Technically speaking, it's almost one in the morning and I have to be up at six to go to the hospital for the first of day in a stay which will be somewhere in the two- to four-day range. And for the surgery itself. Mustn't forget that. But I got to thinking about this blog and how I really haven't been updating it like I should be (two back-story entries down, something like eleven to go…and no mention yet of my mindset with the procedure itself imminent) and my ability to write post-surgery can be described best by the word 'questionable.' As a quick side-note, though, I have updated the technical settings of this blog to allow my mother to post updates, which I imagine (I hope) will come throughout the day.
Which is why I'm writing now.
I figure that it doesn't really matter how much sleep I get tonight. After all, they'll be sticking a needle in my arm tomorrow morning (I hate needles) and then it'll be lights out for a few hours. And then I'd assume there will be the traditional post-anesthesia nap sometime in the afternoon. Perhaps some ginger ale to drink, too. Ginger ale after surgery is always a plus.
But…it's tomorrow (well, today, technically…it's after midnight).
My surgery is actually today. Which means that yesterday was the final day of my life when I didn't know what wearing a frame was like, the final day of my life with a crooked and frame-free leg, which, if you think about it, is kind of a bigger deal than it sounds like.
So, Natcher, you're having somewhat major life-changing surgery this morning, about seven hours, in fact. How does it feel?
I don't know. When I woke up yesterday, instead of thinking, "Oh! It's Christmas! Is my stocking in my room or has it been stowed safely downstairs away from the reach of the ever-hungry golden retriever?" I thought, "I'm having surgery tomorrow and I don't know what it will be like." And then, for the first part of the day, going downstairs for a light breakfast and examining the stocking, getting in the car to go to church, sitting in the pew, cramped by several relatively large fellow church-goers, I felt sick, I was so nervous.
As mass continued, though, I did start feeling less sick—it's amazing what Christmas carols and hymns can do. And by the end, when we were leaving, my mother offered to let us light a votive candle. With a prayer for strength and for faith, I lit my candle.
The rest of the day was fairly quiet. I tried to work through some more college applications and am mostly done now (as in, six down with the final application barely started). We opened gifts (I got new scarfs, some money for my Kindle, which should be helpful for the hospital stay, and books, both in English and Latin, which makes me very happy). We tied ribbons on the dogs. We ate dinner. We watched the Muppet Christmas Carol.
Also of note: my family more or less lives on a lake. There's a path which goes all the way around that the city paves in winter. I've made it all the way around on foot something like five or six times (maybe more). Months ago, after the surgery was scheduled but well before the seasons changed and snow arrived, I informed my father we were going to walk all the way around the lake on Christmas Day, seeing as it was my last day walking and all.
So we walked all the way around the lake.
According to my mother repeating the TV weather forecasters said, this year marked the coldest Christmas in Minnesota in something like twenty years. The temperature hovered below a toasty ten degrees or so Fahrenheit. It was cold enough that my mother offered me her warmer, longer jacket to wear and our English Cocker Spaniel, who, if he finds out anybody is going on a walk, will have several heart attacks and a stroke if not taken along, wore a jacket (since he's gained some weight recently, it barely fit). His initial enthusiasm for the walk also seemed to freeze, since less than halfway through he started heading rather decisively for home.
And, yes, it was cold outside. My cheeks, which remained uncovered throughout the walk, were still pink half an hour after coming back inside. The cold easily ate through my jeans, though my feet were protected by a pair of boots. But, really, it was my last chance to go around that lake for the next six months or so. Of course I was making it all the way around.
About the boots, though… The pair I wound up wearing was extremely loose on me. I first put on a pretty tight-fitting pair. Unfortunately, the boot was rubbing up against bone growths on my ankle, which would have made it difficult for me to make it around the lake. So, at the first available bench, my father offered to see if we could switch shoes. As it turned out, the pair I was wearing fit him okay and the pair he was wearing fit me okay and, more importantly, accommodated my ankle.
What I did not account for was a three-mile, hour-plus walk in really loose boots resulting in some fairly substantial blisters on the bottom of my feet (thankfully, really just the right foot, which will be very, very, very non-weight-bearing shortly). Since blisters are apparently cause to cancel surgeries, I'm not supposed to mention this tomorrow morning.
But still. I made it around the lake.
Considering the probable state of my mobility tomorrow, that's something.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Almost a Triumphant Return
Well…it's been a while since I last posted (more than two weeks). Which is clearly a bit of a problem. As far as excuses, I don't really have any. An overwhelming amount of schoolwork is the closest I can come, but to be honest, I should have had time. I just had a lot to say, which seemed overwhelming, and I badly wanted to have a long amount of uninterrupted time to just write.
I'm on break now (including today, five whole days which don't involve a surgery). So, time.
First off, I have less than a week to go until 6:30 AM on December 26, when I have to be at Gillette Children's Hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota to begin a two-to-four day stay. The procedure starts at 8:00 AM and will last in the two to two-and-a-half hour range. I will be in the recovery room for about an hour. In other words, by noon I should be comfortably in the hospital room. Part of me wants to look at the upcoming stay as a vacation (I mean, it's a bed outside of home, which is clearly the main component of being on vacation) and most of me just says, "Natcher. You're undergoing a relatively serious surgery. This isn't a vacation."
Regardless of whether my upcoming experience is or is not a vacation, I've come to the conclusion that it is legitimately happening (though I still can't really conceptualize the experience as a whole). This is for two reasons. Reason number one is I am now sworn off of Motrin and Aleve, my two preferred pain medicines, in anticipation of anesthesia. The second reason is this:
My personal system for acknowledging the legitimacy of upcoming dates is that if the day is on or before the expiration dates of the milk cartons at school, it's real. Which is to say, my surgery has been a very real thing for the past week or so. After all, I had the pre-op appointment today and there's a packet of things I should know before surgery sitting on the kitchen table.
Of course, the pre-op was with my pediatrician, not my surgeon. And, of course, the packet of information contains such helpful tidbits as when I can no longer have breast milk or baby formula and not the more helpful bits, such as what pin site cleaning actually feels like and how overly large the sweatpants I'll be in for the next six months will really be and will I actually be able to walk in six months. But still.
This is happening.
There was a time last week where we almost pushed the surgery date back until spring. On Monday (the tenth), I was riding home from school with my father. We hit a patch of ice and started to slide. The car ahead of us was stopping but, because of the ice, we couldn't, and as we were about to hit we turned and the front of my father's car went beneath the bumper of a large green parked truck. We were both thrown forward slightly. I absorbed all the impact (not that much impact, really) through a large bone growth on my right leg which looks like a second kneecap. I still have the bruise.
The front of my father's car looked like this after the incident:
Now, I normally love snow. And ice (ice makes fun sounds when you crack it). But the honest truth of the matter is, a lot of stuff was going on and what if we got into an accident on the way home from the hospital and how would I get into the house and wouldn't it be easier if we just did this in March or April when there is no snow or ice on the ground…
The honest truth of the matter is that there is great legitimacy in those arguments. However, it took me long enough to become convinced that this surgery makes sense for me to undergo. I'm not going to risk convincing myself out of the procedure. I'm aware this experience won't be a pleasant one.
I still think it's necessary.
I'm on break now (including today, five whole days which don't involve a surgery). So, time.
First off, I have less than a week to go until 6:30 AM on December 26, when I have to be at Gillette Children's Hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota to begin a two-to-four day stay. The procedure starts at 8:00 AM and will last in the two to two-and-a-half hour range. I will be in the recovery room for about an hour. In other words, by noon I should be comfortably in the hospital room. Part of me wants to look at the upcoming stay as a vacation (I mean, it's a bed outside of home, which is clearly the main component of being on vacation) and most of me just says, "Natcher. You're undergoing a relatively serious surgery. This isn't a vacation."
Regardless of whether my upcoming experience is or is not a vacation, I've come to the conclusion that it is legitimately happening (though I still can't really conceptualize the experience as a whole). This is for two reasons. Reason number one is I am now sworn off of Motrin and Aleve, my two preferred pain medicines, in anticipation of anesthesia. The second reason is this:
 |
| Note the expiration date (this carton of milk obtained and consumed on Dec. 14, I believe) |
Of course, the pre-op was with my pediatrician, not my surgeon. And, of course, the packet of information contains such helpful tidbits as when I can no longer have breast milk or baby formula and not the more helpful bits, such as what pin site cleaning actually feels like and how overly large the sweatpants I'll be in for the next six months will really be and will I actually be able to walk in six months. But still.
This is happening.
There was a time last week where we almost pushed the surgery date back until spring. On Monday (the tenth), I was riding home from school with my father. We hit a patch of ice and started to slide. The car ahead of us was stopping but, because of the ice, we couldn't, and as we were about to hit we turned and the front of my father's car went beneath the bumper of a large green parked truck. We were both thrown forward slightly. I absorbed all the impact (not that much impact, really) through a large bone growth on my right leg which looks like a second kneecap. I still have the bruise.
The front of my father's car looked like this after the incident:
 |
| Slightly worse than the truck, which literally got off without a scratch |
The honest truth of the matter is that there is great legitimacy in those arguments. However, it took me long enough to become convinced that this surgery makes sense for me to undergo. I'm not going to risk convincing myself out of the procedure. I'm aware this experience won't be a pleasant one.
I still think it's necessary.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Frustrations
My hip remains stubbornly unhappy with me despite another helping of Motrin. The joint has been a problem in the past, easily aggravated by motions such as raising my leg or (apparently) being forced into a 90˚ angle a la sitting down or sitting on the floor legs extended or really anything too sudden and apparently the problem has chosen to interfere with my present as well as the aforementioned (and yet-to-be-mentioned, haven't got to that part of the back-story narrative yet) past.
This is, of course, rather irritating.
There is no doubt in my mind that going ahead with the frame is the right thing to do. The potential rewards far outweigh the probable discomfort. I just wish it was a more complete cure. Because, yes, my leg will be straight, but it will do nothing to my one toe which stubbornly clings on top of its neighbor and nothing to the bony outcroppings on my ankle which are ever so fascinating to rub my foot along when I should be trying to go to sleep and nothing about how my fingers aren't normal length (I'm endlessly fascinated by hands that do have normal length fingers) and nothing about how there's a bone growth in my hip which makes any sort of rapid leg motion questionable.
I want to be able to run after this surgery.
Based on where I am at the moment, that won't be happening unless I do something to resolve the hip issues—changing my gait (doable, I walk with a very slight limp as is) or surgery or just trying to ignore the problem (though I've tried that tact before and it didn't work out so well). I always have motivation issues with stairs—they look intimidating and I don't want to walk up them—but today I've been having hip issues with stairs. In track last spring, I had to dramatically decrease the portion of all-team warm-up I did because of the hip, as well as sticking to the most basic shot and disc throws. I wanted to learn the more advanced throws, but the more advanced throws I tried resulted in momentary explosions of hip pain and then a very pronounced hobbling as I moved across the sector to pick up the implement.
This scares me. If I have to majorly adapt how I throw, then what about something like running? What then?
I'm just not sure.
Fixing the hip, from what I understand, involves another major surgery. To put it one way, the take-away phrase from that particular doctor's appointment was "surgical hip dislocation." But the more I think about it, the more it's starting to make sense. From what I understand, the frame process could make the potential hip surgery easier. Not sure what'll happen, but that tidbit is legitimately rather reassuring.
I know that, in many ways, I have it easy. I'm six feet tall and don't need any major limb extensions. My arms and legs are functional. I can walk. I go to a pretty decent school and I have good teachers and a supportive family and live in a nice house and have access to fun things to read and interesting ideas to play with.
And yet—this hip thing is really getting to me. Maybe if I sleep on it things will look better in the morning?
This is, of course, rather irritating.
There is no doubt in my mind that going ahead with the frame is the right thing to do. The potential rewards far outweigh the probable discomfort. I just wish it was a more complete cure. Because, yes, my leg will be straight, but it will do nothing to my one toe which stubbornly clings on top of its neighbor and nothing to the bony outcroppings on my ankle which are ever so fascinating to rub my foot along when I should be trying to go to sleep and nothing about how my fingers aren't normal length (I'm endlessly fascinated by hands that do have normal length fingers) and nothing about how there's a bone growth in my hip which makes any sort of rapid leg motion questionable.
I want to be able to run after this surgery.
Based on where I am at the moment, that won't be happening unless I do something to resolve the hip issues—changing my gait (doable, I walk with a very slight limp as is) or surgery or just trying to ignore the problem (though I've tried that tact before and it didn't work out so well). I always have motivation issues with stairs—they look intimidating and I don't want to walk up them—but today I've been having hip issues with stairs. In track last spring, I had to dramatically decrease the portion of all-team warm-up I did because of the hip, as well as sticking to the most basic shot and disc throws. I wanted to learn the more advanced throws, but the more advanced throws I tried resulted in momentary explosions of hip pain and then a very pronounced hobbling as I moved across the sector to pick up the implement.
This scares me. If I have to majorly adapt how I throw, then what about something like running? What then?
I'm just not sure.
Fixing the hip, from what I understand, involves another major surgery. To put it one way, the take-away phrase from that particular doctor's appointment was "surgical hip dislocation." But the more I think about it, the more it's starting to make sense. From what I understand, the frame process could make the potential hip surgery easier. Not sure what'll happen, but that tidbit is legitimately rather reassuring.
I know that, in many ways, I have it easy. I'm six feet tall and don't need any major limb extensions. My arms and legs are functional. I can walk. I go to a pretty decent school and I have good teachers and a supportive family and live in a nice house and have access to fun things to read and interesting ideas to play with.
And yet—this hip thing is really getting to me. Maybe if I sleep on it things will look better in the morning?
Monday, December 3, 2012
Backstory 2: First Round in the Operating Room
I have spent most of today being irritated with my hip, which has been cheerfully complaining with just about every motion I make, regardless, it seems, of whether or not I've dry-swallowed any Motrin to try and keep the discomfort at bay. Granted, this is a known problem (there's a growth in that joint which has caused trouble in the past), but at this point any pain which is not directly linked with the crooked leg unnerves me just a little bit.
And speaking of the crooked leg—today marks the end of what has become one of the main plotlines for this blog. Yes, the pre-op has been scheduled for December 21st, though, it seems, not with my orthopedic surgeon, just with a pediatric doctor. I've got my fingers crossed for another meeting with the surgeon, though. There is a rather noticeable growth I'd like to ask about removing.
But, long story short, I'm getting closer and closer to the Point of No Return. Yes, in just more than three weeks I will be in the hospital all wonked out on narcotics, adjusting to life with my friend the Taylor Spatial Frame.
As I've said before, this is by far the largest surgery I've ever had.
In some ways, this does feel like the first time I had surgery. Once again, I don't know what to expect, though this time I'm aware of some of the little details, like what anesthesia smells like and what it looks like when you're wheeled into the operating room and it's really less hassle if you just let the doctors inject the anesthesia into you instead of breathing it in. And, just like the first time I had surgery, there is a rather large bump I'd like to have removed.
FIRST ROUND IN THE OPERATING ROOM
In third grade, I had a protrusion (read: bone growth) coming from my rib. During the pre-op, I asked Dr. Abel if he could remove it. Looking back, I really don't remember this growth, other than it was fairly obvious. It was also just beneath the skin. Long story short, Dr. Abel agreed to remove it.
The procedure, if I remember correctly, was to do something with my left wrist and to put a screw in one of my ankles (can't remember which one) for the purpose of trying to get the joints all aligned the way they ought to have been aligned in the first place.
To be honest, my memories of those couple days are isolated to a few snatches of moments, most of which had to do with anesthesia.
I can remember one of the doctor-people, either an anesthesiologist or a resident or an assistant to somebody, letting me smell the scents they'd mix into the anesthesia. I remember this encounter taking place in a small closet-like room. He also told me that the anesthesia would smell like airplane gas. Reflecting on my memories of walking through the hallways of the Richmond International Airport, where, for some reason, the airplane gas smell was rather prevalent, that made sense.
I can't remember going to sleep. I remember trying out the scents and then I was in a bed and I couldn't move and my mother was talking to a nurse (I think) about iPods. The conversation continued and I remained still, very still.
Once I was able to move and communicate, I was moved up to the hospital room where I stayed the night. The patient I shared the room with had the TV blaring all night long. Woozy from anesthesia, I got more sleep than my mother did.
I believe the surgery itself took place on February 2nd. All through that day, I struggled with eating. I sucked on little bits of ice and those didn't irritate my stomach that badly. My father brought up a bag of cheese puffs. Those didn't stay down so well.
The next day was a snow day. I was relieved because I wasn't missing school.
I can't remember the recovery all that well. A wheelchair was involved, which I didn't stay in as long as I was told I'd have to. Instead of going to gym classes, I played Myst on my teacher's computer with another hobbled student. Eventually, I could walk again.
Thinking about it now, I do remember that that time, my wrist was in a hard cast. Perhaps other parts of me were in casts, too. When the cast came off, it smelled strange and felt strange. Vulnerable.
That was the last time I had a cast on. To be honest, I can't say I want another.
And speaking of the crooked leg—today marks the end of what has become one of the main plotlines for this blog. Yes, the pre-op has been scheduled for December 21st, though, it seems, not with my orthopedic surgeon, just with a pediatric doctor. I've got my fingers crossed for another meeting with the surgeon, though. There is a rather noticeable growth I'd like to ask about removing.
But, long story short, I'm getting closer and closer to the Point of No Return. Yes, in just more than three weeks I will be in the hospital all wonked out on narcotics, adjusting to life with my friend the Taylor Spatial Frame.
As I've said before, this is by far the largest surgery I've ever had.
In some ways, this does feel like the first time I had surgery. Once again, I don't know what to expect, though this time I'm aware of some of the little details, like what anesthesia smells like and what it looks like when you're wheeled into the operating room and it's really less hassle if you just let the doctors inject the anesthesia into you instead of breathing it in. And, just like the first time I had surgery, there is a rather large bump I'd like to have removed.
FIRST ROUND IN THE OPERATING ROOM
In third grade, I had a protrusion (read: bone growth) coming from my rib. During the pre-op, I asked Dr. Abel if he could remove it. Looking back, I really don't remember this growth, other than it was fairly obvious. It was also just beneath the skin. Long story short, Dr. Abel agreed to remove it.
The procedure, if I remember correctly, was to do something with my left wrist and to put a screw in one of my ankles (can't remember which one) for the purpose of trying to get the joints all aligned the way they ought to have been aligned in the first place.
To be honest, my memories of those couple days are isolated to a few snatches of moments, most of which had to do with anesthesia.
I can remember one of the doctor-people, either an anesthesiologist or a resident or an assistant to somebody, letting me smell the scents they'd mix into the anesthesia. I remember this encounter taking place in a small closet-like room. He also told me that the anesthesia would smell like airplane gas. Reflecting on my memories of walking through the hallways of the Richmond International Airport, where, for some reason, the airplane gas smell was rather prevalent, that made sense.
I can't remember going to sleep. I remember trying out the scents and then I was in a bed and I couldn't move and my mother was talking to a nurse (I think) about iPods. The conversation continued and I remained still, very still.
Once I was able to move and communicate, I was moved up to the hospital room where I stayed the night. The patient I shared the room with had the TV blaring all night long. Woozy from anesthesia, I got more sleep than my mother did.
I believe the surgery itself took place on February 2nd. All through that day, I struggled with eating. I sucked on little bits of ice and those didn't irritate my stomach that badly. My father brought up a bag of cheese puffs. Those didn't stay down so well.
The next day was a snow day. I was relieved because I wasn't missing school.
I can't remember the recovery all that well. A wheelchair was involved, which I didn't stay in as long as I was told I'd have to. Instead of going to gym classes, I played Myst on my teacher's computer with another hobbled student. Eventually, I could walk again.
Thinking about it now, I do remember that that time, my wrist was in a hard cast. Perhaps other parts of me were in casts, too. When the cast came off, it smelled strange and felt strange. Vulnerable.
That was the last time I had a cast on. To be honest, I can't say I want another.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Frames on Television
One of the myriad advantages non-school nights have over school nights is the ability to stay up longer (coupled with the lack of work which needs to be done and the knowledge that you can wake up considerably later the next morning, they're wonderful). I don't do anything particularly extreme to take advantage of my Fridays and Saturdays. Ignore homework, watch a couple episodes of television, relax in my big black leather corner chair under a heavy coating of blanket.
Well, last night I watched the local news with my parents (after experiencing the spectacular final half of the 1936 production Dracula's Daughter—gotta love the 1930s). And during the news, they listed some of the stories Nightline would be covering that night.
One story was about a women who endured a controversial series of surgeries to grow 14 inches.
I took that to mean one of two things: 1) hormone modifications or 2) external fixators.
As I think I've mentioned before, external fixators can be used to help badly broken bones heal by holding them in place with the pins. They can also be used to straighten limbs and to lengthen limbs, as I'll be doing (straightening the leg plus gaining a half-inch to even the two legs out).
The story was about a woman, Tiffanie DiDonato, who used external fixators to grow fourteen inches. At age eight, she had her legs extended by four inches and also had frames to lengthen her arms. According to Nightline, four inches is the recommended maximum amount of limb extension to be gained from one round of frames. But at age fifteen, she had another set of frames placed on her legs, extending the legs by a further ten inches. Which is a lot. Then she wrote a memoir, which I'm thinking of reading after my frames are on.
Now, the way Nightline chooses to describe external fixators is "extremely painful, risky and controversial" (without, for some reason I cannot fathom, mentioning the words "external fixator" or "frame" once in the story). This is in the context of limb lengthening, granted, but still. First off, I was unaware of there being any controversy over the frames. My best guess as to why I would be unaware of this supposed controversy is because frames, as medical devices, are really not all that well-known. Furthermore, all of the people they talk to in the program are dwarfs who had limb extensions a long time ago—since DiDonato is 32 now, that means she had her final frame placed 17 years ago, in 1995. Medicine, like all sciences, has made some serious advancements since then. When I was told about the frames, I was told that this was a very low-risk procedure, though it would be notably uncomfortable, the frame would probably be infected at some point, and so on. Which is to say, I question Nightline's conclusions about the riskiness of the procedure. Then again, I'm not having my leg lengthened by all that much, so we'll see. However, my bones will be broken and forced to regrow in the way the surgeons want, so perhaps my situation is vaguely similar to hers? Not as extreme, but shades of similarity.
The second part of the story to comment on is its depiction of the pain associated with the frames. They talk about the pain as being "excruciating," near-indescribable. Anguish, in other words. While watching the story, my mother asked me several times if I was okay, if I wanted to turn it off. Each time I said I was fine. And I was. The first time I ever heard about external fixators, I read that pin cleaning, a necessity considering the high risk of infection, felt like having your leg having a bath in burning kerosene (once again, see the final section of Stephen King's On Writing). This knowledge presented a considerable hurdle for me to get over before electing to undergo this surgery. Clearly, I weighed the benefits and risks and pain and decided to go through with it. Hearing another story about how painful frames are has not changed my mind in the slightest. First off, try as I might, I can never remember the actual feeling of pain. I can remember sights and sounds and the aftertaste of anesthesia, but never pain (though perhaps that's the considerable amount of Tylenol-3 I've taken post-op talking). In short, maybe it'll hurt. But there will be medicine to fight the pain and the comfort in knowing that I won't remember the pain. The other thing is, if I'm scared of the pain…well, I don't want to be that person who risks decades of movement over a short period of pain.
Furthermore, the story talks about one way DiDonato dealt with pain and discomfort: keeping a journal. Every time I've tried to keep a journal in the past, it hasn't worked out so well. After a couple days of really intense journal-writing, I'd abruptly lose motivation for no reason at all. But there's a reason I started this blog.
Also kind of amusing: Nightline remarking that frames have a "lifetime of consequences." Well, yes. Then again, just about every surgery ever has a lifetime of consequences, though those consequences are often not as pronounced. That phrase, "lifetime of consequences," just sounds so negative, doesn't it? Because, you know what, that lifetime of consequences is exactly why I'm doing the surgery. Yes, maybe there will be complications, maybe everything won't go 100% perfectly, maybe (definitely) I'll gain a new set of lifelong scars (though, to be fair, they showed DiDonato's scars and those scars had faded away to a comforting level). But, as I've said before, according to my surgeon, the risks are minimal. And yet I still anticipate experiencing a lifetime of consequences, consequences like being able to run and move and be active and not worry about getting arthritis and needing a knee replacement when I'm thirty or forty and not being constricted to an office chair in fear that I'll beat up my leg and just not being limited. Rising above the myriad rules I have to follow (no running no stressful jumping watch out for wall sits don't step or stand on your leg funny or your ankle's going to twist).
Those are the consequences I anticipate.
I'm not particularly excited about wearing the frames. I've tried conceptualizing what it will feel like but can't. I'm fairly certain it won't be much fun. Then again, this was never about fun. This was never about now. It's about the totality of my life, the totality of the experience I want to get in my time on Earth. It's about rising above my limitations. And maybe, just maybe, getting to run.
Well, last night I watched the local news with my parents (after experiencing the spectacular final half of the 1936 production Dracula's Daughter—gotta love the 1930s). And during the news, they listed some of the stories Nightline would be covering that night.
One story was about a women who endured a controversial series of surgeries to grow 14 inches.
I took that to mean one of two things: 1) hormone modifications or 2) external fixators.
As I think I've mentioned before, external fixators can be used to help badly broken bones heal by holding them in place with the pins. They can also be used to straighten limbs and to lengthen limbs, as I'll be doing (straightening the leg plus gaining a half-inch to even the two legs out).
The story was about a woman, Tiffanie DiDonato, who used external fixators to grow fourteen inches. At age eight, she had her legs extended by four inches and also had frames to lengthen her arms. According to Nightline, four inches is the recommended maximum amount of limb extension to be gained from one round of frames. But at age fifteen, she had another set of frames placed on her legs, extending the legs by a further ten inches. Which is a lot. Then she wrote a memoir, which I'm thinking of reading after my frames are on.
Now, the way Nightline chooses to describe external fixators is "extremely painful, risky and controversial" (without, for some reason I cannot fathom, mentioning the words "external fixator" or "frame" once in the story). This is in the context of limb lengthening, granted, but still. First off, I was unaware of there being any controversy over the frames. My best guess as to why I would be unaware of this supposed controversy is because frames, as medical devices, are really not all that well-known. Furthermore, all of the people they talk to in the program are dwarfs who had limb extensions a long time ago—since DiDonato is 32 now, that means she had her final frame placed 17 years ago, in 1995. Medicine, like all sciences, has made some serious advancements since then. When I was told about the frames, I was told that this was a very low-risk procedure, though it would be notably uncomfortable, the frame would probably be infected at some point, and so on. Which is to say, I question Nightline's conclusions about the riskiness of the procedure. Then again, I'm not having my leg lengthened by all that much, so we'll see. However, my bones will be broken and forced to regrow in the way the surgeons want, so perhaps my situation is vaguely similar to hers? Not as extreme, but shades of similarity.
The second part of the story to comment on is its depiction of the pain associated with the frames. They talk about the pain as being "excruciating," near-indescribable. Anguish, in other words. While watching the story, my mother asked me several times if I was okay, if I wanted to turn it off. Each time I said I was fine. And I was. The first time I ever heard about external fixators, I read that pin cleaning, a necessity considering the high risk of infection, felt like having your leg having a bath in burning kerosene (once again, see the final section of Stephen King's On Writing). This knowledge presented a considerable hurdle for me to get over before electing to undergo this surgery. Clearly, I weighed the benefits and risks and pain and decided to go through with it. Hearing another story about how painful frames are has not changed my mind in the slightest. First off, try as I might, I can never remember the actual feeling of pain. I can remember sights and sounds and the aftertaste of anesthesia, but never pain (though perhaps that's the considerable amount of Tylenol-3 I've taken post-op talking). In short, maybe it'll hurt. But there will be medicine to fight the pain and the comfort in knowing that I won't remember the pain. The other thing is, if I'm scared of the pain…well, I don't want to be that person who risks decades of movement over a short period of pain.
Furthermore, the story talks about one way DiDonato dealt with pain and discomfort: keeping a journal. Every time I've tried to keep a journal in the past, it hasn't worked out so well. After a couple days of really intense journal-writing, I'd abruptly lose motivation for no reason at all. But there's a reason I started this blog.
Also kind of amusing: Nightline remarking that frames have a "lifetime of consequences." Well, yes. Then again, just about every surgery ever has a lifetime of consequences, though those consequences are often not as pronounced. That phrase, "lifetime of consequences," just sounds so negative, doesn't it? Because, you know what, that lifetime of consequences is exactly why I'm doing the surgery. Yes, maybe there will be complications, maybe everything won't go 100% perfectly, maybe (definitely) I'll gain a new set of lifelong scars (though, to be fair, they showed DiDonato's scars and those scars had faded away to a comforting level). But, as I've said before, according to my surgeon, the risks are minimal. And yet I still anticipate experiencing a lifetime of consequences, consequences like being able to run and move and be active and not worry about getting arthritis and needing a knee replacement when I'm thirty or forty and not being constricted to an office chair in fear that I'll beat up my leg and just not being limited. Rising above the myriad rules I have to follow (no running no stressful jumping watch out for wall sits don't step or stand on your leg funny or your ankle's going to twist).
Those are the consequences I anticipate.
I'm not particularly excited about wearing the frames. I've tried conceptualizing what it will feel like but can't. I'm fairly certain it won't be much fun. Then again, this was never about fun. This was never about now. It's about the totality of my life, the totality of the experience I want to get in my time on Earth. It's about rising above my limitations. And maybe, just maybe, getting to run.
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