I'm Allergic to Percocet

Some people might call me strong. In reality, I'm a big fat cry baby - you just never see it. Case in point, this last Tuesday night I tripped in my dining room. I was watering my herbs sitting in the windows, and stepped on something, then tripped over it. What happened next? I fell back against the wall thinking I could brace myself and ended up accidentally slamming my arm (which at that point was not in its cast because I was getting ready for bed) on the corner on a wall, in the spot where I just had surgery.

I almost fell over the dining table getting off the wall, and my husband came running over to see what was wrong. In that two second time period from tripping to slamming, I had burst into tears and was screaming from the pain. I'm hysterical when I'm caught off guard like this, and I tend to babble and mumble inaudible things because I can't hear anything over the pain. So, he's trying to get me to tell him what happened, and I end up screaming at him that I tripped and slammed my arm on the wall.

Almost instantly, my arm began to balloon in an area the size of a pumice stone - I mean, it wasn't my whole arm. It was just the area that got slammed that was irritated. I didn't break skin, and I still have no external bruising (for some strange reason) but it is incredibly painful to the point where I lose feeling in my arm. I'm not supposed to ice my arm per doctor's orders, but we iced it for 30 minutes, and I took an OxyContin. Then, I proceeded to NOT FALL ASLEEP. (Big sigh)

The next morning, my husband left for work and left me with our German daughter, who missed most of the debacle the night before. She knew it happened, but I was ushered straight into the bedroom, so she had no idea how bad it was. When I ended up getting out of bed at around 10am, she asked me if I was okay. I thought I was so I took my morning medicines like normal, had a breakfast of leftovers from the night before, and then took a Hydrocodeine.

In less than two hours later, I was flying high as a kite, feeling sick to the depths of my stomach. I HATE that feeling. I tried calling my doctor to see if I needed to get it looked at early, to find out he's on vacation until Monday, and my next appointment with him is on Monday anyway. I remember my husband called to check in on me, and I was crying on the phone that I was high and that I didn't like it and that I needed to throw up - or something. I was running back and forth to the bathroom thinking my meager breakfast was coming up every time, and getting disappointed that my stomach would just end up gurgling for a minute straight. So, I ate 4 Tums and within 10 minutes was puking my guts out.

That's when I gave up and went to bed. I spent the next 4.5 hours trying to sleep, failing, and puking. I couldn't even keep water down. I just lay there, miserable, getting incredibly sore in my neck and hips, unable to move.

At 5 I had to give a piano lesson, and so I forced myself to get up. My German daughter had spent the afternoon out and about, and was back from her adventures, playing with the cat in the office. I jerkily got the house ready for my student, feeling absolutely disgusting. I couldn't just call off the lesson. I forced myself to remain upright and in control of my body. I made it through about 15 minutes of the lesson before I started to feel hot sweats and the tar pit stomach. By 30 minutes, I was barely holding it together.  At 45 minutes of rocking back and forth, trying not to puke or pass out from the sickness and heat, I went and got my German daughter and had her run flash cards with the student, saying that I was going to the bathroom.

I went into my bedroom and bathroom, and because of the air conditioning it was already really cool in there. Instantly I started to feel less like passing out and a little more like putting my head in the toilet. I ran my hands in ice cold water and splashed my face. I gripped the side of the sink and willed myself to make it through the last 10 minutes of the lesson. I don't know how I did it, but I made it through, and immediately after they left, I was in my bathroom with my head in the toilet.

When my husband came home, he blamed himself for giving me the medicine. Now see, I'm highly allergic to Percocet - and OxyContin is a type of Percocet. It's an opiate narcotic that causes me to uncontrollably vomit for hours or even days. It's dangerous to my body. My surgery in 2011 proved my inability to tolerate the drug. I spent a week unable to keep down anything liquid or solid and felt extremely badly for my husband who slept on the hardwood floor in front of the couch, trying to keep up with the many clothing changes, helping me off the bathroom floor, and trying to get food and water into me. I was severely dehydrated - it was the most horrible thing I've ever experienced in my life. So, one little pill can take me out. For DAYS on end.

Well, my doctor is aware of my intolerance to the drug, so he magically gave me the anti-nausea ear patch to wear while I was taking medicine. They last for like 4 days, and he gave me a prescription for 3 of them to get me through the first weeks post-surgery this time around. It helped. I was able to tolerate the drugs in my system, and function. It was a miracle.

Well, needless to say my husband felt guilty because he gave me one of my prescription OxyContin pills thinking that the jarring whack on the wall and the resulting pain and swelling made it necessary. I told him I took a hydro about 2 hours before the adverse reaction began that morning. Normally, I can tolerate a hydro without any nausea medicine IF I take it before bed and I sleep through it. But, that's not what happened. By the time I'd taken the hydro, the oxy had been taken over 12 hours before, so it was safe to take the hydro ... or so I had assumed.

So there I was, miserable on the bed, pillows piled around me, Salonpas patches covering the side I was laying on, unable to function more than to stare at my Kindle screen while a show played. He checked on me, then went to tell our German daughter he brought home a pizza for their dinner (He didn't want to cook, I couldn't, and it was fast and simple.) I proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes with my head in the toilet after I had attempted to eat 3 crackers and drink a glass of water. Low and behold, I walk out of the bathroom and I'm mortified that he's standing right there listening to the whole thing. I made him go eat his pizza in the other room and leave me alone.

It was a nightmare. I wasn't able to feel somewhat settled in my stomach until 10pm, when I asked for a bowl of soup. This morning, after spending 21 hours in bed, I'm pleased to say I haven't had my head in the toilet since 7 last night. We don't know if my arm is okay, and we will have to wait until Monday to find anything out for certain. But, at least I got that damn OxyContin out of my system.

Accidents happen. More so once you're in a fragile state such as mine. But, good rule of thumb - ALWAYS REMEMBER TO TAKE MEDICINE WHEN WEARING THE PATCH. No patch = no medicine. Period.

The Misconception Is ...

I would love to be able to tell everyone that asks me that I have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. I would love to be able to say "Yes, why I did break my arm. I fell off my bike." I would thoroughly enjoy saying to people "No, it doesn't hurt."

Kienböck's disease is not something you talk lightly about in small talk. I get sick and tired of every single person at stores who question me, and then proceed to make absolutely no effort to assist me. I mean, put the damn detergent in my cart already! It's a long and difficult disease to discuss and I don't want, nor do I have time, to stand here and discuss this with you. It's a lot like someone's cancer journey. I say this not to belittle cancer, but to compare the length of conversation regarding condition. I mean, you don't just walk up to someone wearing a pink ribbon (in example) and say "How's your breast cancer going?" Or even "You have breast cancer?" It's a history, a drawn out story of obstacles, choices, setbacks and accomplishments. It's similar for Kienböck's disease in that respect.

Look, I would LOVE to educate the public on my rare disease. It does affect people, albeit a VERY SMALL PERCENTAGE of the population. But, we're still people. We still have lives, jobs, families, livelihoods, etc. Even though there are probably less than 200,000 of us in the US alone, and it's very likely that almost none of us will ever meet another person in person who has our disease, we are still people. We still matter. Our disease does count.

The problem I have, however, is this: It's not something simple like asking about the weather. If someone is in a leg cast and they're waiting in line in front of me, I just assume they have an injury and leave them the hell alone. Not my business if they fell off a boat, down the stairs, off a skateboard, or anything. I just think to myself that they're leg is injured, and move on. I don't strike up a conversation and say "Hey, that's a bright pink cast you have there." It's like waking up and seeing that the sky is blue and the grass is green. It just is, accept it, and move on.

It's exasperating to have to explain to every single person who asks. Why? A) They don't know you, and likely don't really care. B) Everyone else asks the SAME QUESTIONS. C) It's none of your business. D) I don't know them or feel comfortable telling them I live with a dead bone in my arm in excruciating pain. That's medical knowledge between me, my doctor and my family. I don't like thinking of it constantly, or being reminded regularly.

The misconception of having Kienböck's disease is that it's something people want to talk about. Just because you have a cast on, you want to tell your story - or something weird like that. Well, it's NOT CURABLE, SO NO, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. I get sick to death of talking about it.

So, next time you're standing in line at the grocery store, or you're interacting with people at work, or you meet someone somewhere that has a cast or a splint or a brace.... they're a human being. They're not a robot question station. They know you from diddly squat and would like to be left in peace. Let them just live their life and go on their way.

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.

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.

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.