took my roommate into the bathroom, and the entire time I heard screaming and crying. I knew this wasn't because the nurse was an evil minion of Satan who enjoyed sadism. That woman was in so much pain from her arm being moved so they could shower around it.
Well, needless to say I did need a shower and a change of clothes. I had no problem calling the nurse to get me out of bed to go to the bathroom, but they didn't stand in the bathroom with me. So, when the nurse came out and asked if I was ready, I told her my husband would be here soon, and I'm sure he could do the job. She didn't seem fazed by this at all, she just said that when I was ready to come and ask for a plastic bag to wrap around my arm.
So, I stayed put in my rather comfortable bed. I had my Curious George that my mother had sent me for Christmas the year before, and my lucky pig, and my portable DVD player with all my Friends discs, my school books, and my Nintendo DS - which I could actually play on with my left hand if I was only playing Peggle.
My husband worked night shift. In fact, in the 7 years we spent in the military, he spent approximately 5 years on night shift. Seriously. They are incredibly bad at rotating the shifts as they're supposed to do so 4 times a year. But no, everywhere he's worked my husband has been on indefinite night shift. So, I wasn't surprised when my husband didn't show up at the hospital until after lunch. But when he did, I told him we needed to get me in the shower so the nurse wouldn't come back and drag me in there. I heard the screaming. I knew my husband would be better suited to wash and manipulate me than a nurse who I didn't know from Adam.
He goes and gets me a change of clothes out of my locker, grabs my bathroom kit (I didn't know what to expect in a German hospital so I brought everything. Come to find out, you're supposed to bring everything. Lucky me!) and then hunts down a nurse for a plastic bag. She comes in, secures it to me and puts rubber bands around it, tucks it into the soft bandages, and I'm set.
Bathing for almost 6 months after the surgery was an awful experience. This first shower was killer. I cried, my husband washed. I cried, my husband washed. I think my husband wanted to cry too. He's really sensitive. Anyway, the good thing about showering was that it is standard for Europeans to have walk-in showers, and it is also standard that the shower is one of those hand-held nozzles. My husband watered me down While I stood there holding onto a wall. Then he lathered up my hair, and then soaped me all over. Then we rinsed. I didn't know how bad the rest of my body ached until he was rubbing soap all over me. I think that the pain just entirely wasted my body of all normalcies.
After the shower, I felt much better. My husband stayed for a few hours. We played Skip-Bo (holding cards was impossible so he had to see everything I had), we talked, and we watched a movie on my little DVD player. Well, he fell asleep to it part of the way through. When dinner came, he left to go get his own dinner and said he'd be back to say goodbye before he went to work.
It was during dinner that a group of doctors wandered in. My husband had just returned and was sitting with me when they kicked him out. They wanted to discuss the roommate's condition and do "rounds." Fine, okay. But, we don't speak German well enough to understand all the medical jargon so what the hell was the point of kicking my husband out? AND, even if I did understand them, he is my husband. I could relay the information to him if I wanted to. This was just weird.
I didn't eat much in the hospital. The most I ate was in the mornings. I remember this dinner had this huge salad with beans and lentils. There was also custard pudding. When my husband came back in the room he noticed I had only eaten a few bites. I wasn't hungry. I also didn't want to push it because I was already feeling nauseated all the time. It was really gourmet food though. When my husband came back he ate a few bites to see if it tasted good. I think he was just hungry still. He had gone home and changed for work, had picked up the dog, and ate a small dinner then packed his "lunch" for work. Then he kissed me good night and left for work.
I had a hard time falling asleep that night because my roommate had guests. One was her husband, and then a couple of friends. They were all loud and annoying. The friends brought a big pot of flowers and a bottle of wine. I tried to fall asleep to MTV again.
In a frantic rush, my husband and I used the excuse that my mother had been asking for a CD of my original compositions. Since we didn't know if I'd ever be able to play the piano again (and I currently couldn't play the flute so that was out of the question), we videotaped my music. Some of it is kind of funny as I had a lot of screw ups and when I get irritated ... I tend to pound on the keys like a two-year-old and mutter obscenities.
Lying in the hospital for three days was a lot harder than I thought it would be. The doctor didn't know if I could play again. I was struggling with the pain and discomfort of not being able to feel anything in that arm, I felt miserable and nauseous all the time, and my husband went AWOL. I'm really not sure what the hardest part was. I always want to say the music was the hardest part.
Dr. P. came by the first morning. I had slept really really well surprisingly. He told me the second night is the worst. He didn't take off my wrap yet, and my arm was still three times its normal size. He asked me if I could feel anything. I told him all I could feel was pain; I couldn't actually feel my hand or fingers. He didn't know what to make of this, but said he'd talk to the anesthesiologist. Then, he gave me instructions. I was to lift my arm over my head ever hour (extremely difficult since my arm wanted to do that swinging door trick) and make a fist repeatedly for a whole minute. Additionally, he had charged the nurses to bring me ice packs to keep under or over my bandage for the next three days.
This was not an easy task my any means. First of all, I forgot. I tried to remember to do my exercise, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate, and I was completely exhausted from lifting my arm in the air for more than 10 seconds and trying to focus my brain on moving fingers that barely twitched. Secondly, no one reminded me. The nurses went about their work, and of course my neighbor didn't speak English well enough to understand more than the basics. Besides, she had her own problems. Lastly, the icing was awful. It was so painful, but it did stop certain feelings like the burning sensation. It also deadened the brash aching I knew was from the sawed bone and metal settling. Don't get me wrong, the pain was excruciating. We're talking I could have screamed and cried the entire time I was there if I didn't know how to breathe, compartmentalize, and focus.
Breakfast that morning was wonderful. Breakfast every morning there was wonderful. German food is just plain wonderful. I ordered a broetchen with cheese, an egg, and some orange juice. Every morning the nurses would bring me vitamins and an ibuprofen - which did absolutely nothing. I especially liked taking my zinc. I used to do this when I stayed at my exchange partner's house and I had the worst UTI in the world. Zinc goes in a glass of flat water, and fizzes until it dissolves. It tastes like lemon lime when you drink it.
It was around lunch time for Americans when a nurse came in to our room and said we needed to shower. This is unusual for two reasons. One, being that Germans are not that big on hygiene like Americans. They don't shower everyday and they often wear the same clothes 3 or 4 times in a row. Body odor isn't considered a bad thing, but I suppose we were in a hospital and I was sweating as the heater in the room had been turned way up since it was November and about 30 degrees outside. The second thing that was unusual about this was that they literally meant shower, and they weren't allowed to take off my bandages.
Now, I've never been completely naked in front of another woman who wasn't my own mother or sister, or my doctor - modesty wasn't big in our house and that's fine. Bodies are bodies, it doesn't really matter anyway. And, this was a hospital. There is no real modesty in a hospital. I had already seen my roommate topless anyway. Every morning, a special kind of therapist would come in and manipulate the soft tissue and muscles around her right breast and arm where she had obviously had surgery. But, the nurse took my roommate into the bathroom, and the entire time I heard screaming and crying. I knew this wasn't because the nurse was an evil minion of Satan who enjoyed sadism. That woman was in so much pain from her arm being moved so they could shower around it.
Well, needless to say I did need a shower and a change of clothes. I had no problem calling the nurse to get me out of bed to go to the bathroom, but they didn't stand in the bathroom with me. So, when the nurse came out and asked if I was ready, I told her my husband would be here soon, and I'm sure he could do the job. She didn't seem fazed by this at all, she just said that when I was ready to come and ask for a plastic bag to wrap around my arm.
So, I stayed put in my rather comfortable bed. I had my Curious George that my mother had sent me for Christmas the year before, and my lucky pig, and my portable DVD player with all my Friends discs, my school books, and my Nintendo DS - which I could actually play on with my left hand if I was only playing Peggle.
My husband worked night shift. In fact, in the 7 years we spent in the military, he spent approximately 5 years on night shift. Seriously. They are incredibly bad at rotating the shifts as they're supposed to do so 4 times a year. But no, everywhere he's worked my husband has been on indefinite night shift. So, I wasn't surprised when my husband didn't show up at the hospital until after lunch. But when he did, I told him we needed to get me in the shower so the nurse wouldn't come back and drag me in there. I heard the screaming. I knew my husband would be better suited to wash and manipulate me than a nurse who I didn't know from Adam.
He goes and gets me a change of clothes out of my locker, grabs my bathroom kit (I didn't know what to expect in a German hospital so I brought everything. Come to find out, you're supposed to bring everything. Lucky me!) and then hunts down a nurse for a plastic bag. She comes in, secures it to me and puts rubber bands around it, tucks it into the soft bandages, and I'm set.
Bathing for almost 6 months after the surgery was an awful experience. This first shower was killer. I cried, my husband washed. I cried, my husband washed. I think my husband wanted to cry too. He's really sensitive. Anyway, the good thing about showering was that it is standard for Europeans to have walk-in showers, and it is also standard that the shower is one of those hand-held nozzles. My husband watered me down While I stood there holding onto a wall. Then he lathered up my hair, and then soaped me all over. Then we rinsed. I didn't know how bad the rest of my body ached until he was rubbing soap all over me. I think that the pain just entirely wasted my body of all normalcies.
After the shower, I felt much better. My husband stayed for a few hours. We played Skip-Bo (holding cards was impossible so he had to see everything I had), we talked, and we watched a movie on my little DVD player. Well, he fell asleep to it part of the way through. When dinner came, he left to go get his own dinner and said he'd be back to say goodbye before he went to work.
It was during dinner that a group of doctors wandered in. My husband had just returned and was sitting with me when they kicked him out. They wanted to discuss the roommate's condition and do "rounds." Fine, okay. But, we don't speak German well enough to understand all the medical jargon so what the hell was the point of kicking my husband out? AND, even if I did understand them, he is my husband. I could relay the information to him if I wanted to. This was just weird.
I didn't eat much in the hospital. The most I ate was in the mornings. I remember this dinner had this huge salad with beans and lentils. There was also custard pudding. When my husband came back in the room he noticed I had only eaten a few bites. I wasn't hungry. I also didn't want to push it because I was already feeling nauseated all the time. It was really gourmet food though. When my husband came back he ate a few bites to see if it tasted good. I think he was just hungry still. He had gone home and changed for work, had picked up the dog, and ate a small dinner then packed his "lunch" for work. Then he kissed me good night and left for work.
I had a hard time falling asleep that night because my roommate had guests. One was her husband, and then a couple of friends. They were all loud and annoying. The friends brought a big pot of flowers and a bottle of wine. I tried to fall asleep to MTV again.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Surgery - Part II
I remember waking up to someone moaning. I kept hearing it over and over. By the time I was able to push my eyes open, I realized, being the only person in the recovery room, that it was me. I don't normally moan in my sleep. I've had a few nightmares where I scream and kick, but moaning is something conscious to me. I'll do it if I don't want to get up and my husband is trying to drag me out of bed or something. When I had the scope done the previous year, I didn't moan when I woke up from the anesthesia.
Great, so I've woken myself up. I sort of roll my head to the left side, and I can see out the window my bed is pushed up against. The tops of the trees are swaying a bit against the stone walls of the building. I roll my head to the other side, and see a nurse moving around.
When the nurse realizes I'm awake and looking at her, she comes over and tucks my blanket around me a bit, and asks me how I feel. I realize my throat hurts very badly. I sort of garble out that I'm thirsty - in German no less. I suppose living in a country for 2 1/2 years sort of ingrains itself in the language portion of your brain. So the nurse asks if I'd also like some crackers. I'm hoarse but I nod and get out a "Ja." She says she'll make me some tea and get me some crackers.
While the nurse was gone, I peeked at my arm. It was lying straight down by my side on the table, and was heavily wrapped up and looked about 3 times its normal size. I tried to feel it, but didn't feel anything. I tried to see if my fingers would move, but I couldn't make my brain get those phalanges moving.
When the nurse came back she helped me sit up with the blanket wrapped around my top like they do with sheets on TV and in the movies. Then she handed me a cup of tea, told me it was chamomile and left a little plate of 6 biscuit crackers. She told me to go very very slow, and then left.
My throat was is so much pain. It was like the two times I had strep when I was younger. It was on fire, dry, and extremely difficult to swallow. I went slow drinking the tea, even though I really wanted to down it. I made it through about half my cup and half the crackers when the nurse came back followed by my husband. The nurse tells me that he kept bothering the nurses about me, asking for updates and when he could see me. I smiled at him. He leaned over and gave me a kiss and asked me how I felt. I told him my throat was killing me.
While the nurse was gone, I finished my tea and crackers, and my husband sat with me. I can't remember if we talked much or not, but he told me that he didn't sleep. This was amazing. He had been sleep deprived since December of 2004, when he joined the Army. He slept everywhere. On his days off, he used to come to my work when we lived in Kansas, and sleep in the car.
I don't know how long I was in the recovery room, or how long it took to drink that tea and eat those crackers, but it felt like not too long after they brought back my husband, that the nurse brought in a wheelchair. She and my husband helped me off the table and into the wheelchair, then bundled the blanket around me. Germans aren't worried about modesty as much as Americans are, but they didn't want to wheel me around the hospital in my bra and freeze me to death.
Before I had gotten into the chair, the nurse gave me the sling and had my husband put my arm in it. It's not a normal sling like us Americans know or are used to. And, you know how American slings are worthless pieces of crap? Well, like a lot of other things, America needs to take a page out of the German book and get this sling in action. It's basically a big long piece of strap fabric, with two loops on each end and a big cushy neck rest in the middle of the strap. You put it around your neck like graduation cords, and you stick your arm into both loops so it hangs. You're arm can't fall out of it like the American ones, and it's super comfortable. It does the job so much better, and is much easier to use.
So anyway, I've got my sling, I'm in the wheelchair, and I'm all bundled up in a blanket when a male nurse shows up. He's actually in a set of white scrubs - believe it or not (since no one else seems to wear them!). He speaks relatively good English, and starts wheeling away. The nurse had loaded down my husband with all my belongings, so he was trailing behind with his arms full of stuff. We get to the "service" elevator (basically, the only elevator that takes you to the upper levels where the patient wards are) and smash in. We go to the 5th floor (really the 6th) and head into my new room for the next 3 days.
The nurse showed my husband where the lockers were in the room, and he put my stuff away while the nurse helped me out of the wheelchair and into the bed. I had a roommate next to me; she was watching TV and eating dinner. Her arm too was in a weird sling - but hers was different. It had this huge foam block in an L shape, and strapped over her back like suspenders. I think that she had some lymph nodes removed or something because she also had a drain. And, I remember at some point, one of her doctors talking about lymph nodes.
So, while I got settled in bed, my husband tells me he's really starving and needs to go get something to eat. He says he'll be back in an hour. While he's gone the male nurse gets me comfortable in bed, brings me one of my t-shirts that I've packed, and helps me put it on. I distinctly remember it was my Hello Kitty t-shirt that said "Geek Chic." Then the nurse asks if I'm hungry. I tell him that I am, and that I'm thirsty. He says he'll bring my dinner and disappears.
When he comes back, he has a try with soup on it, crackers, and a glass for water. He sets it down on my table, and moves the table so it's over me. I smell the soup and instantly feel nauseated. He tells me I shouldn't eat if I feel nauseous so he moves the tray away from me. He takes my arm out of the sling, props my arm up on a mound of pillows, and hooks my catheter up to a drip.
When did I get the catheter?
The nurse leaves and I just lie back in my bed and try not to feel sick. When he returns, he has a barf bag and lays it across my lap, and then he leaves again.
After about a half hour, I decide I should try to eat something. My tummy is hungry too, not just sick. I wasn't allowed to eat anything since the previous night. It's been 24 hours. So, I roll the soup back over. It's just broth anyway. I take a few small spoonfuls and just sit back.
Big mistake.
I start puking uncontrollably. I wasn't able to get the barf bag in time, so it's all over my Hello Kitty shirt and the blankets on my bed. My roommate says she'll call the nurse and starts pressing her nurse button repeatedly. She tells me I'll be okay, the nurse will come.
When the nurse shows up he's furious. I finally had stopped puking and told him that I felt I should eat something. He yells at me about how I shouldn't have eaten anything. I told him that downstairs, the nurse had given me tea and crackers. He's more pissed.
I'm confused. The nurse is actually angry with me and is yelling at me.
He literally left me to stew in my own puke. When my husband returned I told him what happened, and he got me out of bed, took me to the bathroom and sat me on the toilet. He said he'd get a change of clothes out of my bag, and ask the nurse to change my bedding. I must not have waited very long because he was back in the bathroom just a few minutes later with clean clothes. It was a struggle getting me out of my clothes and into new ones. We had to take my arm out of the sling, and it went shooting across my body like those old saloon doors. Just waggling back and forth. It was the weirdest feeling.
When I was all changed, my husband took me back out and my bedding had been replaced. He got me all comfortable in bed again, but he had to leave. He had to go home and get some sleep. He kissed me goodbye, and left me watching MTV on my personal TV monitor. The Foo Fighters were doing a live show, and I fell asleep watching them.
Great, so I've woken myself up. I sort of roll my head to the left side, and I can see out the window my bed is pushed up against. The tops of the trees are swaying a bit against the stone walls of the building. I roll my head to the other side, and see a nurse moving around.
When the nurse realizes I'm awake and looking at her, she comes over and tucks my blanket around me a bit, and asks me how I feel. I realize my throat hurts very badly. I sort of garble out that I'm thirsty - in German no less. I suppose living in a country for 2 1/2 years sort of ingrains itself in the language portion of your brain. So the nurse asks if I'd also like some crackers. I'm hoarse but I nod and get out a "Ja." She says she'll make me some tea and get me some crackers.
While the nurse was gone, I peeked at my arm. It was lying straight down by my side on the table, and was heavily wrapped up and looked about 3 times its normal size. I tried to feel it, but didn't feel anything. I tried to see if my fingers would move, but I couldn't make my brain get those phalanges moving.
When the nurse came back she helped me sit up with the blanket wrapped around my top like they do with sheets on TV and in the movies. Then she handed me a cup of tea, told me it was chamomile and left a little plate of 6 biscuit crackers. She told me to go very very slow, and then left.
My throat was is so much pain. It was like the two times I had strep when I was younger. It was on fire, dry, and extremely difficult to swallow. I went slow drinking the tea, even though I really wanted to down it. I made it through about half my cup and half the crackers when the nurse came back followed by my husband. The nurse tells me that he kept bothering the nurses about me, asking for updates and when he could see me. I smiled at him. He leaned over and gave me a kiss and asked me how I felt. I told him my throat was killing me.
While the nurse was gone, I finished my tea and crackers, and my husband sat with me. I can't remember if we talked much or not, but he told me that he didn't sleep. This was amazing. He had been sleep deprived since December of 2004, when he joined the Army. He slept everywhere. On his days off, he used to come to my work when we lived in Kansas, and sleep in the car.
I don't know how long I was in the recovery room, or how long it took to drink that tea and eat those crackers, but it felt like not too long after they brought back my husband, that the nurse brought in a wheelchair. She and my husband helped me off the table and into the wheelchair, then bundled the blanket around me. Germans aren't worried about modesty as much as Americans are, but they didn't want to wheel me around the hospital in my bra and freeze me to death.
Before I had gotten into the chair, the nurse gave me the sling and had my husband put my arm in it. It's not a normal sling like us Americans know or are used to. And, you know how American slings are worthless pieces of crap? Well, like a lot of other things, America needs to take a page out of the German book and get this sling in action. It's basically a big long piece of strap fabric, with two loops on each end and a big cushy neck rest in the middle of the strap. You put it around your neck like graduation cords, and you stick your arm into both loops so it hangs. You're arm can't fall out of it like the American ones, and it's super comfortable. It does the job so much better, and is much easier to use.
So anyway, I've got my sling, I'm in the wheelchair, and I'm all bundled up in a blanket when a male nurse shows up. He's actually in a set of white scrubs - believe it or not (since no one else seems to wear them!). He speaks relatively good English, and starts wheeling away. The nurse had loaded down my husband with all my belongings, so he was trailing behind with his arms full of stuff. We get to the "service" elevator (basically, the only elevator that takes you to the upper levels where the patient wards are) and smash in. We go to the 5th floor (really the 6th) and head into my new room for the next 3 days.
The nurse showed my husband where the lockers were in the room, and he put my stuff away while the nurse helped me out of the wheelchair and into the bed. I had a roommate next to me; she was watching TV and eating dinner. Her arm too was in a weird sling - but hers was different. It had this huge foam block in an L shape, and strapped over her back like suspenders. I think that she had some lymph nodes removed or something because she also had a drain. And, I remember at some point, one of her doctors talking about lymph nodes.
So, while I got settled in bed, my husband tells me he's really starving and needs to go get something to eat. He says he'll be back in an hour. While he's gone the male nurse gets me comfortable in bed, brings me one of my t-shirts that I've packed, and helps me put it on. I distinctly remember it was my Hello Kitty t-shirt that said "Geek Chic." Then the nurse asks if I'm hungry. I tell him that I am, and that I'm thirsty. He says he'll bring my dinner and disappears.
When he comes back, he has a try with soup on it, crackers, and a glass for water. He sets it down on my table, and moves the table so it's over me. I smell the soup and instantly feel nauseated. He tells me I shouldn't eat if I feel nauseous so he moves the tray away from me. He takes my arm out of the sling, props my arm up on a mound of pillows, and hooks my catheter up to a drip.
When did I get the catheter?
The nurse leaves and I just lie back in my bed and try not to feel sick. When he returns, he has a barf bag and lays it across my lap, and then he leaves again.
After about a half hour, I decide I should try to eat something. My tummy is hungry too, not just sick. I wasn't allowed to eat anything since the previous night. It's been 24 hours. So, I roll the soup back over. It's just broth anyway. I take a few small spoonfuls and just sit back.
Big mistake.
I start puking uncontrollably. I wasn't able to get the barf bag in time, so it's all over my Hello Kitty shirt and the blankets on my bed. My roommate says she'll call the nurse and starts pressing her nurse button repeatedly. She tells me I'll be okay, the nurse will come.
When the nurse shows up he's furious. I finally had stopped puking and told him that I felt I should eat something. He yells at me about how I shouldn't have eaten anything. I told him that downstairs, the nurse had given me tea and crackers. He's more pissed.
I'm confused. The nurse is actually angry with me and is yelling at me.
He literally left me to stew in my own puke. When my husband returned I told him what happened, and he got me out of bed, took me to the bathroom and sat me on the toilet. He said he'd get a change of clothes out of my bag, and ask the nurse to change my bedding. I must not have waited very long because he was back in the bathroom just a few minutes later with clean clothes. It was a struggle getting me out of my clothes and into new ones. We had to take my arm out of the sling, and it went shooting across my body like those old saloon doors. Just waggling back and forth. It was the weirdest feeling.
When I was all changed, my husband took me back out and my bedding had been replaced. He got me all comfortable in bed again, but he had to leave. He had to go home and get some sleep. He kissed me goodbye, and left me watching MTV on my personal TV monitor. The Foo Fighters were doing a live show, and I fell asleep watching them.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The Surgery - Part I
Most people know what to expect going in to surgery. I was an American in a foreign country, at a hospital where even the best English speakers don't act like the medical professionals from the states and tell you what you need to know.
I assumed (no, I did not make an ass of myself) that my surgery prep would take a while. My surgery time was 1pm. My husband, being the smooth talker he can be, arranged to trade days off with someone at work so he could be free the whole day. We dropped the dog off at the neighbor's' house and headed out to the hospital.
We get to the clinic a little before we're supposed to be there, and they take me back immediately. The clinic is rather small, and the surgery for orthopedics is in the same office. It's actually quite a small clinic. When you walk in, the desk and exam rooms are off to the left, the waiting enclosure is directly ahead, and the surgery center is to the left.
I kissed my husband, told him I loved him, and went with the nurse. She took me to the locker room where she told me to take my shoes off, take my shirt off, and put my purse and backpack in the locker. Now, this room is out in the open. Nudity is absolutely no issue in Germany. Nobody would pay much attention if someone was walking around in a bustier and thong on the street, so everyone walking around and working while I was undressing was just ignoring me as if I were a light switch. No problem, I don't really care anyway because I'm in a hospital - they see worse than a 26 year old woman walking around in her bra and jeans.
So, I'm waiting, topless for the nurse to come back when the front desk nurse comes barging in to the surgery center and asks me if I checked in. I asked if she meant the front desk of the clinic. She says no, downstairs. Oh. Well. This is why being American in Germany is difficult sometimes. They assume you know how their country works when it comes to certain systems. She tells me she already sent my husband downstairs; I should go meet him in the patient center.
Okay, so I hastily put back on my shirt and shoes and run down the two flights of stairs to the lobby and into the patient center. Apparently, we were supposed to check in there, before going to the clinic. Way to go explaining this to us Atos Klinikum. So, we sign a bunch of papers, we give them our personal information, we give them our insurance letters approving surgery and hospital stay (which I go to pick how long I stayed - oddly enough!) and then they asked me what I wanted for dinner.
After a brief 10 minutes doing all this, we were set free and we ran back up two flights to the clinic. We walk in and the girls at the front desk tell me to go on back and get undressed again. So, I kiss my husband and tell him I love him again, and once again proceed to undress and shove all my crap into a locker.
An older gentleman comes up to me. He's probably 40, but he looks younger. He brings me around the corner from the locker room into a small exam room and has me lie down on the table. So, there I am, topless, lying on a table with some man who leaves me for about 5 minutes, and then returns with a bucket of water. He tells me his name, but I can't remember it. He's the Anesthesiologist that works in the hospital. He's got on this super long white coat with his name embroidered on a front pocket. He's very nice, and speaks English very well. He tells me to sit up. So why was I lying down? I don't know. Anyway, he pulls up a spinning stool and starts unpacking a bunch of things.
They are going to try and do a block on my arm. What a block is in anesthetics is the isolation of a body part or region for numbing so the patient can be awake during surgery. I'm horrified. I specifically asked to be put to sleep at my pre-screen. This is what I was talking about the other day. They didn't understand my family's history of allergies with anesthetics. I tell the anesthesiologist this, but he insists this is what Dr. P. wants to do. But, he explains, they will put me to sleep if the block doesn't work. Fine. Whatever.
So, this guy has me stick my hand in the bucket of water and pump my fist several times. Then he lifts my arm out of the water, has me hold it straight up in the air and he prods my armpit. I do this a few times, and then he has me lie down with my arm over my head. Good thing I shaved my pits before coming in that day, right?
He starts pressing and pushing around in my armpit. He tells me he's looking for the nerve that will deaden my arm. He does this for a while and I lose track of time because it's incredibly uncomfortable and all I can think about is "Stop it!" It feels like hitting your funny bone, over and over. Only in your armpit. It's an awful feeling. I'm trying not to think about it, but then I think about how I don't want to be awake for the surgery and hear the bone saw or the drilling. Or see people moving around with bloody gloves.
When he's satisfied he has my nerve in a good spot, the anesthesiologist brings out this huge needle. He tells me to hold my breath and exhale slowly while he shoots the block drugs. Simple right? Oh on. No no. This was the worst experience of my life to date. I mean, the football injury was bad. But this was pure torture. He sticks the needle in, wiggles it around quite a bit trying to hit the nerve, and then he shoots the block in. I felt like I was going to die. My eyes started leaking immediately uncontrollably, and I tried to exhale as slowly as I could without getting all snotty in the nose - which can be hard to do when you're crying.
When he's done doing this, He forces me to move my arm around. This is just as bad. That nerve is so angry that it feels like a giant ice pick is stuck in my armpit. Moving my fingers hurts. Moving my hand hurts. Moving my elbow hurts. Everything hurts. Nothing he's doing to me is making this any better.
Then, he pulls my arm down and moves it so I'm tightly hugging myself across my middle. He tells me to keep my arm in this position, to hold it with my other arm so it doesn't slip, and to just wait. Now, again, I don't know how long I waited but it didn't feel like very long because next thing I knew, he was sitting me up and walking me across the hall and into the surgery.
They had me climb up onto this huge table in the middle of the room, and lay my right arm out to the side so it was directly horizontal with my palm facing up. Some guy got me a blanket and covered me up to my belly, then stuck a few suction cups to my chest. He asked me, in German, would I like to listen to music. I said sure. He asked if I liked a particular radio station and I told him it didn't really matter, that I like most all music. Plus, they already had it on Radio Regenbogen (Rainbow Radio) which is what my husband and I listened to in the car when we forgot our iPods, or they died on us. So this nurse guy turns up the volume on a stereo that's on the wall directly in front of me, while some other nurses and doctors start congregating around my arm.
One of the nurses pushes a cloth partition over my shoulder so I can't see my arm anymore. So, now, I'm laying on a table in my bra and jeans with a blanket that only covered my stomach, with like 10 people in the room. And I can't see my arm. I now know how it must feel to be in a C-section...
After everyone had come in, Dr. P. shows up and greets me. He asks for a scalpel and says he's going to make sure my arm is numb. I try to feel my arm, but it feels like it's only partially asleep. I can't tell, I can't move it. He tells me he's going to cut into me. Okay, I say.
Nope, definitely not numb yet. I can't really remember exactly how it felt, but I remember the pain. It was excruciating. There was pressure, and then pain. They waited about 10 minutes and then Dr. P. tried it again. Nope. Felt everything.
Okay, the block was not working. Ha! I didn't think it would. So, a nurse comes over to me and puts a mask over my face. I stare up at the ceiling while they pump the anesthetics in, and I remember falling asleep.
I assumed (no, I did not make an ass of myself) that my surgery prep would take a while. My surgery time was 1pm. My husband, being the smooth talker he can be, arranged to trade days off with someone at work so he could be free the whole day. We dropped the dog off at the neighbor's' house and headed out to the hospital.
We get to the clinic a little before we're supposed to be there, and they take me back immediately. The clinic is rather small, and the surgery for orthopedics is in the same office. It's actually quite a small clinic. When you walk in, the desk and exam rooms are off to the left, the waiting enclosure is directly ahead, and the surgery center is to the left.
I kissed my husband, told him I loved him, and went with the nurse. She took me to the locker room where she told me to take my shoes off, take my shirt off, and put my purse and backpack in the locker. Now, this room is out in the open. Nudity is absolutely no issue in Germany. Nobody would pay much attention if someone was walking around in a bustier and thong on the street, so everyone walking around and working while I was undressing was just ignoring me as if I were a light switch. No problem, I don't really care anyway because I'm in a hospital - they see worse than a 26 year old woman walking around in her bra and jeans.
So, I'm waiting, topless for the nurse to come back when the front desk nurse comes barging in to the surgery center and asks me if I checked in. I asked if she meant the front desk of the clinic. She says no, downstairs. Oh. Well. This is why being American in Germany is difficult sometimes. They assume you know how their country works when it comes to certain systems. She tells me she already sent my husband downstairs; I should go meet him in the patient center.
Okay, so I hastily put back on my shirt and shoes and run down the two flights of stairs to the lobby and into the patient center. Apparently, we were supposed to check in there, before going to the clinic. Way to go explaining this to us Atos Klinikum. So, we sign a bunch of papers, we give them our personal information, we give them our insurance letters approving surgery and hospital stay (which I go to pick how long I stayed - oddly enough!) and then they asked me what I wanted for dinner.
After a brief 10 minutes doing all this, we were set free and we ran back up two flights to the clinic. We walk in and the girls at the front desk tell me to go on back and get undressed again. So, I kiss my husband and tell him I love him again, and once again proceed to undress and shove all my crap into a locker.
An older gentleman comes up to me. He's probably 40, but he looks younger. He brings me around the corner from the locker room into a small exam room and has me lie down on the table. So, there I am, topless, lying on a table with some man who leaves me for about 5 minutes, and then returns with a bucket of water. He tells me his name, but I can't remember it. He's the Anesthesiologist that works in the hospital. He's got on this super long white coat with his name embroidered on a front pocket. He's very nice, and speaks English very well. He tells me to sit up. So why was I lying down? I don't know. Anyway, he pulls up a spinning stool and starts unpacking a bunch of things.
They are going to try and do a block on my arm. What a block is in anesthetics is the isolation of a body part or region for numbing so the patient can be awake during surgery. I'm horrified. I specifically asked to be put to sleep at my pre-screen. This is what I was talking about the other day. They didn't understand my family's history of allergies with anesthetics. I tell the anesthesiologist this, but he insists this is what Dr. P. wants to do. But, he explains, they will put me to sleep if the block doesn't work. Fine. Whatever.
So, this guy has me stick my hand in the bucket of water and pump my fist several times. Then he lifts my arm out of the water, has me hold it straight up in the air and he prods my armpit. I do this a few times, and then he has me lie down with my arm over my head. Good thing I shaved my pits before coming in that day, right?
He starts pressing and pushing around in my armpit. He tells me he's looking for the nerve that will deaden my arm. He does this for a while and I lose track of time because it's incredibly uncomfortable and all I can think about is "Stop it!" It feels like hitting your funny bone, over and over. Only in your armpit. It's an awful feeling. I'm trying not to think about it, but then I think about how I don't want to be awake for the surgery and hear the bone saw or the drilling. Or see people moving around with bloody gloves.
When he's satisfied he has my nerve in a good spot, the anesthesiologist brings out this huge needle. He tells me to hold my breath and exhale slowly while he shoots the block drugs. Simple right? Oh on. No no. This was the worst experience of my life to date. I mean, the football injury was bad. But this was pure torture. He sticks the needle in, wiggles it around quite a bit trying to hit the nerve, and then he shoots the block in. I felt like I was going to die. My eyes started leaking immediately uncontrollably, and I tried to exhale as slowly as I could without getting all snotty in the nose - which can be hard to do when you're crying.
When he's done doing this, He forces me to move my arm around. This is just as bad. That nerve is so angry that it feels like a giant ice pick is stuck in my armpit. Moving my fingers hurts. Moving my hand hurts. Moving my elbow hurts. Everything hurts. Nothing he's doing to me is making this any better.
Then, he pulls my arm down and moves it so I'm tightly hugging myself across my middle. He tells me to keep my arm in this position, to hold it with my other arm so it doesn't slip, and to just wait. Now, again, I don't know how long I waited but it didn't feel like very long because next thing I knew, he was sitting me up and walking me across the hall and into the surgery.
They had me climb up onto this huge table in the middle of the room, and lay my right arm out to the side so it was directly horizontal with my palm facing up. Some guy got me a blanket and covered me up to my belly, then stuck a few suction cups to my chest. He asked me, in German, would I like to listen to music. I said sure. He asked if I liked a particular radio station and I told him it didn't really matter, that I like most all music. Plus, they already had it on Radio Regenbogen (Rainbow Radio) which is what my husband and I listened to in the car when we forgot our iPods, or they died on us. So this nurse guy turns up the volume on a stereo that's on the wall directly in front of me, while some other nurses and doctors start congregating around my arm.
One of the nurses pushes a cloth partition over my shoulder so I can't see my arm anymore. So, now, I'm laying on a table in my bra and jeans with a blanket that only covered my stomach, with like 10 people in the room. And I can't see my arm. I now know how it must feel to be in a C-section...
After everyone had come in, Dr. P. shows up and greets me. He asks for a scalpel and says he's going to make sure my arm is numb. I try to feel my arm, but it feels like it's only partially asleep. I can't tell, I can't move it. He tells me he's going to cut into me. Okay, I say.
Nope, definitely not numb yet. I can't really remember exactly how it felt, but I remember the pain. It was excruciating. There was pressure, and then pain. They waited about 10 minutes and then Dr. P. tried it again. Nope. Felt everything.
Okay, the block was not working. Ha! I didn't think it would. So, a nurse comes over to me and puts a mask over my face. I stare up at the ceiling while they pump the anesthetics in, and I remember falling asleep.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Nervous much?
Well, since I had been finding out the tiny bit of knowledge and research there is out there about Kienbock's Disease, I started to get really nervous. There are several different types of "treatments" for Kienbock's depending on the stage you are in, and the severity of your bone conditions.
My radius being significantly longer than my ulna was causing the intense, literally bone crushing pain. Dr. P. said that if we didn't relieve the pressure on my hand bones (aka, carpal bones) then worse things would start happening. His goal was to stop the degradation of the collapsed lunate and potential development of further fractures or avascular necroses while also attempting to slow down the eventuality of arthritis. Now, once you develop arthritis with Kienbock's Disease, you're pretty much screwed. I mean, yes, I have permanent damage and I will be permanently disabled and I will deteriorate over time ... but lucky me this is not a fatal disease. Just a crippling one.
So, the first order of business in treating my Kienbock's would be a join leveling surgery. This would even out the playing field for any doctor treating me in the future. So, what is joint leveling?
It has nothing to do with joints. Joint leveling is the process of mathematically extracting a portion of bone in order to shorten it, or to cut the bone to lengthen it. They were literally going to saw my bone in half, take out a sizable chunk, drill holes in the entire bone, secure it by screwing it back together with a titanium plate and screws. Mind blowing, right?
Well, needless to say I was antsy. I wanted to get this surgery over and done with. I wanted pain relief. I wanted to start the process of dealing with my disease. I wanted a lot.
This is when the eye twitch started. I called and scheduled my surgery for Thanksgiving Day, November of 2009. See, Germans don't celebrate Thanksgiving like Americans and Canadians do. In fact, most Germans think it's all cliche like on the TV or in the movies. The last 2 Thanksgivings we spent with our German neighbors who had never eaten turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, or green bean casserole. This year, I had an eye twitch, and an itch to have a small, intimate Thanksgiving prior to my surgery with my husband.
Well, I had this eye twitch the entire 3 months before my surgery. It was a pain the the butt to say the least. I wear contacts normally, but was remanded to my glasses. I went to the eye doctor before surgery to get my regular check-up, order new glasses and contacts, and to complain about the eye twitch. There was nothing he could do. He said it was an unconscious bodily response to my nerves regarding my impending dissection.
I love school. I love music. I love teaching music. For some reason, I felt like I lived in a blur this entire time. I have no idea how I got through school, teaching music lessons, and recording my music (just in case the surgery rendered me incapable to play ever again).
I worried non-stop. My family has a history of allergies to anesthetics. I've had my fair share of problems. Once, I had a cavity when I was 18. I went to the dentist so they could drill it out and fill it. They gave me 6 shots and I still hadn't numbed so they just drilled completely through my tooth and filled it. It was the most horrific experience I've had at a dentist, and has scared me away from them forever. When I went in to Atos to to a pre-surgery screening, they asked lots of questions and I tried to tell them about my family's allergies. Come to find out later, they never understood what I was saying ...
I also had my husband take me into my school to get me registered as a disabled student with student affairs, and to the bank to tell them I wouldn't be able to use my right hand so if I signed checks or came in to bank, they had a note on my account. It's permanent now, just in case something ever happens while I'm still banking with them. They're nice about that.
One of the weird things I was worried about was my handwriting. I have always been complimented on my neat, legible and pretty handwriting. I'm no Renaissance woman with a pen or pencil, but I do pride myself on having nice handwriting. I kept asking my husband if my handwriting would change. I didn't want it to change. I also asked him if I'd have to re-learn how to use my hand and arm. He had no answers to anything.
I didn't stop being nervous even the night before my surgery. I ran over to my neighbors and asked if they would take my dog for the next day and night. Their little boys love my dog. Although the boys speak no English, I taught my dog some German commands - and my dog was used to playing with them all the time anyways. My neighbors in Germany were wonderful. We had 4 sets of neighbors that were were really friendly with, and then there was Anne and Benedict. They were fabulous. So, when I went freaking out about my dog, Anne gave me a present. I now had a lucky pig, which I took with me to the hospital, and that I usually keep in my bedroom by my bed now.
In spite of all the nervousness and fright I had been slowly building to a climax, I still wanted to do this. If you don't treat Kienbock's disease, you run the risk of further complications. I'd spent the last 8 years getting worse because no one took care of it. The nerves might have been hard to handle at times, annoying to my husband, annoying to me (stupid eye twitch!), but I was ultimately set. I wanted everything fixed. I wanted my life back.
My radius being significantly longer than my ulna was causing the intense, literally bone crushing pain. Dr. P. said that if we didn't relieve the pressure on my hand bones (aka, carpal bones) then worse things would start happening. His goal was to stop the degradation of the collapsed lunate and potential development of further fractures or avascular necroses while also attempting to slow down the eventuality of arthritis. Now, once you develop arthritis with Kienbock's Disease, you're pretty much screwed. I mean, yes, I have permanent damage and I will be permanently disabled and I will deteriorate over time ... but lucky me this is not a fatal disease. Just a crippling one.
So, the first order of business in treating my Kienbock's would be a join leveling surgery. This would even out the playing field for any doctor treating me in the future. So, what is joint leveling?
It has nothing to do with joints. Joint leveling is the process of mathematically extracting a portion of bone in order to shorten it, or to cut the bone to lengthen it. They were literally going to saw my bone in half, take out a sizable chunk, drill holes in the entire bone, secure it by screwing it back together with a titanium plate and screws. Mind blowing, right?
Well, needless to say I was antsy. I wanted to get this surgery over and done with. I wanted pain relief. I wanted to start the process of dealing with my disease. I wanted a lot.
This is when the eye twitch started. I called and scheduled my surgery for Thanksgiving Day, November of 2009. See, Germans don't celebrate Thanksgiving like Americans and Canadians do. In fact, most Germans think it's all cliche like on the TV or in the movies. The last 2 Thanksgivings we spent with our German neighbors who had never eaten turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, or green bean casserole. This year, I had an eye twitch, and an itch to have a small, intimate Thanksgiving prior to my surgery with my husband.
Well, I had this eye twitch the entire 3 months before my surgery. It was a pain the the butt to say the least. I wear contacts normally, but was remanded to my glasses. I went to the eye doctor before surgery to get my regular check-up, order new glasses and contacts, and to complain about the eye twitch. There was nothing he could do. He said it was an unconscious bodily response to my nerves regarding my impending dissection.
I love school. I love music. I love teaching music. For some reason, I felt like I lived in a blur this entire time. I have no idea how I got through school, teaching music lessons, and recording my music (just in case the surgery rendered me incapable to play ever again).
I worried non-stop. My family has a history of allergies to anesthetics. I've had my fair share of problems. Once, I had a cavity when I was 18. I went to the dentist so they could drill it out and fill it. They gave me 6 shots and I still hadn't numbed so they just drilled completely through my tooth and filled it. It was the most horrific experience I've had at a dentist, and has scared me away from them forever. When I went in to Atos to to a pre-surgery screening, they asked lots of questions and I tried to tell them about my family's allergies. Come to find out later, they never understood what I was saying ...
I also had my husband take me into my school to get me registered as a disabled student with student affairs, and to the bank to tell them I wouldn't be able to use my right hand so if I signed checks or came in to bank, they had a note on my account. It's permanent now, just in case something ever happens while I'm still banking with them. They're nice about that.
One of the weird things I was worried about was my handwriting. I have always been complimented on my neat, legible and pretty handwriting. I'm no Renaissance woman with a pen or pencil, but I do pride myself on having nice handwriting. I kept asking my husband if my handwriting would change. I didn't want it to change. I also asked him if I'd have to re-learn how to use my hand and arm. He had no answers to anything.
I didn't stop being nervous even the night before my surgery. I ran over to my neighbors and asked if they would take my dog for the next day and night. Their little boys love my dog. Although the boys speak no English, I taught my dog some German commands - and my dog was used to playing with them all the time anyways. My neighbors in Germany were wonderful. We had 4 sets of neighbors that were were really friendly with, and then there was Anne and Benedict. They were fabulous. So, when I went freaking out about my dog, Anne gave me a present. I now had a lucky pig, which I took with me to the hospital, and that I usually keep in my bedroom by my bed now.
In spite of all the nervousness and fright I had been slowly building to a climax, I still wanted to do this. If you don't treat Kienbock's disease, you run the risk of further complications. I'd spent the last 8 years getting worse because no one took care of it. The nerves might have been hard to handle at times, annoying to my husband, annoying to me (stupid eye twitch!), but I was ultimately set. I wanted everything fixed. I wanted my life back.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Kienbock's Disease: 101
While I was home thinking about surgery and making plans, I did some research on my condition.
Kienbock's Disease was only discovered in 1910 by an Austrian Dr. Robert Kienbock. He was a radiologist who was a pioneer in x-ray technology. He thought, originally, that Kienbock's was a result of malnutrition and tears in the ligaments and blood vessels.
Kienbock's Disease has no known cause, even today. There are many conjectures over what could possibly be the cause, and the two most viable conclusions are: a pre-disposition or a direct physical trauma such as falling on your hand (his includes repeated physical traumas). Because the lunate is so small and in an awkward position, it is rather difficult to cause the bone to collapse or fracture so these are the most widely accepted causes of the disease. In fact, less than 0.05% of the population has, or will have this disease.
In my particular case, the likely cause was a predisposition for my radius to grow abnormally long, and because I had two accidents in a very short time period (one a football accident, one a car accident) this could have cause the trauma that fractured and collapsed the lunate. This is according to Dr. P. my specialist, and Dr. R.'s contact at Landstuhl's orthopedic clinic.
The progression of the disease has 5 stages I, II, III-A, III-B and IV. There are many definitions of each stage; no one has a universal set explanation. My stage has been identified as III-A. This is the stage where the lunate is dead, it has collapsed, but I have not yet developed arthritis from the bone disintegration/movement/upset. In my stage, there is dramatically limited motion and range in the hand and wrist.
Typically, Kienbock's develops in young persons. Most people are in their 20s when it is discovered, but the typical age range is 20-40. More often than not, Kienbock's Disease affects the dominant hand. There are rare cases where it affects both as well. Mostly, people who have Keinbock's are predominantly men.
Some people will have a positive or negative ulnar or radial difference (meaning the bone is longer or shorter than it should be). This causes the bones in the wrist and hand to be disrupted. So, Less than 1/2% of people have Kienbock's Disease, and I am an even smaller percentage who has a variable bone size in my arm. This makes my disease state somewhat unusual, but not uncommon in Kienbock's.
Most doctors have never heard of Kienbock's disease - even in orthopedics. Mostly, a specialist in hands will be the only ones aware of the disease. While taking physical therapy, I worked with 3 certified hand therapists. Two had heard of the disease, and only one had ever worked with a patient with Kienbock's before, just one person in their entire career had ever had the disease. Additionally, they all had to conduct extensive research on the under documented disease in order to know how to treat my condition.
Symptoms of Kienbock's Disease are wide and varied, and commonly mistaken for other conditions. A few of the most widely reported symptoms are:
wrist pain
wrist swelling
tenderness
intense stabbing/crushing/throbbing pain
pain and difficulty moving the wrist in any and all directions
inability to use hand normally
stiffness
broken or fractured bones
arthritis
bone movement
bone collapse
bone disintegration
clicking in wrist or hand with movement
chronic pain in middle finger, or between the middle and ring finger
weakness in wrist, hand, grip, movement
inability to sleep due to discomfort or pain
inability to do simple/sedentary actions
If you have questions directly related to Kienbock's Disease, please feel free to ask. I will answer to the best of my ability.
Kienbock's Disease was only discovered in 1910 by an Austrian Dr. Robert Kienbock. He was a radiologist who was a pioneer in x-ray technology. He thought, originally, that Kienbock's was a result of malnutrition and tears in the ligaments and blood vessels.
Kienbock's Disease has no known cause, even today. There are many conjectures over what could possibly be the cause, and the two most viable conclusions are: a pre-disposition or a direct physical trauma such as falling on your hand (his includes repeated physical traumas). Because the lunate is so small and in an awkward position, it is rather difficult to cause the bone to collapse or fracture so these are the most widely accepted causes of the disease. In fact, less than 0.05% of the population has, or will have this disease.
In my particular case, the likely cause was a predisposition for my radius to grow abnormally long, and because I had two accidents in a very short time period (one a football accident, one a car accident) this could have cause the trauma that fractured and collapsed the lunate. This is according to Dr. P. my specialist, and Dr. R.'s contact at Landstuhl's orthopedic clinic.
The progression of the disease has 5 stages I, II, III-A, III-B and IV. There are many definitions of each stage; no one has a universal set explanation. My stage has been identified as III-A. This is the stage where the lunate is dead, it has collapsed, but I have not yet developed arthritis from the bone disintegration/movement/upset. In my stage, there is dramatically limited motion and range in the hand and wrist.
Typically, Kienbock's develops in young persons. Most people are in their 20s when it is discovered, but the typical age range is 20-40. More often than not, Kienbock's Disease affects the dominant hand. There are rare cases where it affects both as well. Mostly, people who have Keinbock's are predominantly men.
Some people will have a positive or negative ulnar or radial difference (meaning the bone is longer or shorter than it should be). This causes the bones in the wrist and hand to be disrupted. So, Less than 1/2% of people have Kienbock's Disease, and I am an even smaller percentage who has a variable bone size in my arm. This makes my disease state somewhat unusual, but not uncommon in Kienbock's.
Most doctors have never heard of Kienbock's disease - even in orthopedics. Mostly, a specialist in hands will be the only ones aware of the disease. While taking physical therapy, I worked with 3 certified hand therapists. Two had heard of the disease, and only one had ever worked with a patient with Kienbock's before, just one person in their entire career had ever had the disease. Additionally, they all had to conduct extensive research on the under documented disease in order to know how to treat my condition.
Symptoms of Kienbock's Disease are wide and varied, and commonly mistaken for other conditions. A few of the most widely reported symptoms are:
wrist pain
wrist swelling
tenderness
intense stabbing/crushing/throbbing pain
pain and difficulty moving the wrist in any and all directions
inability to use hand normally
stiffness
broken or fractured bones
arthritis
bone movement
bone collapse
bone disintegration
clicking in wrist or hand with movement
chronic pain in middle finger, or between the middle and ring finger
weakness in wrist, hand, grip, movement
inability to sleep due to discomfort or pain
inability to do simple/sedentary actions
If you have questions directly related to Kienbock's Disease, please feel free to ask. I will answer to the best of my ability.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Atos Klinikum and Dr. P.
Remember that fancy hospital I was talking about the other day? The one downtown Heidelberg that looked like some government building? This was the next stop in my journey. This was where I learned about Kienbock's disease.
So Atos Klinikum is a rather small hospital in comparison with American or university hospitals. I mean, there's this hospital called Theresiankrankenhaus (literal translation: Theresa's sick house) in downtown Mannheim that takes up a whole stinking block. Also, I'd been to the famous Army hospital in Landstuhl down by Rammstein for a GI appointment and some scope work the year before. That is also a huge hospital. You even have to go through security to get in.
I'm a little off track here. So, we park in the underground parking garage, and take the elevator to the main floor. We're looking around and this place is like a 5 star hotel with a Pharmacy that looks like it belongs in Donald Trump's house, and a restaurant with affordable and delicious local fare, and finally a gift shop and in-patient center. The floors and columns are all marble, and there's a grand foyer section where the middle of the entire building is open up to the greenhouse roofed ceiling. You can see all the way up to the top floors, and they can look down on you. The elevators are completely glass all the way around, and you can see all this artwork in between floors while you're going up ... and we did because we went to the second floor. Or, in Germany, what is called the second floor but is really the 3rd floor because they don't count the ground floor as one level, but as "Erdgeschoss", literal translation: earthen level. We learned this moving into our house because we lived in a 4 story home and had to tell them 2Nd level for the top floor, even though in America, it's the 3rd floor. Okay, again, off topic.
So we go up to the floor where the orthopedic clinic is, and we enter the office to find it's rather normal - more like an American office than the other orthopedic clinic we went to. It has a small waiting room enclosed in glass dividers with a closing door so the doctors and nurses don't get distracted. The counter is right when you walk in, so I tell them in my best German that I'm Mrs. Cushman (you always refer to yourself formally when dealing with strangers in an office setting - name tags always say Herr and Frau instead of first names). I tell them I'm to see Dr. P. They check their lists, and then have me fill out some paperwork. All over the wall when you come in, opposite the check-in desk, are these (what we Americans would think) grotesque pictures of foot and hand injuries. This office strictly deals with feet and hands. The doctors here are preeminent specialists in Germany.
We waited quite a while to see Dr. P. Mostly because the clinic was jammed with people waiting to be seen. This was obviously a very busy hospital. My husband and I always bring something to do with us, so of course I whipped out my school books and started reading, and my husband tried to sleep. When I was called back to a room, the girl asked how well I spoke German and I told her I can speak well conversationally, but not medically. She told me not to worry, everyone that works at that hospital is required to know 3 languages, 2 besides German and most all of them can speak English. This is because in Germany, unlike America, English is a requirement that is begun in the 4Th or 5Th grade and is continued, usually, for 7 to 10 years depending on the length of schooling and type of school.
So, Dr. P. waltzes in shortly after, and speaks perfect English. He's better than the immigrant doctors commonly employed by the U.S. military (often spouses of military members) who speak English every day with every patient. Anyway, he takes my disc of X-rays and prints out the pictures. He's not happy with what he sees, so he sends me downstairs to get an MRI. Now, usually, you have to schedule MRIs at a hospital. At Atos Klinikum, they do them on the spot, and results are immediate. I spent no more than 20 minutes down in the MRI. I didn't have to take any clothes, jewelry or even my belt off. Just my shoes. The woman running the MRI said she couldn't speak English, which really means she can but is fearful of her abilities and will only speak English when she completely can't understand you. So, she spoke German to me the entire time - which I'm used to but not in a medical setting. However, I've had many MRIs so I know what she's saying. Don't move. Squeeze this sensor thing in your hand if you need to stop or there is an emergency. Don't move. Don't move. I can talk to you through this headset. Don't move. You know that kind of stuff.
After 20 minutes, she sends me back upstairs to the radiology clinic to get my results. Again, I wait maybe 5 minutes and a guy comes out and takes me back to a computer. He speaks perfect English too. He shows me my results, talks to me a little bit, and then sends me back to Dr.P.
Dr. P. is floored. We have a lengthy conversation about my fracture. He tells me this is called an avascular necrosis of the lunate and a significant radial difference. Rough translation into laymen terms: There are these tiny bones in your hands. One of them in the middle of the bottom row of bones is lunar shaped, and thus called the lunate bone. This bone, which is critical to movement of the wrist, has died. There is no blood supply (hence the avascular). Because it is completely dead and fractured, it is going to, at some point, decompose and break down in to tiny bits. They cannot restore blood supply to this bone because of the extensive damage. This is an extremely uncommon disease. There isn't much known about this disease because of its rarity. Additionally, my case is even rarer than normal because I have a radial difference. This means that the radius bone (the inner arm bone) is longer than my ulna (the outer arm bone). This difference is likely what caused the bone to die as it pushed and crushed the bones in my wrist as it grew.
Dr. P. starts telling me the different stages of the disease. He has listened and exclaimed over my entire medical history with this issue since 2001. He is horrified that no one ever took an X-ray, that no one ever found out what was wrong, and that they lied to me for years and years. His expert medical opinion based on my symptoms, my X-rays and now my MRI results, and a light physical examination, is that I am in stage 3-A. There are 4 stages of the Kienbock's disease. 3-A is pretty bad, but not as bad as 3-B or 4. I'll get more into the actual disease soon, but Dr. P. says he recommends a radial shortening considering my stage and condition.
We tell him we'll think about it, and that we will call when we make our decision. I made the decision that weekend this HAD to be taken care of, but waited a full two weeks to call the office and schedule surgery.
So Atos Klinikum is a rather small hospital in comparison with American or university hospitals. I mean, there's this hospital called Theresiankrankenhaus (literal translation: Theresa's sick house) in downtown Mannheim that takes up a whole stinking block. Also, I'd been to the famous Army hospital in Landstuhl down by Rammstein for a GI appointment and some scope work the year before. That is also a huge hospital. You even have to go through security to get in.
I'm a little off track here. So, we park in the underground parking garage, and take the elevator to the main floor. We're looking around and this place is like a 5 star hotel with a Pharmacy that looks like it belongs in Donald Trump's house, and a restaurant with affordable and delicious local fare, and finally a gift shop and in-patient center. The floors and columns are all marble, and there's a grand foyer section where the middle of the entire building is open up to the greenhouse roofed ceiling. You can see all the way up to the top floors, and they can look down on you. The elevators are completely glass all the way around, and you can see all this artwork in between floors while you're going up ... and we did because we went to the second floor. Or, in Germany, what is called the second floor but is really the 3rd floor because they don't count the ground floor as one level, but as "Erdgeschoss", literal translation: earthen level. We learned this moving into our house because we lived in a 4 story home and had to tell them 2Nd level for the top floor, even though in America, it's the 3rd floor. Okay, again, off topic.
So we go up to the floor where the orthopedic clinic is, and we enter the office to find it's rather normal - more like an American office than the other orthopedic clinic we went to. It has a small waiting room enclosed in glass dividers with a closing door so the doctors and nurses don't get distracted. The counter is right when you walk in, so I tell them in my best German that I'm Mrs. Cushman (you always refer to yourself formally when dealing with strangers in an office setting - name tags always say Herr and Frau instead of first names). I tell them I'm to see Dr. P. They check their lists, and then have me fill out some paperwork. All over the wall when you come in, opposite the check-in desk, are these (what we Americans would think) grotesque pictures of foot and hand injuries. This office strictly deals with feet and hands. The doctors here are preeminent specialists in Germany.
We waited quite a while to see Dr. P. Mostly because the clinic was jammed with people waiting to be seen. This was obviously a very busy hospital. My husband and I always bring something to do with us, so of course I whipped out my school books and started reading, and my husband tried to sleep. When I was called back to a room, the girl asked how well I spoke German and I told her I can speak well conversationally, but not medically. She told me not to worry, everyone that works at that hospital is required to know 3 languages, 2 besides German and most all of them can speak English. This is because in Germany, unlike America, English is a requirement that is begun in the 4Th or 5Th grade and is continued, usually, for 7 to 10 years depending on the length of schooling and type of school.
So, Dr. P. waltzes in shortly after, and speaks perfect English. He's better than the immigrant doctors commonly employed by the U.S. military (often spouses of military members) who speak English every day with every patient. Anyway, he takes my disc of X-rays and prints out the pictures. He's not happy with what he sees, so he sends me downstairs to get an MRI. Now, usually, you have to schedule MRIs at a hospital. At Atos Klinikum, they do them on the spot, and results are immediate. I spent no more than 20 minutes down in the MRI. I didn't have to take any clothes, jewelry or even my belt off. Just my shoes. The woman running the MRI said she couldn't speak English, which really means she can but is fearful of her abilities and will only speak English when she completely can't understand you. So, she spoke German to me the entire time - which I'm used to but not in a medical setting. However, I've had many MRIs so I know what she's saying. Don't move. Squeeze this sensor thing in your hand if you need to stop or there is an emergency. Don't move. Don't move. I can talk to you through this headset. Don't move. You know that kind of stuff.
After 20 minutes, she sends me back upstairs to the radiology clinic to get my results. Again, I wait maybe 5 minutes and a guy comes out and takes me back to a computer. He speaks perfect English too. He shows me my results, talks to me a little bit, and then sends me back to Dr.P.
Dr. P. is floored. We have a lengthy conversation about my fracture. He tells me this is called an avascular necrosis of the lunate and a significant radial difference. Rough translation into laymen terms: There are these tiny bones in your hands. One of them in the middle of the bottom row of bones is lunar shaped, and thus called the lunate bone. This bone, which is critical to movement of the wrist, has died. There is no blood supply (hence the avascular). Because it is completely dead and fractured, it is going to, at some point, decompose and break down in to tiny bits. They cannot restore blood supply to this bone because of the extensive damage. This is an extremely uncommon disease. There isn't much known about this disease because of its rarity. Additionally, my case is even rarer than normal because I have a radial difference. This means that the radius bone (the inner arm bone) is longer than my ulna (the outer arm bone). This difference is likely what caused the bone to die as it pushed and crushed the bones in my wrist as it grew.
Dr. P. starts telling me the different stages of the disease. He has listened and exclaimed over my entire medical history with this issue since 2001. He is horrified that no one ever took an X-ray, that no one ever found out what was wrong, and that they lied to me for years and years. His expert medical opinion based on my symptoms, my X-rays and now my MRI results, and a light physical examination, is that I am in stage 3-A. There are 4 stages of the Kienbock's disease. 3-A is pretty bad, but not as bad as 3-B or 4. I'll get more into the actual disease soon, but Dr. P. says he recommends a radial shortening considering my stage and condition.
We tell him we'll think about it, and that we will call when we make our decision. I made the decision that weekend this HAD to be taken care of, but waited a full two weeks to call the office and schedule surgery.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Did the doctor just laugh at me?
There's this super fancy hospital in downtown Heidelberg. If you get off the Strassenbahn (street level train) at Bismarck Platz (where the pedestrian shopping zone is) and turn around, you'd never know the building was a hospital. It looks more like some sort of government building. I never really thought twice about that building, regardless of the fact that my husband and I were always down in Heidelberg doing something or other.
When I received my referral to a specialist, it was bizarre. I first had to go see a regular orthopedist in downtown Mannheim. The doctor's office wasn't like any I'd ever seen before, of course, I was in Germany not America. But, on my high school exchange program, I did visit a local doctor's clinic with my exchange partner - but that's beside the point. Anyway, I always love new experiences in Europe like learning about social customs or local traditions, etc. This was not an experience I was prepared for.
So the doctor's office (like every other office or house in a city setting in Europe) was up behind a storefront building. It was hard to find at first because there was no sign so my husband was merely going off the street addresses. We're both skeptical because once you get behind the building, you have to go up these narrow steps and then it's like you're in some one's backyard garden or something. We enter the building, and head to the second floor like the paperwork we got from our insurance told us to do. Once we get inside the actual office, it's more like ... an office. Nobody's wearing scrubs or coats. There's no check-in desk. There is however, what looks to be a closet with sliding glass doors that are obscured by its bubbled glass. My husband shrugs at me, peeks around a corner and sees a bunch of chairs and heads to do what else? To sleep of course.
I stick my head through these glass doors because really, there is no one else around in this office besides the two women chattering away and clacking at their computer keyboards. I greet them in German; ask if I am in the right place. A young girl, maybe 3 years younger than I am, confirms that I am and I tell her who I am. Then some burly German guy barges in through the doors and starts babbling about an appointment - so I know this must be check-in. It's just bizarre is all. I mean, this room is tiny to say the least, and I stood there for about 10 minutes filling out paperwork in German and answering a bunch of questions in German.
When the girl has finished my paperwork, I go to wait for my "Termin", my new word for my appointment. I apparently used the wrong word when I was making conversation but I'm used to German nuances for the most part - you know, being corrected in the middle of a sentence or conversation as if what you were trying to say depended on it - even when you don't ask or want to be corrected. Yeah.
Anyway, we must have waited almost an hour which is rather unusual for Germans who are known for their impeccable punctuality and timeliness. We are escorted to an examination room, and it too, is a closet. Literally. I mean, the one wall was full of cabinets with labels on each door and drawer, and the on the other wall was an exam table that I was sitting on - my knees were almost touching the cabinets. My husband could barely fit in this room - he's a big guy, over 6 feet tall with really broad shoulders and he was uncomfortable.
So, when the doctor comes in, he starts speaking English automatically. It annoys me when Germans do this. Their practicing English is WAY more important than your learning German. But, I suppose I can understand that medical issues and expressions are not commonly learned so perhaps it wasn't rude, just politely convenient? Anyways, it doesn't matter because I can't say "dead wrist bone" in German anyhow. So I tell the doctor what I was told by Dr. R. He doesn't understand what I am talking about, so I hand over a CD with my X-ray images and tell him that they took them just a few weeks ago.
After disappearing for a few minutes, and reappearing, he hands me the disc back and says there's nothing he can do for me. I say "what?" He laughs at me. "I don't know why your doctor sent you here."
Am I missing something? Did the doctor just laugh at me?
He explains that at his clinic, unlike in American orthopedic clinics, they merely do diagnosis, and minor treatment like casts and splints. We're talking these people only deal with regular old broken bones and sprains. Great, right? He wants to know why I am there. I tell him this is where my doctor sent me to get treatment. So, he thinks a moment and says he has a friend who is a specialist in hands who works in Heidelberg. He gives me the name of the clinic and our appointment is over.
After a rather harrowing experience waiting to get clearance to go see this specialist in Heidelberg, we are happy and have an appointment for the fall of 2009. I spent hours on the hospital's website reading about the doctors, the clinics, the famous patients from all over the world. Steffi Graf was a patient there. Rich business men from Russia come all the way to Germany to be seen by these doctors. I haven't even been to this place, don't even realize I've seen this place, and I like it tremendously. Little did I know it's that big building downtown in an area I know well and love.
When I received my referral to a specialist, it was bizarre. I first had to go see a regular orthopedist in downtown Mannheim. The doctor's office wasn't like any I'd ever seen before, of course, I was in Germany not America. But, on my high school exchange program, I did visit a local doctor's clinic with my exchange partner - but that's beside the point. Anyway, I always love new experiences in Europe like learning about social customs or local traditions, etc. This was not an experience I was prepared for.
So the doctor's office (like every other office or house in a city setting in Europe) was up behind a storefront building. It was hard to find at first because there was no sign so my husband was merely going off the street addresses. We're both skeptical because once you get behind the building, you have to go up these narrow steps and then it's like you're in some one's backyard garden or something. We enter the building, and head to the second floor like the paperwork we got from our insurance told us to do. Once we get inside the actual office, it's more like ... an office. Nobody's wearing scrubs or coats. There's no check-in desk. There is however, what looks to be a closet with sliding glass doors that are obscured by its bubbled glass. My husband shrugs at me, peeks around a corner and sees a bunch of chairs and heads to do what else? To sleep of course.
I stick my head through these glass doors because really, there is no one else around in this office besides the two women chattering away and clacking at their computer keyboards. I greet them in German; ask if I am in the right place. A young girl, maybe 3 years younger than I am, confirms that I am and I tell her who I am. Then some burly German guy barges in through the doors and starts babbling about an appointment - so I know this must be check-in. It's just bizarre is all. I mean, this room is tiny to say the least, and I stood there for about 10 minutes filling out paperwork in German and answering a bunch of questions in German.
When the girl has finished my paperwork, I go to wait for my "Termin", my new word for my appointment. I apparently used the wrong word when I was making conversation but I'm used to German nuances for the most part - you know, being corrected in the middle of a sentence or conversation as if what you were trying to say depended on it - even when you don't ask or want to be corrected. Yeah.
Anyway, we must have waited almost an hour which is rather unusual for Germans who are known for their impeccable punctuality and timeliness. We are escorted to an examination room, and it too, is a closet. Literally. I mean, the one wall was full of cabinets with labels on each door and drawer, and the on the other wall was an exam table that I was sitting on - my knees were almost touching the cabinets. My husband could barely fit in this room - he's a big guy, over 6 feet tall with really broad shoulders and he was uncomfortable.
So, when the doctor comes in, he starts speaking English automatically. It annoys me when Germans do this. Their practicing English is WAY more important than your learning German. But, I suppose I can understand that medical issues and expressions are not commonly learned so perhaps it wasn't rude, just politely convenient? Anyways, it doesn't matter because I can't say "dead wrist bone" in German anyhow. So I tell the doctor what I was told by Dr. R. He doesn't understand what I am talking about, so I hand over a CD with my X-ray images and tell him that they took them just a few weeks ago.
After disappearing for a few minutes, and reappearing, he hands me the disc back and says there's nothing he can do for me. I say "what?" He laughs at me. "I don't know why your doctor sent you here."
Am I missing something? Did the doctor just laugh at me?
He explains that at his clinic, unlike in American orthopedic clinics, they merely do diagnosis, and minor treatment like casts and splints. We're talking these people only deal with regular old broken bones and sprains. Great, right? He wants to know why I am there. I tell him this is where my doctor sent me to get treatment. So, he thinks a moment and says he has a friend who is a specialist in hands who works in Heidelberg. He gives me the name of the clinic and our appointment is over.
After a rather harrowing experience waiting to get clearance to go see this specialist in Heidelberg, we are happy and have an appointment for the fall of 2009. I spent hours on the hospital's website reading about the doctors, the clinics, the famous patients from all over the world. Steffi Graf was a patient there. Rich business men from Russia come all the way to Germany to be seen by these doctors. I haven't even been to this place, don't even realize I've seen this place, and I like it tremendously. Little did I know it's that big building downtown in an area I know well and love.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Vindication
It is customary in the military, to try and get an appointment with a doctor for a serious issue (such as crushing bone pain) and not be seen for 6 weeks or more. However, for some strange reason, I was reassigned to a new primary care doctor even though my previous doctor was still at the clinic ... lucky me.
So, my husband usually had to take the day off to take me to the doctor (because at the time we lived 10 miles away from the military base in Germany), or go and sleep because he always worked midnight shift and never got enough sleep. Sleep deprivation is a huge problem in the military, and, in my rather biased but not unfounded opinion, is inhumane. My husband was worked to death while we lived in Germany. Those three years of work were miserable for him, so taking me to the doctor meant sleeping wherever, whenever, however.
So, at the clinic, we wait together. He's, as usual, tired as all hell and is desperately trying to stay awake to be supportive of me, and at the same time desperately trying to catch up on the last 2 years of sleep deprivation. But, unlike any other doctor's visit I have ever had, before the doctor will see me, she insists I go down to X-ray.
Well.
I guess I don't have to bring out the brass knuckles.
10 minutes later, I'm back in the doctor's office, and she's looking rather amazedly at my x-rays. She's looking at the screen, and in her sophisticated British accent says "You were right to come in. You've got a rather serious fracture." She turns to me and picks up my right hand in hers and starts poking and prodding. I'm practically screaming in pain during this, and she says "Let's get you something strong for the pain." I love this doctor instantly.
Dr. R explained a bunch of technical information about my wrist. She says she sees that a particularly important bone that moves my wrist around is fractured rather severely, and it looks dead. I'll have to see the top specialist for this she says. Then, she gives me hefty doses of vicodin and flexeril to ease my pain and tells me to go down to X-ray and ask for a copy of today's pictures.
Let me just officially say, on the record, that I'm light as a feather coming out of that office into my husband's arms. Dr. R comes out with me to say "You were coming in to battle me, weren't you?" I concur. My husband tells her we've never ever had an X-ray done because no one will listen to the symptoms. Dr. R said that just by reading what I wrote on my information sheet as to what the visit was about - that X-ray was the first thing that had to be done to rule anything out.
I couldn't believe how amazingly lucky I got that day. A new doctor with an agenda. And, furthermore, for the year that I had her, she never disappointed me. I never minded waiting for her if she took longer with patients or was brisk but calculating. She knew what she was doing and, unlike MANY doctors, she really wanted to help and WAS helping.
Vindication never felt so good. For the last (almost) decade, I had been crushed miserably by pain, by failure, by losing my livelihood ... I finally felt grateful for once. I felt grateful for that prissy British doctor who took her job seriously, I felt grateful that I hadn't given up, I felt grateful for all the torture and B.S. I went through to get this far. Never again would someone tell me I had tendonitis, tennis elbow, or worse - carpal tunnel that doesn't register a reading in nerve testing so there'd be nothing they could do about it.
Finally, I had an answer.
So, my husband usually had to take the day off to take me to the doctor (because at the time we lived 10 miles away from the military base in Germany), or go and sleep because he always worked midnight shift and never got enough sleep. Sleep deprivation is a huge problem in the military, and, in my rather biased but not unfounded opinion, is inhumane. My husband was worked to death while we lived in Germany. Those three years of work were miserable for him, so taking me to the doctor meant sleeping wherever, whenever, however.
So, at the clinic, we wait together. He's, as usual, tired as all hell and is desperately trying to stay awake to be supportive of me, and at the same time desperately trying to catch up on the last 2 years of sleep deprivation. But, unlike any other doctor's visit I have ever had, before the doctor will see me, she insists I go down to X-ray.
Well.
I guess I don't have to bring out the brass knuckles.
10 minutes later, I'm back in the doctor's office, and she's looking rather amazedly at my x-rays. She's looking at the screen, and in her sophisticated British accent says "You were right to come in. You've got a rather serious fracture." She turns to me and picks up my right hand in hers and starts poking and prodding. I'm practically screaming in pain during this, and she says "Let's get you something strong for the pain." I love this doctor instantly.
Dr. R explained a bunch of technical information about my wrist. She says she sees that a particularly important bone that moves my wrist around is fractured rather severely, and it looks dead. I'll have to see the top specialist for this she says. Then, she gives me hefty doses of vicodin and flexeril to ease my pain and tells me to go down to X-ray and ask for a copy of today's pictures.
Let me just officially say, on the record, that I'm light as a feather coming out of that office into my husband's arms. Dr. R comes out with me to say "You were coming in to battle me, weren't you?" I concur. My husband tells her we've never ever had an X-ray done because no one will listen to the symptoms. Dr. R said that just by reading what I wrote on my information sheet as to what the visit was about - that X-ray was the first thing that had to be done to rule anything out.
I couldn't believe how amazingly lucky I got that day. A new doctor with an agenda. And, furthermore, for the year that I had her, she never disappointed me. I never minded waiting for her if she took longer with patients or was brisk but calculating. She knew what she was doing and, unlike MANY doctors, she really wanted to help and WAS helping.
Vindication never felt so good. For the last (almost) decade, I had been crushed miserably by pain, by failure, by losing my livelihood ... I finally felt grateful for once. I felt grateful for that prissy British doctor who took her job seriously, I felt grateful that I hadn't given up, I felt grateful for all the torture and B.S. I went through to get this far. Never again would someone tell me I had tendonitis, tennis elbow, or worse - carpal tunnel that doesn't register a reading in nerve testing so there'd be nothing they could do about it.
Finally, I had an answer.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The lake's significance ...
Summer of 2009 was going great. My husband and I had been married for 6 years, were living our dream in a small mountainside wine village in Germany, and had the most beautiful house and smartest dog. Things were great.
Or were they?
I had been going back to school for a year that June. I was taking a U.S. History and an ethics class. It was going superbly as I was on the Dean's List, and doing extremely well with an almost perfect GPA. So, of course my husband wanted to distract me on a beautiful summer day by stating "We're going to the lake."
There's this little man-made lake in the mountains behind our house that we had discovered the summer before, and were frequenting weekly the summer of 2009. It may have taken 40 minutes to get there on one lane roads, but it was well worth the beautiful trip through the mountain country. We even had "dream" houses picked out along the way. Mine was a run down, mid-eighteenth century farm house that was overgrown near the famous Siegfried fountain (Wagner's Der Ring Das Nibelungen). My husband's was a modern marvel seated precariously on the side of a mountain that overlooked a valley that was regularly full of cows with tinkling bells.
I distinctly remember this particular trip to the lake in June because we took our dog, and I took my school books to study. It had been a good beginning to summer. Not too hot, beautiful blue skies almost every day, and little humidity. We got there and spread our blanket out on a little hill in front of the only dock on the lake. My husband threw the dog's ball for him, and I lay down to read my texts.
We'd been there maybe an hour when it clouded over where we were laying. I kept my sunglasses on though, and kept reading and highlighting, commenting now and then about Andrew Carnegie and the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. My husband had come to lay next to me and was munching out of a tub of grilled chicken strips and drinking a Capri-Sonne (Capri-Sun to you American folk).
I can remember what exactly prompted it, but I was hit by repeated blows of crushing pain in my right hand and arm. This was not unfamiliar; I'd been experiencing these types of pains for years, since approximately 2001 when I had a rather terrifying football accident. And yes, I know, girls don't play football for a reason. Don't remind me...
My husband, the dear that he is, gives me his typical helpless, concerned look and tries to console me. "Are you okay?" "Is there anything I can do?" Knowing both the answers every time he asks ... he still asks. He's scared. He's been scared since he met me and we started seriously dating because he was there for some of the worst experiences I've had.
We start to talk about needing to go back to the doctor, debating whether or not it's a good idea. We've been married 6 years and have seen twice as many doctors as years we've been married by now. He tells me I should go. I insist that if I go, we will never do another nerve test because it's not my nerves. He agrees. I say, in all these years, they have never once taken an X-ray. I say I am going to demand an X-Ray. He agrees.
We left the lake that day satisfied with the conclusion that we refused to put up with shoddy medical treatment or advice any longer. It was time we discovered that it wasn't all in my head.
Or were they?
I had been going back to school for a year that June. I was taking a U.S. History and an ethics class. It was going superbly as I was on the Dean's List, and doing extremely well with an almost perfect GPA. So, of course my husband wanted to distract me on a beautiful summer day by stating "We're going to the lake."
There's this little man-made lake in the mountains behind our house that we had discovered the summer before, and were frequenting weekly the summer of 2009. It may have taken 40 minutes to get there on one lane roads, but it was well worth the beautiful trip through the mountain country. We even had "dream" houses picked out along the way. Mine was a run down, mid-eighteenth century farm house that was overgrown near the famous Siegfried fountain (Wagner's Der Ring Das Nibelungen). My husband's was a modern marvel seated precariously on the side of a mountain that overlooked a valley that was regularly full of cows with tinkling bells.
I distinctly remember this particular trip to the lake in June because we took our dog, and I took my school books to study. It had been a good beginning to summer. Not too hot, beautiful blue skies almost every day, and little humidity. We got there and spread our blanket out on a little hill in front of the only dock on the lake. My husband threw the dog's ball for him, and I lay down to read my texts.
We'd been there maybe an hour when it clouded over where we were laying. I kept my sunglasses on though, and kept reading and highlighting, commenting now and then about Andrew Carnegie and the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. My husband had come to lay next to me and was munching out of a tub of grilled chicken strips and drinking a Capri-Sonne (Capri-Sun to you American folk).
I can remember what exactly prompted it, but I was hit by repeated blows of crushing pain in my right hand and arm. This was not unfamiliar; I'd been experiencing these types of pains for years, since approximately 2001 when I had a rather terrifying football accident. And yes, I know, girls don't play football for a reason. Don't remind me...
My husband, the dear that he is, gives me his typical helpless, concerned look and tries to console me. "Are you okay?" "Is there anything I can do?" Knowing both the answers every time he asks ... he still asks. He's scared. He's been scared since he met me and we started seriously dating because he was there for some of the worst experiences I've had.
We start to talk about needing to go back to the doctor, debating whether or not it's a good idea. We've been married 6 years and have seen twice as many doctors as years we've been married by now. He tells me I should go. I insist that if I go, we will never do another nerve test because it's not my nerves. He agrees. I say, in all these years, they have never once taken an X-ray. I say I am going to demand an X-Ray. He agrees.
We left the lake that day satisfied with the conclusion that we refused to put up with shoddy medical treatment or advice any longer. It was time we discovered that it wasn't all in my head.
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