Ya…well, about that….
A few years ago, a feeling that can best be described as an ancient torture device with spikes began to take hold of the right side of my nervous system, running from my rear-end down to my foot.
Spinal stenosis.
In the beginning it was manageable as I began a regimen of epidural pain shots to dull, or alleviate if I was lucky, the sharp stabbing down my leg. For many months I was able to keep the torture device from tightening as the doctor would have me lie on my stomach and the pain killer was administered into my spine, the source of my agony. I welcomed the needles knowing the horror on the otherside of those shots.
But, as with all pain medications, they slowly lose their effectiveness and over a couple of years I could see that my epidural euphoria was in long-term trouble. I kept up the regular shots but tried acupuncture and a host of other things to augment my misery defence.
The pain was gaining on me and it was time to try something more substantial and even though I always tried to avoid any kind of surgery, I was losing the battle. I was in deep, deep pain accompanied by screaming, crying and relentless agony.
I wanted to run away from myself.
After several information gathering appointments with various physicians, I was ready to do the deed. I contacted a surgeon whose specialty was rescuing lost souls like me and I made an appointment. I had seen him earlier in the debacle and at that time he confidently laid out what was involved if I wanted to proceed with the surgery. He had a great reputation and I thought he was my guy.
He would be the one to save me.
But after looking at my spinal xrays, everything changed. Instead of seeing the doctor, in came his PA (physician’s assistant) to consult with me.
He showed me on the x-ray what a terrible disaster area my spine was. “You see, you don’t even have spinal fluid from here to here”, he explained as if he were detailing the aftermath of a killer tornado. The entire discription ended with, “…and I don’t think there’s anything we can do, I’m sorry.”
Wait…what?
I went into stun mode. The doctor came back in and simply reiterated what the PA said. This is the guy who was supposed to get me out of trouble and now he was escorting me out to the front desk and, with a comforting hand on my shoulder, he said, “So if you need to talk again I’ve reserved another appointment date.”
I walked out like a zombie, shocked that the doctor was suggesting I live with crippling pain the rest of my life. And what would I do with another appointment other than resent his reluctance even more. I didn’t need a pal, I needed surgical help.
I had seen several doctors before that time to get opinions and more than one was reluctant to get involved. One of them, Dr. K, had said at the end of our initial meeting, “If you need me I’m here.” I filed that away and now it was my only positive offer. Apparently, I was talking to the only fearless physician willing to tackle my shitstorm of a spine and after another meeting I prepared myself for a ‘spinal fusion’.
A spinal fusion is a relatively complicated rearranging of the vertebrae to achive some semblance of normalcy and, best of all, it had the potential to free me from the pain. I was assured by the other doctors that this had the potential to go wrong but, in my mind, the pain would eventually send me off the 5th floor of our condo so there was really only one choice.
As the surgery date got closer I heard more and more positives about the skills of Dr. K and as they wheeled me into the operating room a calm descended over my broken body. Remake me or take me, I couldn’t lose.
After several grueling hours of Dr. K’s magic I woke up in ICU, alone but apparently alive. According to my ICU nurse, I was successfully deconstructed and reconstructed and now it was a matter of keeping me alive and letting the healing begin.
They posted x-rays of the new spine and I marveled at Dr. Frankenstei…er, Dr. K’s handiwork. My spine was anchored to my pelvis and a series of long screws ran up and down titanium rods. I’ve just loved those pictures, the perfect party entertainment on my iPhone.
Now came the rehab. As with most structural surgery the conventional wisdom has the patient up and moving as soon as possible. On the second day of ICU residence, two physical therapists got on either side of me and we slowly moved to the edge of the bed in preparation for standing. As we eased into a standing position, one of the therapists yelled, “Put him back down, put him down!” My blood pressure had perilously dive bombed and was indicating that I spend another day in ICU.
Eventually I graduated to a regular hospital bed before moving from the hospital completely to a rehab facility nearby. That one-day stay was hardly restful as that night I got a roommate who, I guessed, was a frequent visitor, knowing all staff names and trying to get a particular drug and tossing a few suggestions my way. This was all a pain in the ass. Not the pain I got rid of but the kind where you move into a neighborhood and realize you have shitty neighbors.
Very little sleep.
Next day I moved into the rehab hospital and got my own room. Ah, sweet bliss. Just me, the TV and no drug addicts. The food was customarily wanting but my wife brought me goodies from the nearby delicatessen, so I was covered there. Conversly, what has always been the most unpleasant thing about hospitals, and was the same in this rehab, was the 3am drug wakeup. I needed sleep and that was interrupted every night. On the other hand, more pain killers! I suddenly understood why my recent roommate kept showing up.
One night I had the most vivid dream/hallucination that I’d ever had. I woke up lying in the hospital bed but its shape and décor indicated that I was in a house. I initially felt alone, my bed located near the front picture window. Eventually, nurses appeared dressed in Elizabethan nightgowns, moving with kerosine lamps and speaking gently to me. Apparently, I had wet the bed but was told that it was alright. Whether I actually wet the bed I’m unsure but it all seemed so real.
New PBS series? Downton Rehabbey?
The therapists and supporting staff were, by and large, great to work with. I developed some short-lived relationships that actually made it unpleasant to part ways. On the final day I tried to talk the MD, in charge of my case, into a couple more days. Under their guidance, I was buzzing around the hallways in my walker like a Formula 1 driver, despite the pleas for me to slow down. I was hydrocodone fueled and having a great time of it.
I was sad to say goodbye to my rehab pals but received more pain killer as a parting gift. At home I was tooling around the condo like a mad man. My wife and I marveled at my energy and, wow, a whole new energetic me…until the Norco wore off.
As with any narcotic I’ve ever had as a result of a surgery I knew that a manufactured high was going to keep a greater hold of me unless I stopped. The usual protocol was to taper down but I’ve never done these things with any finesse. Instead I went cold turkey, figuring the sooner I ripped away the imaginary good time the better.
I was left rather hunch backed and a bit sore, and knew it would require plenty of physical therapy to straighten myself out. Even so, I couldn’t complain, the crippling pain was gone and that was a gift worth all the work I was going to have to put in.
All was looking up…until four months later I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.
