For 5 weeks now I have been the student and pain has been the teacher. The goal? Surrender. Sometimes, when there is no place to turn, when I've taken my pain meds and my knee is increasingly hot and swollen, I raise it on pillows, apply my ice packs and lower my body so my knee is above my heart...and then, just surrender. The pain is here, at this moment, I think. It may not be in moments to come, or it may. Either way, the pain and I are in a process called healing. I imagine the joints arguing with the new titanium parts. My body doesn't want to accept them. Tough, I think, that's the direction we're headed.
I begin to think of the argument going on in my knee and realize that my job, as the recipient of the pain, is to just "be" -- to allow these vying factions the time and space to accept each other (I know, I anthropomorphize it, don't I). Instead, I focus on the grayness of this November day, as gray as gray can be. November always delivers. It creates the perfect atmosphere for being with our loved ones, for hunkering in front of the fire, for raising a glass of cheer or praise. November is the perfect background for celebration and joy, for seeing the bare bones of things, for moving from the exterior to the interior. Some say gloomy. I cherish the gloom. It allows me the space to reignite those forces I will need for winter.
And so, two days from that great American holiday, I will put the butter on the counter to come to room temperature, measure out the flour, peel the apples, prepare the pumpkin filling -- between rests with an ice pack. I will respect the pain and let it flourish and then subside. I will keep on keeping on.
Happy Thanksgiving to each of you.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
The pain has been leading my life...
On Tuesday, October 20, I entered the hospital, pale and anxious. They'd said, no makeup, so I complied and if you know me you'll know that I can look really pale without my precious tinted moisturizer. That was the beginning of a journey I have been trying to write about and haven't been able to until today.
Maybe its the relief brought on by the pain meds I took an hour ago. But now I feel more able to share my experience with you. No doubt some of you already have had a knee replacement so this may be familiar. Others may have had a replacement and experienced something totally different. All I know is what I went through.
When I arrived at the hospital with my husband that early fall day, although I was anxious I was also eager to get the operation over with and to finally get rid of the pain in my leg that had been dragging me down for over a year. An earlier operation in January provided no relief, so there I was, waiting for the big time, the whole knee replacement.
I don't remember much before the surgery, except that the surgeon had told me that post-operative, I would be in an enormous amount of pain. But there was no way he could adequately describe it. I vividly remember waking up with my husband beside me, unable to mentally compute the amount of pain I had. That was Tuesday. The next several days blurred together -- one enormous pain unit. They got me up and had me walk. It was so overwhelming that my mind couldn't absorb it. I held onto my walker, stunned that walking was expected of me. At times, I was so high on drugs that walking was easy, but that soon changed. One day I was given too many drugs and went into what is probably what junkies experience: total paranoia and the feeling of being held without my permission.
I believe it was the second or third day that I began to hallucinate. I didn't know it at the time but an accumulation of heavy medication finally triggered total confusion and suddenly I thought I was being held captive in a dark room, unable to move, my leg attached to a machine that kept it in continual motion. It was just about then that I decided, amid the confusion, to use the one thing available to me -- the phone. It was the only thing I could see or reach in the room, so I dialed 911. Within minutes my room was flooded with medical personnel.
Up to that point what I had experienced of the nursing staff had been harsh. Nurses who seemed fed up with a patient in pain - nurses who were overloaded with work. But my call to 911 changed that. Up to that point I think I was too heavily medicated or medicated with medicines that were making me unable to cooperate, putting me at a distinct disadvantage. But by day four, the clouds began to clear and I was actually walking with a walker and making some sense. I'll never know if I'd been overdosed or given inappropriate meds - all I know is that I never want that feeling again.
On the fifth day I was transferred to a local rehabilitation hospital. The change was a relief. In reality the rehab hospital is primarily a nursing home for people in the last stages of life or with nowhere to go. The hospital also devoted a small number of beds to rehab patients following surgery. The staff was kind and friendly - amazing! Even the physical therapy staff which met with me three times a day was friendly, except for the driving motto which was "You have to break 90 degrees." What they were talking about was the measurement of your knee while sitting. The first goal was 90 degrees then 115 or 120.
I shared a room with a wonderful woman who had had the same operation a week before me. She was fun and smart and light-hearted. I will always be grateful to her for helping me through that time. Her imitations of Sarah Palin became known across the floor and one patient laughingly "complained" because our laughter had prevented him from napping at 5pm the day before! He often visited our room and chuckled with us. He was a terribly handsome man - a stroke victim - who lived at the hospital and actually worked from his room. He struggled to walk and worked beside us in physical therapy, always commenting about the "girls."
As the days wore on,I found that waking each morning to the same gnawing pain became unbearable. I would sit quietly in my bed, stroke my knee and cry. Once that was over, I'd don my clothes and walker and make my way down to physical therapy four floors below. The morning tears became a part of my day, a kind of acknowledgement of what I was going through, but as the days went on, the tears were fewer and fewer and my desire to walk increased. So it was no accident that on my last three days at the hospital, I absorbed as much physical therapy as I could.
One of the most critical parts of my healing was the hands-on approach of several hospital staff members: there was Chantal, a nurse who modified my pain medication on a daily basis in order for me to operate at an optimal level, who redressed my leg and was concerned if it was too hot or too red; there was young Yvette, beautiful mother of 2 boys, who came each morning with our breakfast trays and smiled so widely you just had to get up and greet the day, who put my elastic stockings on for me because I wasn't able to bend my knee enough to do it myself, who did it so lovingly I felt like her child; there was older Yvette who worked the evening shift until 11, who made sure we had good dinners and lovingly wished us goodnight.
And so the weeks went by at the rehab hospital. I met some people there in my situation, but a lot of other people in more difficult situations. I still don't understand what enables some people to have a positive attitude and enormous drive to get well. I witnessed it time and again and I thought what a critical thing to contribute to a child's life - to teach that kind of positive attitude. It is always easier to give up, but the folks I met and sat with in physical therapy weren't about to do that. They were there in order to leave.
To those of you who have checked Over the Fence and found the October 15 blog, I apologize. I think the pain has been leading my life and I just wasn't able to overcome it enough to write. However, as I learned at the hospital, each day is a new day filled with the rare essence of possibility. Thank goodness.
Maybe its the relief brought on by the pain meds I took an hour ago. But now I feel more able to share my experience with you. No doubt some of you already have had a knee replacement so this may be familiar. Others may have had a replacement and experienced something totally different. All I know is what I went through.
When I arrived at the hospital with my husband that early fall day, although I was anxious I was also eager to get the operation over with and to finally get rid of the pain in my leg that had been dragging me down for over a year. An earlier operation in January provided no relief, so there I was, waiting for the big time, the whole knee replacement.
I don't remember much before the surgery, except that the surgeon had told me that post-operative, I would be in an enormous amount of pain. But there was no way he could adequately describe it. I vividly remember waking up with my husband beside me, unable to mentally compute the amount of pain I had. That was Tuesday. The next several days blurred together -- one enormous pain unit. They got me up and had me walk. It was so overwhelming that my mind couldn't absorb it. I held onto my walker, stunned that walking was expected of me. At times, I was so high on drugs that walking was easy, but that soon changed. One day I was given too many drugs and went into what is probably what junkies experience: total paranoia and the feeling of being held without my permission.
I believe it was the second or third day that I began to hallucinate. I didn't know it at the time but an accumulation of heavy medication finally triggered total confusion and suddenly I thought I was being held captive in a dark room, unable to move, my leg attached to a machine that kept it in continual motion. It was just about then that I decided, amid the confusion, to use the one thing available to me -- the phone. It was the only thing I could see or reach in the room, so I dialed 911. Within minutes my room was flooded with medical personnel.
Up to that point what I had experienced of the nursing staff had been harsh. Nurses who seemed fed up with a patient in pain - nurses who were overloaded with work. But my call to 911 changed that. Up to that point I think I was too heavily medicated or medicated with medicines that were making me unable to cooperate, putting me at a distinct disadvantage. But by day four, the clouds began to clear and I was actually walking with a walker and making some sense. I'll never know if I'd been overdosed or given inappropriate meds - all I know is that I never want that feeling again.
On the fifth day I was transferred to a local rehabilitation hospital. The change was a relief. In reality the rehab hospital is primarily a nursing home for people in the last stages of life or with nowhere to go. The hospital also devoted a small number of beds to rehab patients following surgery. The staff was kind and friendly - amazing! Even the physical therapy staff which met with me three times a day was friendly, except for the driving motto which was "You have to break 90 degrees." What they were talking about was the measurement of your knee while sitting. The first goal was 90 degrees then 115 or 120.
I shared a room with a wonderful woman who had had the same operation a week before me. She was fun and smart and light-hearted. I will always be grateful to her for helping me through that time. Her imitations of Sarah Palin became known across the floor and one patient laughingly "complained" because our laughter had prevented him from napping at 5pm the day before! He often visited our room and chuckled with us. He was a terribly handsome man - a stroke victim - who lived at the hospital and actually worked from his room. He struggled to walk and worked beside us in physical therapy, always commenting about the "girls."
As the days wore on,I found that waking each morning to the same gnawing pain became unbearable. I would sit quietly in my bed, stroke my knee and cry. Once that was over, I'd don my clothes and walker and make my way down to physical therapy four floors below. The morning tears became a part of my day, a kind of acknowledgement of what I was going through, but as the days went on, the tears were fewer and fewer and my desire to walk increased. So it was no accident that on my last three days at the hospital, I absorbed as much physical therapy as I could.
One of the most critical parts of my healing was the hands-on approach of several hospital staff members: there was Chantal, a nurse who modified my pain medication on a daily basis in order for me to operate at an optimal level, who redressed my leg and was concerned if it was too hot or too red; there was young Yvette, beautiful mother of 2 boys, who came each morning with our breakfast trays and smiled so widely you just had to get up and greet the day, who put my elastic stockings on for me because I wasn't able to bend my knee enough to do it myself, who did it so lovingly I felt like her child; there was older Yvette who worked the evening shift until 11, who made sure we had good dinners and lovingly wished us goodnight.
And so the weeks went by at the rehab hospital. I met some people there in my situation, but a lot of other people in more difficult situations. I still don't understand what enables some people to have a positive attitude and enormous drive to get well. I witnessed it time and again and I thought what a critical thing to contribute to a child's life - to teach that kind of positive attitude. It is always easier to give up, but the folks I met and sat with in physical therapy weren't about to do that. They were there in order to leave.
To those of you who have checked Over the Fence and found the October 15 blog, I apologize. I think the pain has been leading my life and I just wasn't able to overcome it enough to write. However, as I learned at the hospital, each day is a new day filled with the rare essence of possibility. Thank goodness.
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