A note: I started drafting this entry before my most recent surgery, with the intent to post at some point before Christmas Eve. Obviously, that didn't happen…as it turns out, there's rather a lot of information I want to cover, which makes these silly things take a while to write. Coupled with a startling lack of downtime the first part of winter break and my good intentions to keep up with this blog remained just that: intentions, not acted upon. I still intend to finish out the backstory aspect of Leg+Frame, though, mostly because, while the frame itself is disappointingly boring so far, there are still some interesting leg-related occurrences on the horizon, such as my returning to more normal activities like academic pursuits and track.
So, then, backstory round three:
A FIST ATTEMPT AT STRAIGHT LEGS
The first surgery was relatively straightforward to deal with, aside from the cast and spending the night in the hospital with a roommate whose mother listened to the television at full volume quite literally all night and living with the wheelchair for a limited time.
Though round one was relatively simple, round two was less so.
I can't remember the exact chain of events leading up to my return to the operating room a year and a half later in November 2004. I'm sure there was the normal string of doctor's appointments and x-rays and discussions between my parents and Dr. Abel. As for me, the path which leads to my return trip to the operating room consists of two major memories.
One. Fall day. I'm at a soccer field, dressed in uniform. For a few years between lower and middle school, I played for a recreational soccer team, mostly sticking to defense, except for one rainy stint as offense in which I stubbornly kept running towards my team's goal and a briefer, sunnier stint in the goal in which I actually managed to block a shot. This was when running was not a forbidden activity, of course. But, returning to the larger narrative at hand, during a break in one game I was talking to my father about the upcoming procedure. He mentioned Dr. Abel's mentioning that there had been some medical advances which made him feel comfortable in performing the operation.
These advances were related to the plates which were going into my knees.
Dr. Sundberg, my orthopedic surgeon here in Minnesota, said that if I was still growing (which, based on the height measurement from my pre-op appointment, I still might be, albeit very, very slowly (or there could have been a fluke of measurement)), he would put a plate in my knee to straighten my leg. The funny thing is, I've done that already. It worked on the left leg—that one's straight, the weight-bearing axis goes exactly where it ought to go. With the right leg, well…I'll get to that in a later post.
The other memory I have leading up to the procedure is of walking with my mother either into or out of KCRC. She was telling me about how this surgery wasn't like the last one. The last one, all they had to cut through was skin. This time, they'd need to cut through muscle. It was much more serious.
As my mother was telling me about how this surgery was going to be more serious, I felt a little nervous. But not very. I had no clue what, exactly, all this meant in practical terms. Yes, they would be cutting through muscle. But would it hurt more? Would it take longer to recover? Would I be stuck in the wheelchair for a greater expanse of time?
Still, when it came time to drive to the hospital, I wasn't quite as relaxed as I had been a year and a half earlier. Not scared, per se, but not the calmest, either. I had a better idea of what I was in for, the scent of the anesthesia, the vomiting, the feeling of being frozen as I waited to regain my limbs in the recovery room.
It did not help matters when we had to wait for what felt like hours for a hospital bed to be available for me so the surgery could get underway.
During that waiting period, Dr. Abel came back to have one final conversation with me and my parents about the procedure. He'd been thinking about the surgery, he said, and wanted to change some things. I can't remember the full list of what was changed, but I can recall that list being an impressive one (to me).
There is another noteworthy detail from that conversation. Now, for comfort, I'd brought a stuffed hippopotamus with me to the hospital. Prior to this conversation with Dr. Abel, the hippo was unnamed.
Dr. Abel walks into the room for the pre-op conversation and more or less the first thing he says is, "Nice rhinoceros."
The name stuck: Rhino the Hippopotamus, who has now become the good-luck charm I've brought to all subsequent surgeries, including the placing of the frame a week ago.
Very shortly thereafter, I was wheeled back to the operating room.
With the first surgery, I couldn't remember anything about actually being put to sleep. Not so with round two. I can very clearly remember being wheeled back to the operating room, passing other operating rooms and seeing the tiny windows on their doors and thinking, 'There are people getting cut up in there' and also thinking, 'I am never, never going to be a surgeon.' I can remember being wheeled into my operating room and having the operating room staff joking about Dr. Abel's knowledge of large African mammals. While joking, they were projecting my x-rays up on computer monitors. The atmosphere may have been friendly but the purpose was serious.
Then somebody moved me from the transport bed to the operating room table beneath operating room lights (perhaps the most imposing kind of lights there are), slipped a gas mask over my face and the smell of anesthesia (just like airplane gas) arrived. I didn't immediately fall asleep, which worried me, but before too long, I was out and the operation itself began.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
A Final Pre-Operative Update
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Backstory 1: Reconstructed Memories
As of the moment, still no exciting new developments as I continue progressing to my encounter with the Taylor Spatial Frame. I'm still trying to figure out what academic expectations I'll need to fulfill post-op, still trying to figure out just what the problem with my ankle happens to be (the current leading hypothesis: the ankle is stressed because I favor that leg, seeing as the other one is mildly crooked). I remain fairly relaxed about the procedure. I think a lot of this calmness can be traced to my having roughly zero conception of just what, exactly, wearing a Taylor Spatial Frame feels like, what it entails, what it means.
Other than having a straight leg, that is.
For a week or two I've been meaning to start writing down my backstory, my previous history with legs, osteochondromas and surgeries, figuring that it would be helpful for me and perhaps interesting to know given the general purpose of this blog.
Hence, today's inaugural backstory entry.
RECONSTRUCTED MEMORIES
I had my first surgery in the winter of 2004 when I was nine years old, which is to say, these issues with my legs have been prevalent in my life for a while now. Supposedly, when I was very young, I ran around outside all the time. When my family lived in Virginia, we had a wonderful large yard, complete with several freestanding stone sheds and a gorgeous magnolia tree perfect for climbing. I can remember the yard very well.
I cannot, however, remember pending all my time outside. I have a smattering of memories from that time: an isolated incidence of standing on a Minnesota parking lot, free of context, a small dirty-white dog leaping up to bite my uncle's hand, our larger dogs staring into the house from the porch, me lying on the floor with a marker in my hand, creating construction paper books. But not of running.
My parents say that when we visited people's houses I would run around outside and ask to see their gardens. I have manufactured memories of this, probable images informed by these stories but with no grounding in concrete remembered images.
My surgeon in Virginia had his office in a low-lying building called KCRC: the Kluge Children's Rehabilitation Center, ran by the University of Virginia. The waiting room at KCRC was a wonderful thing. They had piles and piles of magazines to peruse, a row of computers to play on, and, most impressive of all, a large room with enormous windows stocked with everything I adored: a plastic climbing-castle, coloring supplies, a table covered in Thomas trains.
I remember climbing in that castle very well, pretending with my brothers that we lived in the medieval ages while for the most part ignoring the other children, sliding down the anachronistic yellow slide emerging from the side of the structure.
I remember my first orthopedic doctor considerably less well. When I was three, my parents noticed a suspicious lump beneath my knee. Fearing the worst, I was taken in to the doctor's and diagnosed with multiple osteochondromas, a disease I inherited from my mother (the immediate blame, as with many immediate blames, went to my father though eventual testing revealed my mother to be the culprit in passing down my condition). In short, I've been meeting with doctors about the condition for a while now.
The first doctor, if my memory serves, was an old man with white hair. As my mother has remarked many times, he was very apprehensive about operating on me.
Eventually, he left UVa and KCRC and I wound up with a new orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Mark Abel (who was utterly fantastic). My first appointment with Dr. Abel, he suggested operating. My mother left, taking me with.
When we returned, he was less gung-ho about putting me under the knife.
I can't remember exactly how long it took between when Dr. Abel first talked about operating on me and when I was actually operated on. I want to say that it wasn't very long, but to tell the truth, I have no idea. What I've written is entirely reconstruction, a melding together of the stories I've heard from my mother.
I do remember that I was not scared of that first surgery. I had no ability to comprehend what it would entail. It was fun, exciting, a mystery—just think, I'd be the only kid in my grade to have had surgery!
I remember quite clearly sitting on the arm of our big green chair in the library, leg swinging, music playing in the background, very calm, ready to go on the morning of that first surgery.
Other than having a straight leg, that is.
For a week or two I've been meaning to start writing down my backstory, my previous history with legs, osteochondromas and surgeries, figuring that it would be helpful for me and perhaps interesting to know given the general purpose of this blog.
Hence, today's inaugural backstory entry.
RECONSTRUCTED MEMORIES
I had my first surgery in the winter of 2004 when I was nine years old, which is to say, these issues with my legs have been prevalent in my life for a while now. Supposedly, when I was very young, I ran around outside all the time. When my family lived in Virginia, we had a wonderful large yard, complete with several freestanding stone sheds and a gorgeous magnolia tree perfect for climbing. I can remember the yard very well.
I cannot, however, remember pending all my time outside. I have a smattering of memories from that time: an isolated incidence of standing on a Minnesota parking lot, free of context, a small dirty-white dog leaping up to bite my uncle's hand, our larger dogs staring into the house from the porch, me lying on the floor with a marker in my hand, creating construction paper books. But not of running.
My parents say that when we visited people's houses I would run around outside and ask to see their gardens. I have manufactured memories of this, probable images informed by these stories but with no grounding in concrete remembered images.
My surgeon in Virginia had his office in a low-lying building called KCRC: the Kluge Children's Rehabilitation Center, ran by the University of Virginia. The waiting room at KCRC was a wonderful thing. They had piles and piles of magazines to peruse, a row of computers to play on, and, most impressive of all, a large room with enormous windows stocked with everything I adored: a plastic climbing-castle, coloring supplies, a table covered in Thomas trains.
I remember climbing in that castle very well, pretending with my brothers that we lived in the medieval ages while for the most part ignoring the other children, sliding down the anachronistic yellow slide emerging from the side of the structure.
I remember my first orthopedic doctor considerably less well. When I was three, my parents noticed a suspicious lump beneath my knee. Fearing the worst, I was taken in to the doctor's and diagnosed with multiple osteochondromas, a disease I inherited from my mother (the immediate blame, as with many immediate blames, went to my father though eventual testing revealed my mother to be the culprit in passing down my condition). In short, I've been meeting with doctors about the condition for a while now.
The first doctor, if my memory serves, was an old man with white hair. As my mother has remarked many times, he was very apprehensive about operating on me.
Eventually, he left UVa and KCRC and I wound up with a new orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Mark Abel (who was utterly fantastic). My first appointment with Dr. Abel, he suggested operating. My mother left, taking me with.
When we returned, he was less gung-ho about putting me under the knife.
I can't remember exactly how long it took between when Dr. Abel first talked about operating on me and when I was actually operated on. I want to say that it wasn't very long, but to tell the truth, I have no idea. What I've written is entirely reconstruction, a melding together of the stories I've heard from my mother.
I do remember that I was not scared of that first surgery. I had no ability to comprehend what it would entail. It was fun, exciting, a mystery—just think, I'd be the only kid in my grade to have had surgery!
I remember quite clearly sitting on the arm of our big green chair in the library, leg swinging, music playing in the background, very calm, ready to go on the morning of that first surgery.
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