Showing posts with label medical procedures. Show all posts

Being a 20something can no longer be considered "young." People like to tell me that I am "so young, you have a lifetime of opportunities ahead.." while this may be true in some aspects of my life, it is definitely not so in the areas of medicine and science.

Science happens faster than a blink of an eye. Right now, a scientist or 'lab geek' somewhere might be handling micro-organisms that will have an impact 1,000 times its actual size. The rate at which medical advancements happen can mean the difference between an early 20something in a wheelchair vs. a child of 7 or 8 who runs freely. Those two individuals were diagnosed with the same genetic condition, the same form of the condition, presented with similar fractures at birth, and yet because one was born ten years earlier she got the benefit of time and learning on her side. As I'm flicking through pictures on various O.I. groups on Facebook, there are hundreds of examples of what I just described. This is not the stuff of science fiction or made-up case studies that medical students pour over, it's real life!

Evidence of the enormous difference between ten years of science doesn't even need to be revealed between two people, I have proof of this right on my own body. In third grade I had my first rod operation on my right tibia; since I was still growing at the time my orthopedic surgeon inserted a K-wire along the bone. After the operation I had scar tissue along my front shin, the pale pinkish scar was like one of those garden vines that grow along fences - mine snaked along the path of my formerly bowed tibia. About ten years later I was graduating from college and had the procedure done on my left tibia. Except this time I was no longer growing. The surgeon inserted screws, a metal plate, and a rod into my left tibia - there were several osteotomies done and the operation took almost 5 or 6 hours. Despite all the hardware that went into my leg ten years later I was out of the hospital in two days. I resumed normal day-to-day life routines in about three days, and was out of the full leg cast in about three or four months.
The point is not how quickly I pleaded to get up and about again, but when my cast was taken off the scar tissue was barely noticeable. Not only that but it was straight - ramrod straight as if my surgeon had made the incision with a ruler. I'm sure he didn't actually use a ruler, but I was amazed at the difference between ten years on my legs. Precision, accuracy, healing time, managing other risks, and the cosmetic impact post-surgery seemed to have evolved right before my eyes!

If you were to ask me whether or not I'm envious of those young'uns who are running about now with O.I. type III, my answer is hell yes! Of course I am jealous of all that they are able to do and the childhood that they are able to experience because of their abilities! But I think that this is all a part of the cycle of life... or something of the sort. We are supposed to be getting older. Younger generations are supposed to be 'better' than us. I am just grateful that science is making improvements for others, that progress is being made for those who were told that we would never live past two. I guess I'll just have to accept all of that with some amount of grace and amused cynicism :-)

In the mean time I'll be practicing my 'grumpy old person' voice:"When I was your age I had to carry my x-ray files back to the doctor after the x-ray in a gigantic folder that weighed 40lbs! So quit the cryin' or I'll give ya something to really cry about!" 

No position you turn or lay on seems to make a difference. And the awkward angle at which your legs are parted in that spica cast is just.. awkward and uncomfortable. There is an itch deep down in your cast that you can't get to no matter how you bend the coat hanger; and for the millionth time NO, ANOTHER PILLOW WON'T HELP! JUST. GO. AWAY!

I am sure all of us have experienced a discomfort that was indescribable. We then begin to tunnel ourselves further into a hole because we think: no one else understands, no one else has felt this, no one else knows how to make it stop, no one wants to be around this kind of pain, no one no one no one..Until all of a sudden we are sitting by ourselves in bed, grumpy and at a loss for what to do.

This is the part where I am afraid to make another confession. But here goes: Sometimes being by myself with the pain helps me feel better. A lot better. No it's not because I am anti-social and a miserable person, I promise!

I could easily attribute this to my stubborn personality. When things get tough I have a tendency to just curl inwards and deal with problems on my own. The more other people nit-pick, nag, remind, or suggest things for me in times of high stress and pain -- the quicker I am to lash out and intentionally isolate myself. This isn't a good thing necessarily, but it is the way that I cope. It's how I manage and it's how I get back to making myself feel better.
Over the years I have tried to become more mindful of that behavior. When things are beginning to make me "hermit-ize" I take a moment to ask myself: Is this a step to making me feel better? Or am I isolating myself because I just don't want to deal with anyone else?

If it's the first reason then fine. I let people know that "It'll make me feel better to be by myself for a little while.." or I say "I'd like to get some rest alone please.." If it's the second reason I try to accept that feeling negative in times of stress and pain are natural. I tell myself there is nothing wrong with me because I want to burrow inside a hole of blankets and sheets (and possibly never come out). I then try to remind myself that this other person is most likely trying to help, and while s/he might not understand what I'm going through - I should acknowledge and appreciate their efforts in getting me through a tough time. I then assure them that thanks to their help I will be okay by myself for a bit. It's not easy to calmly think through your pain when you're in the moment, but even taking that first step of realizing your feelings when you're in that state of being will do wonders.

I suppose the point of this blog entry is to realize that everyone has their own way of coping. No way is right or wrong, but it is important that we realize everyone responds differently. For one person putting five pillows underneath a full leg cast feels like they are on top of cloud 999; for someone else it might feel like the most traumatizing sensation ever!
At the end of the day we can only be us. We can only do whatever will make us feel better, we can only hope that what we do now will make the next minutes easier for all of us.

I'm not always the best at paying attention to the part when healthcare providers are talking to me.  (Truthfully? I struggle with paying attention in general... well hello ADHD, aren't you shiny today?) 

It seems that during the part of the appointment where they say "So what this means is...." triggers some kind of chemical reaction in my head. Eyes glaze over, I rest my chin in my hand, I look at the coiled wire of the blood pressure cuff and wonder "how long could I stretch that out to?" "what am I going to have for dinner?" "Is it still raining outside?" "It was so much fun at bar trivia last night, I'll have to remember to keep that team going." "Am I going to run into the super creepy hospital clown when I leave?" "How does one go about making sangria?" 
"...any questions Sandy?"
"Umm no.." I reach over and take the prescription, or sit there and wait till the cast has dried, or I smile blankly back at the slew of medical stuff that was just thrown at my ears. Yet again.

So with that in mind I thought it'd be fun (maybe even helpful?) to make a list of the most commonly stated medical speak that I've heard, and then translate what that means in my only-half-assed-focused mind:


THEM: We're looking at probably a 3 to 4 month healing time for this fracture
ME: Great. I hope I have enough plastic bags and rubber bands at home for showering

THEM: This will help you get to sleep better
ME: It'll be more fun to be on that during the day..

THEM: Don't take this with alcohol
ME: Totally doing it

THEM: Call the front desk to schedule the surgery, my secretary will have my schedule
ME: When's my next school vacation?

THEM: This is only going to hurt for a few seconds. I'll be quick, I promise
ME: Lies. Lies. Lies. Outside the hospital walls a few seconds does not equal 3 minute 

THEM: Don't scratch
ME: Only if you don't breathe

THEM: How many servings of fruits and vegetables do you eat each day?
ME: Dammit why don't they have a picture of the food pyramid in here? 

THEM: On a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the worst pain, how is your pain?
ME: 15. Stop standing there asking me dumb questions, hurry with the painkillers!

THEM: So we'll have a follow-up appointment in 2 weeks, you can schedule it on your way out
ME: On my way out I'll be leaving and scheduling diddly squat 

THEM: Do you need a note for school? 
ME: Yea I need to be excused until June, just in time for the last day of school party 

THEM: Are all your vaccinations up-to-date? 
ME: Oh yea, absolutely 200% up-to-date

Did I miss any? Let me know in the comments! (Side note: I don't necessarily encourage the above..)

Fewer days are more exciting for me than the day I get my cast off. Roughly ten days before The Big Liberating Event is to happen I start a count down and tell all my friends, including all the strangers I meet who ask me "how did you break your ..?" Without even answering their questions I am usually quick to spit out "I get it off in 10 days!"
So when the day arrives, and the doctor flicks the x-ray up onto the screen - I am just chillin' like a villain, lying flat on the examination table: my hands are tucked behind my head, leg is propped up onto a pillow, and my toes are wiggling impatiently. By this time the cast has usually become a lot looser, and I try flexing my ankle  a few millimeters at a time - smiling happily when no sharp pains trail after my impatient movements.

He gets up from the computer where he has been peering over the x-ray for a few minutes.
"So there's still a very small sliver of a crack left." He tells me, and waits a few seconds for the news to sick in. I stop wiggling and prop myself up on my elbows, suddenly all eyes and ears on edge.
"I think in about another two and a half weeks or so.." But his voice escapes me and falls into some noiseless vacuum where all bad news any doctor has ever had to say goes.
But today was supposed to be the day! Nothing hurts! I can wiggle! And.. secretly... behind my parents' backs I had even been doing my own transfers on the leg, without any pain! This is blasphemy! Sham! The disbelief continued ranting and raving inside of my head.
I am no longer 3 or 4 so I know it wouldn't do any good for me to voice my disappointment. It was clear as day on the x-ray, in literal black and white, the facts were there: the bone hadn't healed completely yet.
After some discussion we decide to go with a bi-val cast, something that I still have to wear all the time but would be able to take it off for baths and showers. He looked at me sternly,
"You'll still have to wear this all the time because the bone isn't strong enough without the support yet." I nodded grudgingly.

Having your hopes dashed can be disappointing regardless of the situation. But in the medical world I have learned a few things about the delicate presence that hope can have. Here are a few of my observations --

Hope is the thing with feathers:

• Hold onto it with or without the facts. In the incident above the hope I had that my leg was healed didn't match up with the black and white image. But that doesn't mean we should give-up the hope! Usually it just means we need to be patient, allow the body to heal more or try a different course of medication. Whatever it is, holding onto that hope allows you to have a kind of standard in which to compare real-time results with. If the test results match up to the hope that you held onto then that might be a good thing, if it doesn't match-up then that helps to inform your next decisions. It serves as a kind of benchmark or check-point for progress, and the best part is that you won't ever be wrong.
• There is always a friend in it. Once you've grasped it then you know that its energy and motivations that hope can exert has no depth. This is important because often times things can get scary and precarious in the midst of confusing medical activity, and when there is uncertainty the environment can be intimidating for everyone involved but particularly for patients. However, if you keep hope near there will always be at least one consistently reliable component in the whole scene that you can look to as a familiar face in an otherwise uncertain crowd. 
• It is low-maintenance. Just have it drifting around in the back of your mind, or even write it down on a scrap of paper if you have to - but that's all you need in order to lay claim to your hope. There is no added cost, no health insurance policy to sneak it through, or extra amenities that it requires. Hope is just there at the ready for you.