Staple-pulling

During the big snow at Harrisburg, a young doctor came into my room and proposed that he remove the staples from my chest (big, heavy staples, holding my healing breastbone together).

"Is it okay if I do it right now?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "I would like for my husband to be here."
To tell you the truth, Reader Dear, I was stalling!

When The Yard Man returned to the room, I told him, "There was a teenaged doctor in here wanting to remove my staples! I'm nervous enough about getting them removed without having a teenager do it!

Later the doctor showed up with a big staple-puller.  I was still  apprehensive, but could think of no further excuses to put off the job.  He proceeded to carefully remove every other staple, top to bottom. (Turns out it was nothing to be nervous about--There was very little pain! The staple-puller could have come from an office-supply store, as easily as it removed staples!  The one wielding it was courteous and friendly and did an excellent job!)

When this young man returned the next day to finish the job of staple removal, I was happy to see him.  "I'll never use a staple-puller again without thinking of you, my staple-pulling teenaged doctor!" I exclaimed.

He laughed.  "I get that a lot," he said.  "But I'm twenty-three!"*


*Reader Dear, turns out, he was not a doctor, either.**
**However, the story is true.***
***Please believe me. 

I'm Still There

in Harrisburg, Reader Dear.  But I'm (sort of) walking!  And, I'm (sort of) talking!  And, hallelujah, there has been some talk of me leaving Harrisburg and returning to my local area rehab facility!

I was very hesitant to be too optimistic.  Really, what were the odds?!  Just days ago, the rumor was that I'd have to spend three weeks in Harrisburg (I knew I would not survive!)  Reports varied.  No one could actually say.  And then, on Monday, the 13th, one doctor allowed as how he'd be willing to sign my release on March 15.   Relief rushed over me like a tsunami, and I wanted so badly to believe it!

But, horrors!

Blizzard Warnings Issued as Winter Storm Stella Gears Up to Deliver More Than a Foot of Snow to a Widespread Swath of the Northeast

This was the kind of storm, Dear Reader, that got a name for itself and threatened to make history!

I saw it as a catastrophe of rotten timing! March 14!  The storm was to arrive on Tuesday, March 14!

And sure enough.  Monday night it began to snow.  The window in my hospital room looked out on a parking garage.  There were flood lights that lit up the space between.  All night I lay awake and watched the snow falling in a mad frenzy to the ground.  Hour after hour there was heavily-falling snow.  I attempted to make the storm come to an end by the force of wishful thinking, but no luck!  Tuesday morning arrived and it kept on snowing far into the day!

"Forty days and forty nights!" I moaned to The Yard Man (who had spent the night in a hotel room in Harrisburg to make sure he could be by my side the next day.)
"It's going to snow for forty days and forty nights!  I will never leave this place!"

There was lots and lots of hype about the expected monumental heights of the snowfall (several feet)!
Reader Dear, I tried not to hear the talk , but I couldn't keep my eyes away from that window!

In the late afternoon on Tuesday, at long last, the snow began to taper off (17-inch total) and The Yard Man brought reports of good snow removal efforts (Hurrah for the city of Harrisburg! I'll send my compliments to the mayor! I thought).

I let myself soak up a few rays of hope!

I'LL SAY!

The medical staff at Harrisburg removed the too-big tracheostomy tube in my throat and replaced it with a smaller one.  At that point (days and days after the blue ice chips), my cough began to subside.  And I took a big step forward toward the spoken word!

Speaking involved removing the oxygen collar (with hose attached) from my tracheostomy,
attempting to cover the end of the tube coming out of my neck, and forcing air to come up through my larynx and vocal chords.  It took effort.  At the Speech Therapist's office I tried several times and failed. But I finally  came up with my first words: "Hello!  I can talk!"

What I intended to say: "One small step for me, one giant leap for mankind!" 
(It is a joke, Reader Dear.  Only a joke.  Please do not roll your eyes!)

Oxygen collar and hose.

So I was beginning to re-enter the world of spoken communication.  After I got the hang of it, I had so much to say!  I was eager to ditch the notebook permanently. But, speaking took a lot of effort.  (It's amazing, Reader Dear, how much the heart and lungs must work to push enough air out for a lengthy sentence!) Each time I talked, the bit of air escaping through the hole in my neck (in spite of trying to cover it completely) made speech laborious.  I wore out.   I tried to reserve my words for things of great import  ("Can't find my call bell" "Need the bathroom" and jokes, witty responses).

At the same time, I was learning to walk!  My first steps unassisted were toddler-esque: who would know there is such skill involved in keeping one's balance! Walking for stretches down the hall, two  nurses followed closely with my accessories and a wheelchair,  awaiting the point where I would wear out.   And the staff insisted that I could not leave my bed unassisted. 

Walking, however,  was such a new and exciting endeavor.  Please do not give away my secret, Reader Dear.  At least once I crept carefully and laboriously to the bathroom (perhaps three yards away from my bed) on my own. (Of course, the rolling stand with the feeding bag had to accompany me, but I managed). It was dragging myself up off of that toilet to stand erect again that nearly forced me to expose my illicit activity.   ("No! Pulling on the hand rail is not allowed!  You must be able to stand without pushing or pulling!" was preached to me in my short stints of physical therapy ["Well," I murmured to myself, as I contemplated pulling the call bell to summon a nurse to haul me upright and deliver me (with a complimentary scolding)  back to bed, "This is an exception!"])

(Yes, yes, Reader Dear...I'll say more!)

You are Fortunate

Dear Reader Dear, if you've got a precious old* friend who will jump in a car, bring her daughter along, and drive for hours to spend time pampering you in a hospital room! 

"And I suppose YOU DO?!"  you may well ask of me. To which I will respond, "Yes, it is true; indeed I DO!"  Mi Amiga Preciosa spent more than six hours of her day in the car for the round-trip journey to see me!  It was easily and hands-down the highlight of my week in Harrisburg!

There was visiting, much visiting (hampered, of course, by the fact that one of us was lacking a normal speaking voice, but grand)! And there was much entertaining talk (by those with the working vocal chords)!

And then, Viewer Dear, just look at the plan this super-creative friend of mine had concocted:  She carried with her a portable spa, and Mi Amiga Preciosa, she knelt on the floor and washed my feet, then gave me a first-class pedicure (When she was done with me, I sported "Pin-up Girl Red" toenails--ten little spirit-lifters!)  She had planned to shampoo my hair, as well (an act of service I desperately needed) but the logistics proved too difficult (a portable spa is obviously a limited one, Reader Dear, and please recall that my body was far from agile).

So there you have it--the day passed quickly by.
It was a most splendid break in the routine wretchedness!
Gracias, gracias, mi amiga querida!**

......................
* relationship-wise.
(We have been friends for a very long time.)
However, she is only a teeny step ahead of me in length
of life, and both of us can recall a time when women wore
circle skirts and crinolines, and tortured themselves with
cinched-in waists, making us "seniors" for sure,
if not downright old!
**She is teaching herself to speak Spanish.
(fluent by now, I believe)

Taking you back, Dear Reader,

to my sojourn at the Harrisburg hospital (six weeks ago in time),
where I was struggling with my
inability to talk, my lack of sleep, my exceeding mistrust of the medical staff, my coughing and my certainty that I would die in that spot!













I would lie awake at night, longing for the  loveliness of "tossing and turning"! Please understand, Reader Dear, that writing notes in the middle of the night to instruct nurses how one would wish to adjust one's body on the bed is just a fruitless endeavor!

However, Dear Reader, I am happy to report there were delightful little spots amid the misery!  There were a couple trips to the eleventh floor of the hospital where the Seven Bridges Cafe featured a wall of windows looking down on (surprise!) seven bridges!  Though the Yard Man and I had to have a nurse in attendance on these escapades (making them short visits), and I needed the Yard Man to wheel my paraphernalia while the nurse pushed my wheelchair, I relished the brief "change of place" and the view of the Susquehanna River and the outside world!



















Then, too, I enjoyed meeting hospital staff from countries around the world!  "Where did you grow up?" I would ask anyone who spoke with a slight accent.  The responses included many African countries. Jamaica. The Philippines. India.  Indonesia. Cote d'Azur.  Then I would ask (write) "How did you come about moving to the U.S.?" Especially with the night nurses, my question often sparked a ready  conversation and an interesting story or two! 

The woman who relayed this information to me was a lively night nurse from Gambia or Zambia (Zimbabwe? Zanzibar?  Alas, I really can't tell you, Reader Dear; it was possibly some other African country I haven't named)  She wore a red turban on her head and had a ready laugh. She was a favorite!  (Thirty-two children! I gasped.)

So, yes, there were tiny rays of brightness.  Upcoming is the highlight! The shiniest spot in my Harrisburg stay (well, ten shiny little spots, in actuality)!

............................................................................