Shower Time

By Day 4 post-surgery, and Day 6 since Paul’s last shower, we were both ready to give the Tub Transfer Bench a try.  As the nurse had instructed, I used Cling Wrap and waterproof hospital tape to dry-in the wound.  Starting on top of the incision, I wound a roll of Cling Wrap twice around the top of his leg, covering the area from the top bend of the thigh down to mid-thigh.  I’m not a nurse and by nature I’m clumsy so the wrapping was not pretty, but I felt sure it would hold.  I helped him out of bed and he began the walk to the shower room.

Our tub shower had been transformed.  Pulling back the shower curtain, we stared at the tub bench, the grab bar stuck to the tile, and the shower head pointing low to the ground.  We got him seated on the bench and I watched as he carefully pulled over the ‘good’ leg followed by the ‘bad’ leg.   I started the water, adjusting the water temp.  When it felt hot enough I looked at Paul and asked, “Ready?”  He nodded, and I moved the shower head to let the water run over his lower legs.  “Great job, hon,” I said, “you’re taking a shower!”

I used a plastic cup to pour water over him and was reminded of bathing my children when they were little or my grandchildren when they visit.  Paul of course wanted to heavily lather the soap, but I reminded him this wasn’t supposed to be a full blown shower – the risk of infection if we got the stitches wet was too great at this point.  Even so, I could tell he was finally feeling better, a little more human, the way a shower will do after you’ve waited so long for it.  He sang in a happy, loud off-key tone, asked me to use more soap, and insisted that certain body parts needed more attention than others.   I decided to have a little fun of my own by putting the bar of soap just out of reach, or moving the shower head to hit only his toes. 

I think he would have stayed in the shower for hours, but I had a few other things to do that day so I told him it was time to rinse.  For some reason he wouldn’t let me rinse him with the urinal, even though I assured him it had been thoroughly rinsed out.  I guess post-surgical sense of humor has its limits.

For my husband, drying off before stepping out of the shower is a novel concept but for once I had a bit of control over that.  I toweled his torso dry while he was still sitting, and when he exited the bathroom he learned it was possible to walk into the dressing area without dripping.  The Shower was followed by The Toenail Cut – it only made sense while everything was so clean.  Let’s just say that I’m not cut out to be a pedicurist, but I got the job done.  Can’t have those lovely support stockings getting snagged.

Then the Grand Finale -  getting dressed.  Worn out from the effort of taking a shower, Paul laid down on the bed, relaxing while I pulled underwear, shorts and shirt onto his clean body.  All that remained were the support hose.   These were the most important – along with the blood-thinner shots they would help prevent a blood clot.

Done.  Clean and dressed, I looked at my husband now resting.   Mission Accomplished.  Until next time.

Released at Last

Dr. Schultz came in at 7:30 a.m.   It was Day 2 after Paul’s hip replacement surgery but not even 48 hours post operation.  He checked the incision, reviewed Paul’s vitals, asked where the incision drain was (“I pulled it out last night,” Paul said, no apology in his tone), and wondered where the strapped foam was that was supposed to separate the legs at night during sleep.  Paul had an answer for that too:  “That blue foam thing?  I can’t sleep with that thing strapped to my legs.  I can’t do that at home, can’t I use a pillow or something?” 

Doc looked him in the eye.  “Yes, you can use a pillow.  You ready to get out of here?”

“YES I am,” Paul said firmly.  At that the doctor said the words we wanted to hear:  “You can go home today, I’ll write the prescriptions and write up the release paperwork.” 

While PT assistant Gee came in to get Paul ready for his last PT session at the hospital, I began fielding the constant phone call and texts  -  yes, we were going home today, no I had no idea when.

I left around 9 a.m. to go home and get the house ready to receive a post-hip replacement patient.  While there, two guys from our church family dropped off walkers and toilet extender seats for our bathrooms –  it pays to have friends older than you are.  We were set – a walker for downstairs, one for upstairs, and one for the truck to help bring him home.

Back at the hospital – driving Paul’s truck this time instead of my low sedan – I checked on my anxious husband and began chasing nurses to get our release docs, prescriptions, final PT orders.  Nurse Lani told me she’d check on that, and before she left the room I asked her what to do about taking our stuff down to the car, hoping for the offer of a cart or something.  She smiled sweetly and said, “Just  grab what you can, take it to the car, pull around front.  I’ll have Paul wheeled out by a nurse waiting to meet you.”  Onto my right shoulder I hoisted my Vera Bradley bag that contained laptop, clothes, snacks, toiletries, and Paul’s incidentals.  Then I grabbed the huge vase of gorgeous flowers sent by our work, the unwelcome blue foam leg pillow, and my coffee. 

I turned to Paul.  “Look, I think I can get all this except the portable urinal.  We can donate the small plant to another patient who has no flowers, and if you’ll just remember to bring this plastic urinal we are set.”  He assured me he could do that, and asked me to just get him out of there.

So, loaded to the gills with my bag, the flowers, the blue foam growing larger by the minute and my coffee, I set off to the truck.  Out the door, saying goodbye to the nurses, down the hall to the elevators, down 6 floors to ground level, through the cafeteria and the maze of hallways leading out to the emergency entrance and south parking lot.  I’d had to park on level 2 of the parking garage, and being so used to stairs I hadn’t a clue about the location of the elevator.  A nice young man in scrubs was headed up the stairs to Level 2 and opened doors for me to get to that level.  “Thanks,” I said, as I spotted the truck and hurried to unload. 

I set the vase down on the ground, unlatched the truck bed and unloaded, then figured out what items could ride in the bed (none), what could go in the back seat but not impede the passenger seat ability to recline, and what I had to hold (the flowers).  Then I took a swig of the much needed coffee, put the truck into reverse and headed to Exit. 

The ticket lady had trouble making change but eventually I was free of the parking garage and out into the sunlight - so different than the day that had brought us to this place.  I drove around to the front of the hospital and spotted my husband curbside in a wheelchair, a tiny Asian female nurse at his side.

Paul had only one job.   Sit in a wheel chair and hold a plastic urinal, empty weight approx.3 oz., and wait for me to pick him up.  But no, there he sat holding a plant.  I decided not to say anything because we weren’t that far from home and he had to be in pain, even though he wasn’t showing it. 

Nurse Tiny opened the passenger door and said, “Let me just help into the truck.”  I shifted into Park and told her I’d be around to help.  Paul had already figured out the two of us gals weren’t going to easily lift him up into the seat so he suggested Tiny move the wheel  chair and let me help him up.  After two failed attempts on her own she acknowledged the need for help.  Paul  marshaled his arm strength and with our help made it into the passenger side.  “Good luck!” Tiny said, quickly wheeling the chair away.

Belted into the driver’s seat, I put the truck in drive, ready to be home.  At that moment Paul said, “I gotta take a leak.”  “Where’s the urinal?” I asked, impatiently.  He steeled himself for my response.  “I forgot it.  The nurse wanted me to hold the plant.”

Not trusting myself to say anything, I put the truck in Park and left it running at the front of the hospital, my husband sitting wordlessly in the passenger seat.   I trotted through the maze up to opposite side of the 6^th floor and down the unfamiliar path from front entrance to 6^th floor -  not from the back parking lot.  Nurse Tiny saw me arrive breathless at the nurse’s station and I told her we forgot the urinal.  After only a few minutes she appeared with two of them.  “Thanks,” I said and began my trek back to the truck.  Only this time I was so turned around I didn’t know where to go after taking the elevator down to the ground floor.

Nothing looked familiar.  I asked people, “Which way to the front entrance, the north entrance?”  Twice I asked and twice was given wrong directions.  I was so turned around I got lost and ended up exiting outside the familiar south entrance.  By this time the only thing I could think of was to walk outside all way around to the front.  Where my husband still sat in the parked truck.  Unable to move, certainly unable to drive, and wondering where in the heck his wife was. 

I opened the door and tearily explained my delay.  He was magnificent.  “No problem, I waited, thanks for bringing these.”  He didn’t cock his head and ask incredulously, “Why did you walk halfway around the hospital to get back to the truck?” or roll his eyes or grumble, the way I likely would have done.  It was a real lesson in humility for me.  Sniffing back tears I told him we’d be home soon.  Where my brother, an EMT and recovered from a serious knee injury in recent months, waited to help me transition him home.

And then, in the midst of my tears, I thought of a silver lining.  Now we had two urinals, not just one.  Just like we had two stories at home.  Mom was right, there is always a seed of something good out something bad.  This was a good thing.

3 at 4

During Paul’s hospital stay the one consistent, constant question was, “What is your pain level on a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the highest?”   For the first two hours from the time of the accident until the time the morphine in the ER started kicking in the only way to describe his pain was excruciating.  He didn’t use words or numbers, just  “AAAAAYYYYYY” (not sure if that is how you spell it.)

During the next 20 hours his pain was managed down to 7 or 8 by the shots of morphine.  Having had regular shots of morphine myself back in the 1970’s post surgery following a bad car accident I know firsthand what relief that drug can bring.  But it brought his pain down only to 7 or 8.

Then came the epidural given to him during surgery and that relief from pain.  Immediately post surgery he was in that place of post-surgical anesthetized bliss.  Which lasted for eight to ten hours, and allowed me to have a few hours of sleep at home.  I still remember that night fondly.

The day after surgery pain was down to a 6, starting to be managed more by the hydrocodone pain pills than the morphine shots.  And the pain was a good pain, the soreness of a successful surgical incision combined with the beginning of physical therapy pain.

At 4 a.m. I heard it.  It was Day 2 after surgery, and I was awake but sleepy in my Peter Rabbit comforter.    Nurse Julian was giving Paul his pain pills and asked what his pain level was.   Paul answered, surprise and a smile in his voice, “It’s … a 3.”  

A 3 at 4, what a beautiful sound.

Peter Rabbit Goes to Seton

Day 1 after surgery brought even more encouragement.  Paul texted me at 6:30 a.m., saying he was ready for me to come back and had fired the PA who came to see him instead of his surgeon.  Poor PA, I thought, wondering if she was related to Andrew.  Paul was obviously in good spirits and ready for action.

By the time I arrived in the room he was sitting up in the recliner, griping about why he couldn’t go home yet, insulted that a mere PA who “didn’t know squat” had come to check on him, not impressed with breakfast and thoroughly cranky that his physical therapist had not yet arrived.  Clearly he was feeling better.  I don’t recall what I said in reply but he got quite cantankerous with me, so I said, “Look, we both know you are a terrible patient and I’m an even more terrible nurse, so cut that attitude with me or I’ll kick your butt.”  I told him I was going out that door, coming back in again and we’d have a do-over.  Which we did, and the day started off nicely.  There is more than one way to be a loving wife :)

PT, checking vital signs, more PT, taking meds and visits by the nurse, clinician’s assistant, Occupational Therapist (a real cutie), our physician, and visits from friends filled the day.  Paul aced his PT sessions, as we knew he would – he’s a terrible patient but a great student of PT because he has marching orders, something to DO.  He was in fine form for visitors, and by the time another very good friend Meach came by he was in rare form.  They both gave the OT a hard time, tried to court her for Meach’s son, and in general were the life of the party on the 6^th Floor.  A far cry from the agonizing yells of less than 48 hours ago.  Praise God for technology, good surgeons, great friends and hope for recovery!

Before I knew it, it was bedtime and we were both ready.  Our night nurse, Julian, was fantastic, possibly the best combination of a servant-leader heart, compassion, skill and consideration that I’ve seen.  It was Julian that asked if I would like him to order up a cot for me to sleep on.  A cot?  I had not been looking forward to the recliner and I hadn’t even thought of that, what a great idea! 

I made the quick trip home to check on Duke.  By the time I returned my beautiful cot was in the room.  At home I’d had the brilliant idea to bring the Peter Rabbit comforter with me, and now I spread it out on the cot and put on my PJ’s.  I put the words of the story on the inside, the pictures of Peter and friends on the outside, and slept inside it like a snug burrito.  This comforter never fails to bring me some sleep. 

Twenty-seven years ago when my daughter was almost 3 and transitioning from baby bed to a big girl bed I had purchased it.  I’d decorated her room in a Peter Rabbit theme, complete with sheets, bedside lamp, wall decorations and the comforter.  Over the years the comforter became extremely soft, the softest thing you’d ever want to feel around your skin.  When she outgrew her room décor I kept it all, unwilling to part with these things that held such sweet memories.
Later, when the trauma with all its drama enveloped our lives during my children’s teen years, I pulled the Peter Rabbit comforter from its shelf in the hall closet and wrapped it around me, feeling its soft warmth and thinking how strangely comforting it was.  As my kids grew and had children of their own, Peter Rabbit and his friends were used for sleeping on, making a pallet on the floor for a stuffed animal zoo, or a blanket of forts.  On those rare nights when I’ve suffered nightmares, I’ve often reached for the comforter and snuggled under it, Peter and friends seeming to shoo away the bad dreams just the way Mr. McGregor shooed Peter out of his garden.

Now, Peter Rabbit was on a field trip to the hospital, bring comfort and better quality short-sleeps on a cot in Seton room 662.  I closed my eyes, smiled and drifted off for a good 45 min nap.  Only Peter could bring true rest on a hospital cot.   And when I heard Paul’s whisper for the urinal, I was hardly even cranky getting out of the cot because I knew the comforter would be waiting.

Going Vertical

Paul’s first attempt to get out of bed and take a few steps came  hours after surgery.   The surgery was a great success and he was feeling so good, relatively, he wanted to see if he could walk to the bathroom and pee standing up.  The nurse carefully got Paul out of the bed and there he was, standing in all the glory of his hospital gown, a firm grip on the walker and determined look in his eye.  His good buddy Rex was standing close, at the ready.

“Rex, help me get to the dang bathroom.”  Walking slowly, gently placing his weight on the surgery-side leg and with Rex on one side and the nurse on the other, he walked to the bathroom.  Hallelujah, he was able to move under his own power and feeling less pain.  Relief flooded my heart.  Paul negotiated the 10 steps and stood close to the toilet, ready to celebrate his victory.  Rex stood by his side while Melissa and I waited back by the bed, wanting to give the guys a tad of privacy.  All was quiet.  After a few minutes, I heard Paul say, “Rex, I’m having trouble getting started.  Turn on the water in the sink, will you?”  Rex leaned over and turned the water on.  Melissa and I listened to the water running in the sink, but after a few more minutes there was still only one steady stream. 

“Rex, can you put your hand in there and make it sound like a waterfall?  I think that will help.”  Rex obliged, and Melissa and I tried to keep from laughing.  Paul began to talk out loud, encouraging himself.  “Come on, let’s get down to business.  What are you waiting for?  Dang it, the running water should help!”  Finally Melissa spoke up.  “You know, you can always go back to bed and use the urinal or try again later,” she said hopefully. 

Eventually that is what he did.  Shuffling back to his raised hospital bed, muttering about water and being a dang pansy he let us ease him back to bed.   Moving first the injured leg then his torso, tiny increments at a time, we maneuvered his body into alignment, stopping for him to rest after each move.  Once he was straight in the bed, we adjusted the support stockings, strapped on the required blue foam pillow to keep his legs apart and aligned and lowered the top of his bed until he said it was better.

In his good spirits and still filled with anesthesia from the surgery, Paul released me from spending the night at the hospital.  Not wanting another night in the recliner and desperately in need of a few uninterrupted hours of sleep I gratefully accepted.  He was asleep almost before I left the room and I high tailed it out of there before he could change his mind.

At home in my warm bed on a featherbed topper and under a down comforter I said a prayer of thanks and set my alarm.  Tomorrow was bound to be another interesting day.

Firing Andrew

It is a holy and sacred thing to stand helplessly in witness of another’s pain.  To see the evidences of pain on a loved one’s face and to hear it, manifested in groans or even screams when the intolerable is upon him.  That must be how it feels for the husband in a labor room, standing close to his wife while she writhes with the pains of giving birth, in an impossible situation.  He’s wrong if he touches her, wrong if he doesn’t, wrong if he stands too close, wrong if he stands at a distance.  But there is nothing he can do to stop the pain.  He must wait. 

Invisible ice on black asphalt is no respecter of persons, even those who watch carefully for it and try to sidestep it.  It will catch the edge of your shoe and shoot your right leg straight out from under you, flying upward at an unnatural angle.  At least, that’s what it did to my husband.   I wasn’t there, I was on my way to work when I got word to drive instead to the hospital to meet the ambulance that was bringing him in. 

I arrived at the ER around 1:00 p.m., before the ambulance and paced anxiously at the entrance.  I knew it must be bad for Paul not to be able to move under his own power.  It was.  The nurse called me back into ER 19 just at the moment the EMT’s were moving him from their plastic stretcher  onto the ER bed.  I heard him before I saw him, quite uncharacteristically yelling for them to stop.  I stood by, wanting to be close but not wanting to see him endure it.  His boots had been removed, the thoughtful EMT’s placing his wallet, watch and cell phone down in one toe.  His pants were cut and lay in strips around and under him.  On the surface he looked fine, but it was obvious something was very, very wrong.

Pain meds in the ER began to take the edge off, and in between nurse and hospitalist checks we talked about what had happened, what would probably happen and what it might mean for the near future.  Nurse Andrea was a great match for Paul, respecting him but suggesting little things he could do to manage the pain and situate himself.  I made the phone calls and texts and began managing the replies.  Pastor Samuel stopped by and our good friend and boss Bob came to sit with me while we waited for the doctor and to get to a room.

Broken hip.  Femoral neck fracture.  Ball broken off at the top of the thigh bone.  Full replacement.  Titanium.  We were learning a whole new vocabulary.  Paul told the ER doctor to consult with our physician regarding whether to repair or replace, and whatever Frank said is what we would agree to. 

So many emotions in my body, needing to express themselves.  Fear, concern, hope, gratitude for good doctors and health insurance, anxiety, dread, impatience, how to face the unknown.  But it was all covered in prayer, our own prayers and those of the many believers in our lives who love us and who also know the power of praying to our all-powerful God.  This accident was no surprise to Him, and even if we couldn’t know why He allowed it we knew that He would bring us through.

At 5:30 p.m. they began the process of moving us up to room 662.  The plan was for Andrew and Mia to wheel his ER bed up to the room and transfer him to that bed.  Bob and I followed, carrying Paul’s personal items – I let Bob carry the boots with all the valuables in the toe.  Arriving at his room, they positioned the ER bed next to the room bed and told us to wait outside.  I didn’t want to leave the room but figured the nurse knew best.  Bob and I walked out into the hallway and heard the first scream.  “What are they doing to him?” Bob asked.  “I don’t know but I’m going to find out,” I said, walking back into the room. 

I saw Paul, half on a hard stretcher and half on the hospital bed, in agonizing pain and unable to stop the screaming.  Andrew turned to me and said sternly, “I need you to leave the room and close the door behind you.”  I obviously couldn’t help Paul at this point so I did as I was told.  As I closed the door to room 662, the visitor in room 663 closed that door too.  No one wanted to hear those screams of pain.

The combination of Paul taking only ½ doses of morphine in the ER and Nurse Andrew who was determined to do something even it if was wrong caused a serious situation.  After a few minutes we couldn’t stand it and went back into the room.  Paul had convinced them to stop trying to move him, and I made it clear I wasn’t leaving any more.  Andrew and Mia took the ER bed away and Bob prayed while I tried to comfort my husband.  The muscle spasms wouldn’t stop so I went to find another nurse.

By 7 pm shift change things were a tad better.  Our night nurse, Chuck was briefed by Andrew out in the hallway.  I heard Andrew tell him about the screaming that could be heard down the hall and wanted to say Dude, the man is in unbearable pain, give him a break!  but didn’t.   Chuck and Andrew came in to check Paul’s vitals and introduce Chuck.  Paul looked at the men standing at his  bedside.

“Chuck, you’d better do a good job of taking care of me, this other nurse dang near killed me.  Andrew, you’re fired!”   Chuck nodded to Andrew – “I’ve got it from here, thanks” and Andrew left the room.

After feeding Paul bites of fish, rice and broccoli from his supper tray – and learning how to manage his portable urinal – I left for a short trip home to let Duke in for the night and feed him.  It was going to be 18° and he couldn’t sleep outside.  Dang cold and ice.

Back again to the parking garage, through the south entrance and the maze to the north elevators, I settled into the recliner chair by his bed for a night of 30 minute dozes in between nurse checks and husband-tending .  But at least I had full mobility and could toss and turn to try and get comfortable.  Paul could not.  It would be 15 more hours before he would be taken to surgery and exchange this constant excruciating pain for post-surgical anesthetized bliss.