Radioactive

Recovery 2013

On The Radio: All I Ask Of You,  Sarah Brightman
In My Blood stream: Post-operation,  Keppra (an anti-epileptic drug), antibiotics and opioids

After the neurosurgical operation, I spent two days in ICU, where I was under considerable scrutiny from a host of ever-changing nurses, doctors and specialists, trying to decide what might be my future prospects, if any.  And then I was moved into the stroke unit, for continuing treatments.  The prospects of survival were, apparently, improving.  How I might live the balance of my days was not at all clear.  Visits by my family and friends were the only highlights of long and painful days and restless and lonely nights.

I was told that if my mobility showed signs of restoration, I would then be moved into a rehab center for at least two weeks before I could return home.  I was, at this point, still unable to get out of bed myself or go to the bathroom on my own.  I was constantly and consistently visited by people who worked with me on memory, speech and mobility of my arms, legs and hands, which had been for the most part uncooperative and unresponsive.  I told Kathy that I wanted out and I was not about to go to another hospital.  I could not get better here.  She asked if I was sure.  I was.  I was also stupidly single-minded.  Nothing really changes.

 I could see the fear in her eyes - the uncertainty.  I was safe in my hospitalization.  She knew I was being fed and cared for and had professionals to ensure a turn for the worst would be managed to the best of everyone's abilities.  Leaving this place too early was a terribly dangerous thing to do.  Responsibilities would change hands.  She would have to take the place of the twenty or so caregivers who shared my every moment in this hospital.  And probably she knew the realization that there was never to be an end to my unfathomable decisions.  Easy for me.  Titanic for her.

I had yet to walk fully on my own.  I was unsteady with everything.  I spilled food and was probably delirious from the drugs and lack of sleep.  But I had to get out and she would do anything to support me.  She surely knew that if something went wrong at home, she would be ill-suited to help.  I wanted out.  No matter what, I did not want to stay.  You do not heal in a hospital.  Get out.   As fast as you can.  Get out.

The first nurse I talked to, then, said that my leaving would be impossible.  I did not think so.  Get me the doctor - any doctor.  Please.  She said she would.  Later, a group of medical staff gathered in my room to advise me (and more so, poor Kath) of the issues I would face at home.  The bathroom alone, they said, would be a death trap.  Any stumble or fall and granite and sharp edges would be the end of me.  Right! I got it.   Let’s sign the release papers.

 Five doctors and nurses in my room, together, reminded me that I was yet to even get to the bathroom on my own, without the assistance of someone holding my arm.   If I could do that, they finally agreed, they would release me, as I wished.

 I cannot tell you how afraid I was.  This simple act of getting out of bed and going to the bathroom on my own was as terrifying and risky to me as was Columbus’ sailing to the new world.  But I could not stay there.  I could not allow myself to fail.

 I slowly dropped my legs over the side of the bed and gingerly touched the floor.  I stood upright.  I hung on to the side of my bed for dear life.  I was shaking inside, but concentrated everything I had on this simple test.  I took a deep breath and walked, with a nurse beside me, waiting for me to fall, fully expecting me to fail.  I was still attached to monitoring equipment and an IV and she rolled them along behind me.  I made it to the bathroom.  See, I said, I’m ready to go.  Then the nurse asked me to sit down on the toilet, and then stand back up, on my own, then go to the sink and then return to my bed.  Seriously?  I was gripped by fear.  Fear of everything.  Full blown paranoia.  I gulped and exhaled some air.  I had  unknowingly been holding my breath.  And then I finished the task.  Kath and I looked at each other.  Our eyes reflected the panic of what had happened.  I proved to them I deserved to go home.  We were terrified - both of us.  What had I done?  But the decision was made and I wasn’t turning back.  Logic be damned.

Then we discussed with the medical staff the fact that I had no intention of going to the rehab center at all, let alone for the two weeks they had prescribed.  We were told that Medicare would not cover the costs of rehabilitation if I went home prior to moving in to their facility.  Well, we had better succeed then, hadn’t we?  And how stupid was it, economically, for a health care provider to not allow you to try and get by without adding to their cost.  Stupid rules I thought.  And now my rehab safety net would not be available to me if something went more wrong than it now was.  The medical committee that had been pulled together in my room, advised that no one in my state had left their care this early.  They strongly suggested I stay for another week.  Their collective view was that my decision was unwise and dangerous.  But the decision was, ultimately, mine to make.  At that point, I would have given up my life for one day with my family, in my house.  Staying one more day in the hospital was more fearful to me than the inherent risk of being back in my home, as dangerous as it might have been.  I had been thought to have little chance to live.  I had escaped melanoma.  I might well have been paralyzed the rest of my life.  I had realized how fortunate I was to be able to see, and be with, my family, again.  They prepared the exit papers.  And Kath helped me with the arduous task of getting dressed.

I had been hospitalized for six days.

                                                              Daddy is coming home.


What I haven’t told you was how horrible I looked.  The right side of my now bald head was covered with metal staples holding together the scar, shaped like an upside down horseshoe. It was bandaged earlier and I had not seen the true devastation to my head until I looked in the bathroom mirror.  This was going to be a shock to anyone who saw me.  And we were going home to my family and grandkids.  I knew this was going to be tough - for everybody.

I came in through the front door to my daughters, Doug and their children, all waiting to greet and hug me, which they did.  Poppa!  Poppa!  Poppa!  I cried at their love.  I looked like Frankenstein’s monster, but those little urchins loved me anyway.  And then we laughed.  And we cried some more.  My God, I  loved them all - so much.  I was absolutely overcome with pent up emotion.  And I was finally back with them.  That was what mattered most to me.  The truth was, that was all that mattered to me.

                 Doug found my meds to his liking, while I was incarcerated at Gulfcoast Hospital.

While I was in hospital, our neighbors visited whomever was at our house at the moment of their visit.  They brought their prayers, their well-wishes, but mostly, for whatever reason, they brought hams.  Our refrigerator was stacked with hams.  They brought soup and casseroles, to keep my family fed.  But mostly - hams.  Steph, Kristin and Doug had a string of texts recounting who had come to the door, what was said, and ham jokes and stories - lots of them.  We all laughed, mostly at our own silliness.  But we were all so grateful to each and every person who showed their love to us.  Thanks  to you all.

                                             Eli finds Poppa to be a good place to relax.

A string of therapists came - speech, physio, occupational, one after the other for three days.  One nice young nurse came in to hear the din of children playing and to see the floor covered with toys.  She told Kath that if I could navigate around this, she would not be needed, and left.  I’m not sure if she thought I would be alright or whether she didn’t want to be associated with the inevitable disaster that she thought was certain to happen.

                My buddy, Avet, could not wait to tell me about his adventures while I was away.

Another came while I was napping, contentedly on the couch.  Kath fired her (nicely, as she does everything), but fired her anyway, telling her that we were doing fine on our own.  My grandchildren ran into our bedroom and climbed into our bed every morning, shouting “Poppa”.  They absolutely gave me love and hope.  They showed me why I needed to live and why I needed to regain my strength and get better.  This family made me want to live, to come home, and be with them.  I love my friends, my life, and I love my family.  I was going to survive and I was home.  God bless my child bride. She showed courage, she had faith in me, and she loved and cared for me.  I loved her and will continue to love her and be indebted to her forever.

Bea and Avet thoughtfully decorated the patio door with their stickers so that I would not walk into the door.

                                 Kristin averts my attention from a floor covered with toys.


Once we had settled in, at home, the girls and their families headed back to their lives.  Stephanie to Seattle and Kristin and Doug to Los Gatos.  When Mom had called the girls, they came to her immediately, and stayed as long as they could.  Kristin was not working at the time, but Stephanie had a meaningful  job with Starbucks, and her time away from work and her other two children was significant.  Thank you to my babies.  You most certainly stepped in and helped Mom and me when we exceedingly needed it.

I spent the greater part of a year sitting in and watching my friends play golf through our patio window.  I used to curse them, jokingly, for playing on my golf course when I was unable.  "Those people are on MY COURSE", I repetitively told Kath.  Our pool sat empty week after week.  Exercises that formerly were a daily routine, were  necessarily abandoned.   Although my comments were said in jest, it was strange and true that seemingly unimportant things do become meaningful when they are made unavailable to you.

 Mostly, it became a time of reading, watching TV and playing cards with Kathy.  I had my mind back, although some might argue that there was not much inside to begin with.  I sometimes floundered for a word that I should have known, but that might have been a sign of new issues and not the residual of old.  We were not able to get out for decent walks as my balance was still somewhat disrespectful of my expectations.  And I was still very weak.  A lengthy operation and six days on my back, had taken its toll.

Each day found me better than the last.  And we ate ham.  Ham and eggs.  Ham sandwiches.  Ham with scalloped potatoes and carrots.  Ham.

We lived in a terrific development with many friends and lots of communal activities.  I had been  seriously detached from everyone for a long time, during this surgery an recovery, but then they showed up at our door.  We had  them back.  Our neighbors were more than neighbors.  They were our good friends.  What a wonderful place to live.  What superb people.  We find and add new friends throughout our lives, but we never replace our old ones.

Doug told me that they were leaving California and moving to Raleigh, where he would join a new company.  They were in no rush to get there, so he and Kris planned to rent a home near us, in Fort Myers, for the next six months or so.   Which they did.  Remarkable.  Absolutely mind-blowing remarkable.

We were able and thrilled to take part in the daily activities of our grandchildren.  We had the opportunity to really know them.  We were able to teach them, joke with them, read them stories, and love and kiss them.   Sometimes on our journey we receive gifts we do expect,  nor deserve.  We were able to share time with our slightly enlarged family through the balance of the year.  A miracle in my books.  And a most considerable and thoughtful gesture by the Tyson family.  Thank you for your love and help.  It continues.

The Anarchist Bastard of a Left Hand

Most of my stroke-like symptoms disappeared over time.  My strength and balance have not entirely returned, and may never.  My hands have continued to be problematic, with a continuing ache and lack of feeling and grip.  Simple things, like typing, are a challenge.  The fingers don’t find the keys as they were accustomed.  My left hand is definitely the worst.  If you are a key on the left side of the computer (you know who you are, a and z and q and the rest of your ilk),  you are seldom touched on the first go-round.  I must correct almost every sentence that I write.  Although my hand has slightly improved, it still does not do what I ask of it, acts like it doesn’t belong to me and retains its own opinion on what it will or will not do.  It still tilts plates and spills drinks on its own.  It tries to embarrass me at every opportunity.  I will try to pick a pill up and it advises me to “piss off”, and refuses to comply with a very simple task.  It has a bad attitude.  A baby's hand accomplishes more.  I cannot make the fingers and thumb cooperative at all.    I regularly lose items like a golf ball or a set of keys, and find them hidden in that deceitful hand.  I just cannot feel them there.  It also drops things that I believe to be secure.  And then I have to retrace my steps trying to find the area where the hand decided to abandon them.  We are not living in harmony my hand and I, but for some reason, even with this overtly treasonous behavior, I still feel an odd attachment.

Whatever lingering issues I still have from that neurosurgery,  my life is very good.  I am truly grateful for all that I have.

Until next week.  Love.