"You Is Kind"

Nurse Amber receives her supplies. 

“Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.” - Henry James

Years ago, my older sister and I were discussing parenting. She had one son and I had two daughters and we had zero idea as to whether we were permanently damaging our kids as we waded through the tricky and uncharted waters of parenthood. It was during that discussion she said something so profound that it not only stuck with me to this day, but also prompted me to share it with my mommy friends.

"If I teach my son nothing else but to be kind to others, I've done enough. That is my one hope for him: that he is kind," she said.

Crazy sister, I thought. She obviously doesn't know what she's talking about because she only has one child and I, on the other hand, have two and therefore am an old pro and know how absurd that statement is. Kindness? Really? That's it. You don't want to teach him confidence or how to ride a bike? You don't want him to be wicked smart or strikingly handsome? You just hope he's kind? Silly sister.

No. Silly me.

If you teach your child to be kind and to treat others with kindness, they will in turn earn respect of teachers and peers alike. They will make quality friends, make good choices when placed in difficult situations and make you proud. They will be enjoyable to be around and most likely be very happy and content with their lives. Something as simple as kindness packs a powerful punch.

Never has that been more apparent in my life than over the last 5ish weeks. I want to track down all of the mothers and fathers of every single person that has shown us incredible kindness lately and personally thank them. Job well done, I want to say. You taught your children to be kind, and because of them and only because of them, we are surviving an extremely dark time in our lives.

Because if I'm being honest (and when am I not), life sucks right now (sorry mom for saying "sucks"). This silly little accident has morphed and grown and attacked our normal life on every level. And every time we think the storm has past, we are knocked right back down again. And each time it gets harder to get up.

While I admit to adopting a glass-half-empty mentality from time to time, pre-accident I would have considered myself a fairly positive person. But with every procedure, the surgeon would give us a best-case and a worst-case scenario. It has been worst-case. Every. Single. Time.

So before Mark was released from the hospital Saturday, I stepped out of his room to talk to his surgeon. Best-case scenario, which had been 2 weeks on home IV antibiotics, had already been shot to hell when we learned the infection he has was caused by a super bug and 2 weeks became 6 weeks which became 8 weeks. But then he spewed out one final crushing blow: worst-case scenario is that the super bug does not respond to the antibiotics over the next few weeks and they have to go back in & remove all of the plates, rods and screws. They would re-attach an external fixator and we would be back to square one.

It would be as if the last 5 weeks of pure hell Mark has had to endure would have all been for nothing.

He was crushed but trying to remain optimistic. But he knew and I knew that if history repeats itself, worst-case wins.

And so yesterday, after a particularly dark weekend, kindness came in droves and stomped all over those dark storm clouds. In a completely random and uncoordinated effort, we were shown kindness from a dozen different people in a dozen different ways. And the thing about kindness is that the act itself is often simple, but the impact it has on the recipient is immeasurable.

Moral of the story? My sister was right (don't let that go to your head, dear sister). It really is as simple as being kind.

Fourth Time's a Charm?

In the midst of a few of Mark's daily meds schedule, Cora reminds us to take a "daily dose of happines(s)!" I think I'll keep her.

Because this is not our first rodeo, I thought I knew what to expect. When 5 minutes into a routine appointment, we were told to head straight to pre-op in a "do not pass go, do not collect $200" fashion, I wasn't even phased. Sure it took a minute to handle the logistics and make sure our kidlets would have some form of supervision and a warm meal, but the fourth time around I was just going through the motions. Check in here. This form of ID needed here. Wait in pre-op. Wait in waiting room. Wait in recovery.

I knew the drill. And up until this surgery I also knew Mark's reaction:

They wheel him in a bit groggy. He moans in pain until they adjust his pain meds. Then he spends the next 8-10 hours in a state of semi-consciousness while I check facebook and dine on candy machine cuisine.

Not this time.

He was an angry elf from the second he appeared in the doorway. And he didn't care who knew it. The expletives started flying. Eff this hospital. This is a bunch of s@#$. Why the hell am I in so much pain? Who the eff is in charge around here? Why am I back in this GD place?

Wash your mouth out, rinse and repeat.

My first inclination after hearing my husband spew more curse words in 5 minutes than he had in the entire 13 years I've known him, was to scold him. "Pull yourself together." "Stop it with the negative attitude." "They're here to help you so stop being so mean." "We'll get through this just like we always have, so suck it up."

And when I was done freaking out over his reaction (which I'm told is common after sedation), I realized that I was absolutely in the wrong. Up to this point he had never gotten angry, although he had every right to be. Unlike me, he had never even thrown a pity party, although one would absolutely be justified. No, even as the infection set in and caused more pain than I could fathom, he spent his time apologizing for being a burden and making sure I knew how grateful he was for me. He tried to keep his moaning to a minimum at night when the pain was so severe he could hardly breath because he was worried I wasn't getting enough sleep.

He deserved an all out breakdown. He could have cussed out the Pope and been forgiven. So I stood back and bit my tongue, as he did just the opposite.

Now pre-accident I considered myself to have pretty thick skin. I'm an emotional creature, but I also have a lot of control over those emotions. I can keep them in check, and have been doing just that for the last 4 weeks. I did not want my husband or my children to see me crack. I needed them to know with unwavering certainty that everything was going to be okay. If they saw a basket case they would not believe that to be true. So I never let them see me cry.

But as the days turned into weeks, and our new reality became the norm, I began to crumble. And just as his infection spread and his pain increased over the last few days, so did my emotional instability. If you looked at me wrong, my lip would start to quiver and I'd have to excuse myself or turn away to hide the tears. I was an emotional wreck, and I couldn't do a thing about it.

So as I stood over his hospital bed watching him unleash what I assumed was weeks of pent up anger, there was something so therapeutic about it. I realized then how angry I was too, and that suppressed anger had started manifesting itself in the form of non-stop tears. And while crying is a much more universally accepted form of expression, I leaned over his hospital bed and told him to drop a few F-bombs for me.

For some reason I feel so much better now. And why wouldn't I? I'm not the one who will wake up with a sudsy sensation in my mouth.

(And now for all you crazies who have requested updated grotesque pictures, here are a few from our appt. on Monday when they changed his bandages.)

A great view of the skin graft site. You can also see the difference in the incisions. The one by his knee should look like the little one on his shin. But the one by his knee was the source of the infection and therefore not healing. That infection spread and attached itself to the metal in his leg, forcing this 4th surgery and subsequent hospital stay.

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

The New Normal

Following a couple of really rocky days, Mark rebounded. We suspect the blood transfusion he received yesterday morning came from some super hyper cheerleader, because it put some serious pep in his step (not that he's stepping, but I digress). He had an awesome day yesterday, followed by an even better night last night, capped off by a stellar day today. That earned him a golden ticket home late this evening. We waved what we hope will be a permanent goodbye to the hospital and made our way home to begin the next phase of Mark's recovery.

We've been asked a lot of similar questions the last few days, so I'm using some more fun pictures to answer them:

The swelling has gone down a TON! The bandages surrounding his foot make it a bit hard to tell, but the foot's still a huge source of swelling. His foot is currently larger than his thigh. No joke. And when he's not in a tremendous amount of pain, I mock him for it endlessly.

They made a total of 5 new incisions during surgery, so his leg looks a bit like a bloody jigsaw puzzle. Luckily, a couple of the incisions were very small like the one you see to the left above that only required 4 staples to close it.

The hideous faciotomy will not ever be closed up. The skin graft will heal and eventually be a tad less likely to make small children cry. They did remove the staples from that incision during his surgery on Monday.

How many surgeons does it take to redress a leg? Well, 2 surgeons and a PA apparently. Because of the rareness of Mark's case, it's attracted a bit of attention at the hospital. We've had visits from  random doctors checking in on Mark to see how his healing is going.

Because they have essentially built an internal cast of rods, braces, and screws and because of the skin graft and faciotomy, they will not be putting a hard cast on his leg. This high-tech brace will remain on his leg for a few weeks/months, and then will eventually be replaced by a tall boot. The boot is not a walking cast, as he is not allowed to put any pressure whatsoever on his leg for about 3 months (he'll become fast friends with his wheelchair), but rather will act as a brace for his foot.

Because of nerve damage to the paroneal nerve associated with the break, he does not currently have the ability to hold his foot up or lift his toes back towards his face. That is obviously an essential part of walking, so if he never regains that nerve function (only time will tell if the damage is permanent), he will have to walk with a permanent brace.

Our hope is that with some extensive physical therapy (which he won't even start for another 3 months), he will make a complete recovery and only have some freaky Frankenstein scars to show for it!
We're currently trying to come up with a cooler story for how he received his scars. Shark attack is high on our list. Got any better ideas?

If I Ruled the World

 

Move over Romney & Obama, I'm ready to take charge. Health Care reform? Nah. Hospital Room reform? You betcha. (Yep, referencing 3 political figures and it's not even 10am. It's gonna be a wild Wednesday.)

Not sure if you've heard, but we're kinda hospital royalty around here. I walk the halls a few times a day, giving high-fives to the RNs, the OTs, the CNAs and the PTs. Hey Tom, how'd Mrs. Smith's hip replacement go? Was the magician the perfect touch for the twins' birthday party, Sally? Did that blind date like the restaurant we suggested, Adam?  While we've become fast friends with some of the nursing staff and permanent pen-pals with a few of the housekeepers, there are a few changes I'd make ASAP if I was in a position of power.

1. The decor: Pretty sure the hospital designer was color blind (or they neglected to hire a hospital designer. Note to President self: pass a fluff bill in order to add hospital designers as a pork-barrel spending item). Every room is gray with a side of beige, or tan with a sprinkling of cream. And while I get the "calming effect" of neutral colors, there's something to be said about the "happy effect" bright yellows and fuchsia have on people.

2. The beds: I'm not asking for Tempurpedic Clouds in every room, but those memory foam knock-offs from Costco are reasonably priced. They'd do wonders for the crick in my neck and the sharp pain in my back after suffering through a few nights on the cement-like cots.

3. The hospital gowns: If they are going to force men to wear booty-exposing dresses, at least man them up a bit. Throw a John Deer tractor on there or a few monster trucks. And for the ladies, perhaps something a bit more form fitting and less, well, hideous. Have they not heard of color blocking?

4. The food: Since we are paying cruise ship prices to stay at the Hotel St. Luke's, is it too much to demand cruise ship cuisine? I don't think a midnight Mexican buffet is out of the question. And a 24-hr ice cream bar should be a given.

5. The toilet paper: It's called Charmin people. This toilet paper snob would forfeit all other requests if they'd just get on board with the little white 3-ply, squares of heaven.

ps. Our patient has had it rough since his surgery. Lots of pain. Little rest. Throw in some numbness and extreme swelling, and the poor boy is wildly uncomfortable. But they are hoping a blood transfusion this morning will turn things around. And despite these depressingly drab walls, we're feeling optimistic.

The Road to Recovery Is Paved with Good Intentions

We checked into the hospital at 2pm. Here I sit typing this at 11pm and Mark is still in surgery. Remember what I mentioned a few posts back about patience (and how I don't have any). Well I'm getting a nice big helping of patience practice.

But slow is the pace of our lives now. Our schedules are clear. Our days vastly different than they were 3 weeks ago. Our calendar involves very little unless it relates to Mark's recovery. And it is only now, with 9 vacant hours to reflect, that I realize how insane my life has been these last few years. 

I thrived on packing every hour of every day. I could work, workout, volunteer, meet friends for lunch, attend a PTO meeting, drive the kids to cheer, make dinner, help kids with homework, work some more, clean the house (or not) and then head on out to date night all in one day. If I found a spare second, I would plug some other activity in it. It hurts my brain just remembering that life. That life was organized chaos (with less emphasis on the organized and more on the chaos). And it's a life that seems so foreign to me now.

And so 9+ hours of waiting doesn't much phase me anymore. Does it tie my stomach in knots? Sure. Have me pacing the floor with worry? Absolutely. But there's such a strange calm in our lives now (seems ironic to use that word given everything Mark's faced these last few weeks) that glitches during surgery don't freak me out like they once might have. His surgery tonight turned into a "marathon" surgery that involved a blood transfusion. Not exactly the smooth surgery we were hoping for, but the bones are getting fixed nonetheless! Here's a glimpse of their work in progress:

A good bit of hardware that every airport metal detector will love! It's hard to see, but on the bottom left hand image, they put a bone graft starting at the 3rd screw and coming up above the plate (you can see a grayish area on the right where it stops). All bones are reset and plated. All breaks screwed back together. All demolished bones rebuilt. All in all a very successful, albeit long, surgery.

And now the healing begins.

The Good, the Bad and the Extremely Ugly!

The Good:

-Amazing friends, family and friends that are like family. I have 48 people on my Thank You card list so far. 48 people! If you are one of those notes recipients, please forgive me if the handwriting is illegible after awhile and it looks like a 1st grader wrote them. (Note to self: have 1st grader write them)

-Said amazing people delivering amazing meals every single night since the accident (sometimes two meals show up on one night!), cleaning my house from top to bottom (and still speaking to me after scrubbing my toilets) and washing, drying and folding my laundry (yes, even my unmentionables).

-Make-shift ramps that allow us to take wheelchair walks, ahem, parades through the neighborhood and bask in the delicious sunshine. Give Mark a few more days & I'm sure he's going to be popping wheelchair wheelies.

-Fresh baked apple pie that is so pretty you don't want to eat it.

-Who am I kidding? Eating fresh baked apple pie. Twice.

-Good surgeons. Mark's surgeon is a master at skin grafts and an expert in Compartment Syndrome, but his specialty is hands. So he handed Mark's case over to another surgeon in his office that specializes in traumatic leg injuries. His new surgeon's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas when he saw Mark's X-rays. He briefed us on his surgical plan and really took the time to explain each step. He also explained in great detail the risks of rushing Mark's surgery that was supposed to be on Thursday.

And that brings us to...

The Bad:

-Compartment Syndrome. That's it. It's seriously the only thing on my list. But it's a beast. And it's seriously jacking everything up. Because of the C.S., the much anticipated Thursday surgery is now scheduled for Monday. There is still too much swelling to correct the actual break. Because the soft tissue and the muscles have been so traumatized, the surgeons are not only afraid they will not hold the hardware they will be installing as they build him a new leg, but also that we'll see Compartment Syndrome Round 2 if they proceed to soon. 

The Ugly:

I knew his injury was bad. Really bad. But I was shocked to see his X-rays next to the X-rays of a healthy male's leg bones. He is missing 2 inches of knee bone! And there are so many different breaks I stopped counting. I was blown away. Kinda like you're going to be when you see these cool/disgusting pictures of his leg (really depends on how morbid you are). Please stop reading now if you easily loose your lunch or are the slightest bit squeamish. Trust me.

The faciotomy incision. You can see how the skin graft-covered muscle is still bulging out of the side.

Another view of the faciotomy. I included this one because for some reason it looks like Mark has a strange frog-like tattoo on his upper thigh and that just makes me giggle. (For the record, he does not)

A view of the skin-graft transfer site. Gag. Gross. Icky.

One normal Mark leg and one ugly giant leg. We need the right leg to look a little more like the left leg.

Did it make you hurl?