Tag Archives: Surgery

Courage at Twilight: I Have No Idea

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Four interminable months have passed since our visit to Dr. Neurologist, when he pricked and prodded, when he found severe neurological damage and no knee reflex, months of worsening ambulatory paralysis and increasing pain, months without answer or insight. Dad’s questions have burned in his brain: What is the diagnosis? Why the severe? What can I do to improve?  And finally, after those four months, he had the chance to ask the doctor these questions, again.  N had been 80% certain of the diagnosis of diabetic amyotrophy, and after the negative spinal MRI, presumably 100% certain, there being no other working hypothesis.  Before him again on his examination table, the condition worsening, his answer to Dad’s renewed questions was a simple, “I have no idea.”  When that is the state of things, of course you order more x-rays and blood work and tell the patient you will can him with the results.  Punt.  At least the lumbar puncture/spinal tap and the MRIs and CTs are done and need not be repeated.  At least no one quipped, “What do you expect? He’s almost 88 years old!”  Eighty-eight and still with a resting heart rate of 65 from decades of physical fitness.  Eighty-eight with a world heavy-weight champion fighting spirit.  Meanwhile, we waste away at home in our recliners, grateful for stair lifts and showers and power wheelchairs and books, and family.  Surely, there must be a team of experts out there that can decipher this mystery and say, “Do this.”

 

(Pictured above: the healing squiggly scar on Dad’s scalp after skin cancer surgery last month.)

Courage at Twilight: Toe Surgery

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Dad found some of his toes beginning to rise above the others, rubbing painfully against the tops of his shoes.  The podiatrist promised simply, “I can fix that.”  The next week he poked into the sides of Dad’s toes with a tiny scalpel and nicked the toe tendons, to release some of their tension so the toes would drop back into place.  Dad felt great when he came home, and wanted to go to the gym and to the grocery store.  I implored him to sit down and elevate his foot, and placed an ice pack on his foot hoping to prevent and reduce the swelling and pain I knew was coming.  “Dad,” I remonstrated, “if you don’t take it easy today, you are going to pay for it tomorrow.”  And he paid, in the coinage of pain.  And Mom and I paid, too, because it was our job to take care of him.  Our gentle Dad turned into a cantankerous papa bear.  I barked back that I would be very unhappy if he did not take care of his toes and they became infected and had to be amputated.  Perhaps I reacted too harshly, but I needed to get his attention so he would contribute to his own care and healing.  He apologized later, and began following the doctor’s orders (that is, Mom’s and my orders).  Actually, though, he healed quite well, despite diabetes, and I let go my fear of amputation and all it would mean for his mobility.  Now, weeks later, the snow is deep and we are taking granddaughter Amy sledding.

Courage at Twilight: Leg Squeezers

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When I awoke from foot surgery—removing neuromas in both feet, again—I heard a pump and felt a squeeze, first on one calf and then the other.  Unbeknownst to me, the surgical center staff had strapped me in leg squeezers (aka air compression leg massagers), to assist blood circulation and minimize the risk of blood clots.  I was surprised at the need for leg massagers, because the operation lasted only 45 minutes, and people sleep much longer every day without anything squeezing their legs.  When Dad’s feet started to swell, I thought maybe my leg squeezers might help his circulation as he sits reading in his chair until 3:00 or so in the morning.  But having one more thing to strap on to one’s hard-to-reach extremities and to keep track of and to not trip over is a hassle.  When he permits, I strap on the compressors and push the blue start buttons, setting the devices to inflating and squeezing and deflating and starting again.  He often straps them on without my aid, and says the leg squeezers help.

Curtains and Veils

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Curtains and Veils

Only a cloth curtain separated the little boy’s anticipation of surgery from my own.  But he was only two and didn’t know what was coming and had two kind parents who spoke in cheerful optimistic soft voices and kind nurses and kind doctors who smiled and were soft and kind.

I am always very careful to say nothing when awaking Continue reading →