You may have noticed there hasn't been a new post here for a while. Since Mick's overall condition gets a little better every day, your blogger felt that posting daily was risking overshare, going into too much detail just to have something to write about. So here endeth The Back Story--but not without a few words from the man himself:
My many hats are off to: Dr. Kuflik and everyone at Beth Israel Spine Institute... they've already returned to me an ease of daily life I'd frankly almost forgotten; to all our pals who've sent out their support and good vibes (it worked!); and to Blogger, RN whose careful tending was matched only by his patience, constant encouragement, and relentless cheerfulness.
Oh wait a minute, it's not June? We're not at Radio City? This isn't the Tony Awards?
Wow what a difference 3 weeks makes! It's hard for me to believe that it was only 21 days ago I was staring into the bottom of a martini glass wondering what was to be -- the pain in my back being obliterated by the yellow stripe I was quickly growing there instead.
I admit I don't remember much about my temporary residence at 16th Street and 1st Avenue, but I do know that whenever the first day was that they got me up and out of bed I knew immediately the op had been completely successful.
And then getting out of there and being home just a few days later was a super -- and welcome -- surprise.
Even though we'd been shown it a few months ago when we began this process and it was all still theoretical, equally surprising was being at the doc's this past week and seeing a model of a human spine with only 3 verts fused, and realizing there's about a coffee mug-full of hardware in me, literally screwed into my back (which answers the question why am I not lifting a buzz off all the drugs I'm taking.)
I'm feeling great. I love it that every day I'm better than I was the day before. I'm looking forward to getting back to my regular gig of outfoxing producers and general managers by day and hanging out by night.
It's corny, I know, but ain't life grand!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tuesday, Briefly
Not much to report. Mick's sleeping seems to get a little better each night, and this afternoon he managed another nap. This morning he took a walk in his much-more-comfortable XXL footwear. Hope to post a photo of that soon.
Monday, February 9, 2009
An Excursion
Today’s post-op check-up was to see not the surgeon himself, but rather a nurse practitioner in his office, an energetic dude named Ed. He said Mick was doing well, and that both incisions were healing very nicely. He took the little bandages off the anterior incision (already just a hairline seam), and with sterile tweezers and great care set about removing the sutures from the back incision. Mick stood with his hands on the examining table while Ed sat on a stool and went to work. It reminded me of two things: 1) Scarlett holding the bedpost while her corset strings are yanked, and 2) removing hooks from fish. I’m not terribly squeamish about stuff like this but the couple of times Mick yelled Ow, I flinched sympathetically. When the sutures were all gone, our boy was noticeably more comfortable.
This morning Mick’s feet were more swollen than ever, likely a result of yesterday’s spirited stroll, and he could barely get into his sneakers and socks. We had sort of expected Ed to prescribe a diuretic or something, but he said that the swelling was a normal neurological response to this kind of surgery (for some reason the nerves in the back decide to send fluid to the lower half of the body), and that the situation would correct itself in time. Later in the day, blogger had an appointment in the Union Square area, and went shopping on 14th Street. Mick now has socks for shoe sizes 12-to-16, and a blindingly white pair of size 12 sneakers. He’s already tried them on, and they fit nicely. While his new posture and bearing preclude proper gangsta swagger, wearing them he looks a little like he could have been rapping on the Grammys last night.
This morning Mick’s feet were more swollen than ever, likely a result of yesterday’s spirited stroll, and he could barely get into his sneakers and socks. We had sort of expected Ed to prescribe a diuretic or something, but he said that the swelling was a normal neurological response to this kind of surgery (for some reason the nerves in the back decide to send fluid to the lower half of the body), and that the situation would correct itself in time. Later in the day, blogger had an appointment in the Union Square area, and went shopping on 14th Street. Mick now has socks for shoe sizes 12-to-16, and a blindingly white pair of size 12 sneakers. He’s already tried them on, and they fit nicely. While his new posture and bearing preclude proper gangsta swagger, wearing them he looks a little like he could have been rapping on the Grammys last night.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sunday Afternoon
The temperature in Manhattan got up into the mid 50s today, a sneak peek of spring. Mick woke up feeling strong and happy. Late morning, we walked toward the little park by the river. On the way we ran into someone Mick greeted enthusiastically—it was the cardiologist from Beth Israel who performed the post-op EKGs and who became his pal. It turns out his office is just a block east of us. This encounter elevated Mick’s already high spirits. We went to Sutton Place Park, the little brick-paved square paved at the east end of 57th Street, overlooking the river. It was a beautiful day. Mick tried sitting on one of the benches. While they are classic and decorative, they are not designed with recovering back surgery patients in mind, so instead of tarrying, we headed south on Sutton Place. Mick gave a spirited commentary about who he knew who lived or had lived in each building we passed.
We walked all the way to 54th, where there’s an even smaller “park,” flush with the roar of the FDR Drive. Then we headed home.
Tomorrow is the first post-op visit to the surgeon. While this blog has recounted Mick’s surgery experience in probably too much detail, your blogger must say here that the patient has from the beginning referred the procedure as a kind of miracle. Yes, there is ongoing pain and discomfort and inconvenience, but Mick knows all that is temporary. The pain that caused him to have the surgery in the first place was gone more or less immediately afterward. He says he almost can’t remember it now. That’s a good thing.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Saturday
Two steps forward and a half step back. Friday was Mick’s best post-surgery day so far, and at dinner he ate heartily. He slept a little better, too, and woke feeling good, but achy enough to forgo today’s walk. The swelling in his feet continues to plague him; not only are they fat like sausages, but very sensitive, especially on the soles. For all the years I have known him, he’s been militantly barefoot at home, but right now surfaces like the sisal rug feel like gravel to him. At his request, blogger went out and got him a pair of slippers (probably the first he’s owned as an adult), size twelve and unfortunately a perfect fit. His sister Penny came up from Philadelphia for an afternoon visit (Tim had to work), and he laughed like a kid at her stories. He snoozed for a little while later on, which I believe to be a sign of healing—though the pain med regimen he’s on is enough to put Keith Richards under, the pain, even when sublimated, is a kind of relentless stimulant, so I have to think these catnaps are a sign of healing.
Friday, February 6, 2009
TGIF
After his best night to date (the pain and meds still make it impossible to sleep through, but he’s sleeping more), Mick was full of piss and vinegar today. He said he realized he’d been trying to do too much; there’s a seduction in trying to best your own achievements every day. As a result, today was the best day since the surgery. In the morning he walked all the way around the block, and then across First Avenue, past Sutton Place, and into the little park (if you can call an entirely paved area that) overlooking the river. While we were there, I was able to cajole him into the close-up-with-moustache some of you have been asking for:
Mick's sister Penny and brother-in-law Tim are coming up from Philadelphia tomorrow for a brief visit. Here's to more good days!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Thursday
Mick slept better last night than the night before, but is still not sleeping through. This morning we went for a walk, but could not repeat yesterday’s twice-around-the-block run; we managed it once, a little slower than last time. The pain proved harder to stay ahead of today. Mick is on a prescribed regimen of a painkiller every twelve hours, a muscle relaxant every eight hours, and another painkiller every four to six hours as needed—we’ve been able to set the clock by the schedule this of this last one, as it wears off around the three-hour mark. It became clear yesterday that there wasn’t enough of the short-term painkiller to last until his first post-op visit to Dr. Kuflik Monday, so Mick called and got a new prescription. Perhaps unsurprisingly, none of the pharmacies in our latitudes had enough of that particular medication to fill it, so your blogger went back downtown to the Walgreens across from Beth Israel, where they address needs like this more regularly. We also got a telescoping cane at Duane Reade, because the custom-cut one from the hospital now seems too short, perhaps as a result of the patient’s improving confidence, posture, and height. The swelling continues to be an annoyance. Other than that, our boy is doing well. Your blogger was unable to get a photo of the increasingly suave and distinguished moustache today, but hopes to do so tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Wednesday Evening, Briefly
A visiting nurse visited today and, like everyone else, was highly impressed by Mick’s overall condition. Blogger agrees that he needs to put the brakes on things like telephone calls. Moustache-confirming photos to follow, if he will allow them.
Commentary
Minutes ago my attention was drawn to the fact that this blog required user-registration, or something, to enable commentary. I think I fixed that, allowing total freedom of speech (at least I think I did). Feel free to comment. Mick is occasionally reading the blog now.
A Walk in the Cold Morning Air
Last night was a little better than the night before, but still with the waking up sweaty all the time. This morning he just couldn't get comfortable, couldn't find a sitting, standing, or lying position that would alleviate the pain. About 10:30 we decided to go out for a walk. Yesterday's snow was all washed, shoveled, and salted away, but it was quite cold, barely twenty degrees, and breezy. Being up and about felt so good to him I could barely keep up--we walked all the way around our block, 57th to First to 56th to Second and back, twice. After the walk he felt much, much better. Here he is midway through the second lap. The Blackberry photo doesn't show his Rico Suave moustache so well, but trust me, it's there.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Tuesday
Monday night, on Dr. Kuflik’s approval, Mick took a prescription sleep aid at bedtime. It did not, alas, enable him to sleep through the night, but it did seem to improve somewhat the quality of the sleep he got. It snowed all day so there was no outside walk. (We live in an alter-cocker-heavy neighborhood, so for the past couple of days when we’ve gone out, Mick’s been by far the tallest, youngest, and best-looking of the slow-moving masses, but today everybody and their nurses stayed home.)
Mick didn’t feel as good today as he did Monday. Perhaps he’d overextended himself yesterday, perhaps it was because he wasn’t able to take a walk today, or perhaps (blogger’s opinion) it was just part of the inevitable peaks and valleys of recovering from surgery of this magnitude. He’s had no appetite at all, an unfortunate effect of the pain medication, but we’ve discovered that if you cook something he likes and put it in front of him, he’ll eat it. So that’s what we’ve been doing.
Still, our boy is doing well, channeling his cabin fever into an ongoing effort to rearrange everything in this apartment that’s light enough for him to lift.
Mick didn’t feel as good today as he did Monday. Perhaps he’d overextended himself yesterday, perhaps it was because he wasn’t able to take a walk today, or perhaps (blogger’s opinion) it was just part of the inevitable peaks and valleys of recovering from surgery of this magnitude. He’s had no appetite at all, an unfortunate effect of the pain medication, but we’ve discovered that if you cook something he likes and put it in front of him, he’ll eat it. So that’s what we’ve been doing.
Still, our boy is doing well, channeling his cabin fever into an ongoing effort to rearrange everything in this apartment that’s light enough for him to lift.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Monday
A better night last night: Mick slept only an hour or two at a time, and again there was the sweaty waking up, but he slept more than the night before, in large part because he knew to take his pain meds. This morning we took a walk east, crossing First Avenue and turning around just short of Sutton Place—a round-trip journey of a little better than three cross-town blocks. Previously in these pages, Mick’s bearing has been likened to that of the Sun King or POTUS, but today we hit on the best comparison. With his newly perfect posture and new height, and his cane, and his hope-he-doesn’t-change-his-mind-before-you-guys-get-to-see-it ‘stache, he looks like somebody in the Ascot scene from My Fair Lady, promenading. Now I just call him Lord Smedley.
Midday Mick’s mother, Susan, stopped by, and was understandably amazed by his condition. He’s so mobile and so cheerful it takes a look at his back incision to remind you what he’s been through. A little later there was a visit from a physical therapist, a compact, intense, and focused guy named Erlano. He said Mickey wouldn’t be eligible for physical therapy for another six weeks, when he could stretch. Mick said aww, c’mon, I want some now. Erlano said he would see what he could arrange. Most importantly, for the first time since leaving the hospital, this afternoon Mick had a conversation with Dr. Kuflik, the orthopedic surgeon, who answered a lot of questions. Mick will see him later this week or early the next.
Later there was an hour-long nap, of which your blogger approved enthusiastically. Around six Mickey persuaded our beloved next-door neighbor, Libby, to stop in for just a few minutes.
The surgery was a week ago today. Wednesday one of the doctors said “I guess you’ll be watching the Super Bowl from here.” How wrong he was (though as it happens Mick didn’t watch the Super Bowl from home, either. There was an I Love Lucy marathon.) It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I mention this only because I don’t know what kind of weatherproof shoes we’ll be able to squeeze those poor swollen feet into.
Midday Mick’s mother, Susan, stopped by, and was understandably amazed by his condition. He’s so mobile and so cheerful it takes a look at his back incision to remind you what he’s been through. A little later there was a visit from a physical therapist, a compact, intense, and focused guy named Erlano. He said Mickey wouldn’t be eligible for physical therapy for another six weeks, when he could stretch. Mick said aww, c’mon, I want some now. Erlano said he would see what he could arrange. Most importantly, for the first time since leaving the hospital, this afternoon Mick had a conversation with Dr. Kuflik, the orthopedic surgeon, who answered a lot of questions. Mick will see him later this week or early the next.
Later there was an hour-long nap, of which your blogger approved enthusiastically. Around six Mickey persuaded our beloved next-door neighbor, Libby, to stop in for just a few minutes.
The surgery was a week ago today. Wednesday one of the doctors said “I guess you’ll be watching the Super Bowl from here.” How wrong he was (though as it happens Mick didn’t watch the Super Bowl from home, either. There was an I Love Lucy marathon.) It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I mention this only because I don’t know what kind of weatherproof shoes we’ll be able to squeeze those poor swollen feet into.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Sunday
Okay, pretend you didn’t know that Mickey came home yesterday. Let us turn back the clock to Friday evening.
In the course of a highly active day, Mickey also experienced quite a bit of pain, which was treated in several different ways. Adele came on at 4:00 as usual. She is bright and efficient, but also a bit wide-eyed and dewy, a twenty-something who moved to New York from the Philippines seven years ago. Mick had realized on the first or second day that he didn’t really need private-duty care in the hours after the daytime parade of doctors and therapists had gone home, but Adele was so sweet and lovely it seemed rude to let her go. Anyway, after dinner Friday, with the big day over, not having really eaten or slept for four days, and with a smorgasbord of pain meds coursing through him, Mick fell into a deep, deep sleep—for about half an hour. Then he shot awake, in breathless panic. Adele came to the bed and stood over him with her flower-like face. “What’s going on? Where am I?” he asked. “Beth Israel Hospital,” she replied. “What? You’re kidding. Why?” “You had spine surgery three days ago.” “WHAT? YOU’RE KIDDING! WHY?” To her credit, Adele did not summon the men with the butterfly nets. She asked Mick if he knew who he was—he did (offering without prompting everything down to his full name, his profession, his address and social security number)—and if he knew who she was— and he did, by name. His blood pressure was normal, but his heart was racing. Bit by bit, he bought Adele’s explanation of where he was and why, and calmed down. Then a little while later it happened again (brief deep sleep, sudden panicked awakening, no clue), but this time Mick had some recall of the previous event, and calmed down faster. Kudos to Adele for being such a total pro; we overestimated her ingenuousness and underestimated her capability. Mick passed the balance of the night restlessly but without incident.
Saturday morning Mick had the presence of mind to ask the floor nurse for a full accounting of the meds he’d been given Friday. He shared this information with the young cardiologist who comes by very early each day to administer a post-op EKG, a low-key good listener who’d become a sort of pal over the course of the week. The doctor allowed that, while hospitals are inherently disorienting places, the meds Mickey’d had the day before were enough to alter anyone’s sense of reality.
A swift jumble of white-coated persons came in and out of the room, almost all of them new faces (it was after all the weekend) and all of them part of the process of signing off on Mick’s release. He had persuaded Andrea to come home with us the first day. At 11:30, we put Mick in a wheelchair with a still-in-its-cellophane flower arrangement on his lap (Andrea and I were laden with other stuff) and wheeled him out into the bitter cold. He looked a little like somebody leaving a wedding reception with the centerpiece. Getting in and out of the car was no small assignment for Mick, but Andrea’s expertise and the joy of going home made it easier.
After unpacking everything and sorting out the meds (only three now), we had takeout soup and sandwiches for lunch. Andrea gave us some invaluable tips about bathing and other maneuvers. With hugs and best wishes and exchanges of contact information we packed her off to Far Rockaway. Mick’s pain ebbed and flowed, according to the clock and the med schedule, through the evening, but we caught up on Top Chef, and he ate a whole ham-and-cheese sandwich for dinner.
Last night was not so great for him. He’d sleep deeply for an hour or so, have disturbing dreams, and wake up drenched with sweat. He went through three t-shirts during the night, and this morning was visibly the worse for wear. On questioning, it also became clear he hadn’t taken all the pain meds he was entitled to (I think after the Friday night episode he wanted to take it light.) After a brief but enlightening tête a fist we got all that sorted out, and by 10:00 am he was in the shower and happy. Midday there was a visit from a representative of the Visiting Nurse Service, instantly dubbed "Nurse Jill" by Mick, a peppy Long Islander with a spray tan, false eyelashes, unfortunate face, and killer bod. She asked a lot of questions in preparation for the nurse and physical therapist who will each visit a couple of times a week, then she checked Mick’s blood pressure (fine), inspected his anterior incision (sutures already out, also fine) and posterior incision (eight inches long, still with monster sutures, and so straight they must have used a T-square, but fine), and ably answered some general maintenance questions.
At three we journeyed out. Mick is supposed to walk for at least 30 minutes a day from Day 1, and while he covers close to that ambling around the apartment, it was a beautiful day, and there was no time like the present. With cane in hand and presidential bearing (the surgeon had said the operation would leave Mick taller, and while there hasn’t yet been an opportunity to measure him we both believe it’s true), he walked from the front door of 320 to First Avenue, then turned and walked all the way to Second Avenue, and back to 320. Two blocks: certainly a longer haul than any he’d ventured at Beth Israel.
So things are good, but our boy is still very much on the mend. He’s got the meds figured out, but there are still short stretches when the pain is blinding, and brief pockets where the meds knock him out. But he is confident each day will be better. Also, there is swelling. After surgery, they pump you full of IV fluids like nobody’s business—he didn’t eat for five days and still came out of the hospital twelve pounds heavier than he went in. His belly is distended and his feet so swollen he could barely get his socks over them today. They say this will subside very soon.
Yesterday afternoon Mickey asked me to print out these posts so he could read them. Against my better judgment, I did. He was amused, but felt I was painting perhaps too noble a picture of him. This may be true. In my defense, I will say that fatigue and concern make me earnest. Also, I was and am genuinely floored by how he’s coping. But in the spirit of his editorial comment, your formerly high-road-taking blogger will offer a couple of out-takes (and possibly more later, as they emerge from the suppressed depths of his better judgment):
Much has been made—here and room 3 Dazian 3—of the general wonderfulness of nurse Andrea. Indeed, as early as Wednesday Mickey said to her “I feel like I’ve known you all my life”—which he followed, after a brief pause, with “And what was your name again?” Over the course of the week he variously addressed her as Adrian, Adri, Andy, and Andrew. And yesterday, after she left: “She was a little bossy, no?”
Mickey was sent home with a “Golden Girls-style” (his term) potty extension, a thing with handles you set atop the regular throne, raising the seat level by about half a foot, so the sitting and rising are less arduous. He says the distance to the water makes it like going to the bathroom on a wishing well.
In the course of a highly active day, Mickey also experienced quite a bit of pain, which was treated in several different ways. Adele came on at 4:00 as usual. She is bright and efficient, but also a bit wide-eyed and dewy, a twenty-something who moved to New York from the Philippines seven years ago. Mick had realized on the first or second day that he didn’t really need private-duty care in the hours after the daytime parade of doctors and therapists had gone home, but Adele was so sweet and lovely it seemed rude to let her go. Anyway, after dinner Friday, with the big day over, not having really eaten or slept for four days, and with a smorgasbord of pain meds coursing through him, Mick fell into a deep, deep sleep—for about half an hour. Then he shot awake, in breathless panic. Adele came to the bed and stood over him with her flower-like face. “What’s going on? Where am I?” he asked. “Beth Israel Hospital,” she replied. “What? You’re kidding. Why?” “You had spine surgery three days ago.” “WHAT? YOU’RE KIDDING! WHY?” To her credit, Adele did not summon the men with the butterfly nets. She asked Mick if he knew who he was—he did (offering without prompting everything down to his full name, his profession, his address and social security number)—and if he knew who she was— and he did, by name. His blood pressure was normal, but his heart was racing. Bit by bit, he bought Adele’s explanation of where he was and why, and calmed down. Then a little while later it happened again (brief deep sleep, sudden panicked awakening, no clue), but this time Mick had some recall of the previous event, and calmed down faster. Kudos to Adele for being such a total pro; we overestimated her ingenuousness and underestimated her capability. Mick passed the balance of the night restlessly but without incident.
Saturday morning Mick had the presence of mind to ask the floor nurse for a full accounting of the meds he’d been given Friday. He shared this information with the young cardiologist who comes by very early each day to administer a post-op EKG, a low-key good listener who’d become a sort of pal over the course of the week. The doctor allowed that, while hospitals are inherently disorienting places, the meds Mickey’d had the day before were enough to alter anyone’s sense of reality.
A swift jumble of white-coated persons came in and out of the room, almost all of them new faces (it was after all the weekend) and all of them part of the process of signing off on Mick’s release. He had persuaded Andrea to come home with us the first day. At 11:30, we put Mick in a wheelchair with a still-in-its-cellophane flower arrangement on his lap (Andrea and I were laden with other stuff) and wheeled him out into the bitter cold. He looked a little like somebody leaving a wedding reception with the centerpiece. Getting in and out of the car was no small assignment for Mick, but Andrea’s expertise and the joy of going home made it easier.
After unpacking everything and sorting out the meds (only three now), we had takeout soup and sandwiches for lunch. Andrea gave us some invaluable tips about bathing and other maneuvers. With hugs and best wishes and exchanges of contact information we packed her off to Far Rockaway. Mick’s pain ebbed and flowed, according to the clock and the med schedule, through the evening, but we caught up on Top Chef, and he ate a whole ham-and-cheese sandwich for dinner.
Last night was not so great for him. He’d sleep deeply for an hour or so, have disturbing dreams, and wake up drenched with sweat. He went through three t-shirts during the night, and this morning was visibly the worse for wear. On questioning, it also became clear he hadn’t taken all the pain meds he was entitled to (I think after the Friday night episode he wanted to take it light.) After a brief but enlightening tête a fist we got all that sorted out, and by 10:00 am he was in the shower and happy. Midday there was a visit from a representative of the Visiting Nurse Service, instantly dubbed "Nurse Jill" by Mick, a peppy Long Islander with a spray tan, false eyelashes, unfortunate face, and killer bod. She asked a lot of questions in preparation for the nurse and physical therapist who will each visit a couple of times a week, then she checked Mick’s blood pressure (fine), inspected his anterior incision (sutures already out, also fine) and posterior incision (eight inches long, still with monster sutures, and so straight they must have used a T-square, but fine), and ably answered some general maintenance questions.
At three we journeyed out. Mick is supposed to walk for at least 30 minutes a day from Day 1, and while he covers close to that ambling around the apartment, it was a beautiful day, and there was no time like the present. With cane in hand and presidential bearing (the surgeon had said the operation would leave Mick taller, and while there hasn’t yet been an opportunity to measure him we both believe it’s true), he walked from the front door of 320 to First Avenue, then turned and walked all the way to Second Avenue, and back to 320. Two blocks: certainly a longer haul than any he’d ventured at Beth Israel.
So things are good, but our boy is still very much on the mend. He’s got the meds figured out, but there are still short stretches when the pain is blinding, and brief pockets where the meds knock him out. But he is confident each day will be better. Also, there is swelling. After surgery, they pump you full of IV fluids like nobody’s business—he didn’t eat for five days and still came out of the hospital twelve pounds heavier than he went in. His belly is distended and his feet so swollen he could barely get his socks over them today. They say this will subside very soon.
Yesterday afternoon Mickey asked me to print out these posts so he could read them. Against my better judgment, I did. He was amused, but felt I was painting perhaps too noble a picture of him. This may be true. In my defense, I will say that fatigue and concern make me earnest. Also, I was and am genuinely floored by how he’s coping. But in the spirit of his editorial comment, your formerly high-road-taking blogger will offer a couple of out-takes (and possibly more later, as they emerge from the suppressed depths of his better judgment):
Much has been made—here and room 3 Dazian 3—of the general wonderfulness of nurse Andrea. Indeed, as early as Wednesday Mickey said to her “I feel like I’ve known you all my life”—which he followed, after a brief pause, with “And what was your name again?” Over the course of the week he variously addressed her as Adrian, Adri, Andy, and Andrew. And yesterday, after she left: “She was a little bossy, no?”
Mickey was sent home with a “Golden Girls-style” (his term) potty extension, a thing with handles you set atop the regular throne, raising the seat level by about half a foot, so the sitting and rising are less arduous. He says the distance to the water makes it like going to the bathroom on a wishing well.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Home
With Andrea, the Jamaican goddess, and your blogger in tow, Mick arrived home from Beth Israel at about 11:30 Saturday morning. There are still issues of pain and swelling, and fatigue. The road ahead is not short but if his progress the past week is any indicator it may not be as long as we expected. He's still not up for calls or visits, but ought to be before too terribly long. There's a pretty hilarious/outrageous story about something that happened last night, which I will post later.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday
Extended sleep eluded Mick Thursday night. But he was firing on all pistons, and by morning was divested of all IV connections, which put him in a very, very good mood—not to mention the fact that, on an early morning visit, the orthopedic surgeon said Mick was doing so well he could likely go home Saturday. For breakfast our boy endured a bowl of oatmeal , and had coffee for what felt like the first time in years. By noon he was bathed (by the indispensable Andrea), dressed in his own clothes, shaved (save for the moustache), and sitting down to a cup of vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich. His spirits were buoyant, and on a post-lunch walk, using the cane lightly, with no one supporting him, he said he felt as if he were seeing the whole place for the first time. The thrill of being unencumbered was offset by an emerging pattern of pain and spasm—natural consequences of the surgery—but Mick’s patience and forbearance are something to see. It’s as if having withstood worsening pain for so long, facing even greater pain, which he knows is temporary, is no big deal.
Mid-afternoon Erica showed up with Justin, her trainee (“preceptee” in their parlance, don’t ask, we don’t get it either), to take Mick for a final workout. This involved at trek beyond the Hyman Unit to the “rehab gym” a couple of interlocked pavilions away (like so many hospitals, Beth Israel is a winding Frankenstein-patchwork of buildings.) The gym was full, so Mick had his biggest occupational therapy challenge to date in a fire stairwell: after a second of hesitation, he walked up ten stairs, halfway to the floor above, and back down. I was in awe.
Back in his room, he was triumphant but tired, and the pain got fierce. After extensive consultation with Andrea and Elena, the Russian floor nurse, whose pronunciation of valium is a sensual delight, meds were adjusted, and Mick took a deep half-hour power nap. A couple of hospital flacks came to observe and inform him regarding post-hospital nurse visits. Both were nonplussed by his demeanor and progress. By 5:00 the parade of visitors was over and he was ready to settle in for his last night in the hospital.
The idea is that he will be released late morning Saturday (Andrea will be coming home with him for at least the first day), but of course he awaits the orthopedic surgeon’s final word.
This dude is inspiring.
Mid-afternoon Erica showed up with Justin, her trainee (“preceptee” in their parlance, don’t ask, we don’t get it either), to take Mick for a final workout. This involved at trek beyond the Hyman Unit to the “rehab gym” a couple of interlocked pavilions away (like so many hospitals, Beth Israel is a winding Frankenstein-patchwork of buildings.) The gym was full, so Mick had his biggest occupational therapy challenge to date in a fire stairwell: after a second of hesitation, he walked up ten stairs, halfway to the floor above, and back down. I was in awe.
Back in his room, he was triumphant but tired, and the pain got fierce. After extensive consultation with Andrea and Elena, the Russian floor nurse, whose pronunciation of valium is a sensual delight, meds were adjusted, and Mick took a deep half-hour power nap. A couple of hospital flacks came to observe and inform him regarding post-hospital nurse visits. Both were nonplussed by his demeanor and progress. By 5:00 the parade of visitors was over and he was ready to settle in for his last night in the hospital.
The idea is that he will be released late morning Saturday (Andrea will be coming home with him for at least the first day), but of course he awaits the orthopedic surgeon’s final word.
This dude is inspiring.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thursday
Mick took another stroll around the Hyman Patient Care Unit last night (perhaps more like 60 or 70 yards, rather than the previously estimated 100, but still—) and one more before your faithful blogger arrived this morning at 10:00. While he continues to be a model of progress, in terms of activity and mobility, today his more immediate concern was the lingering effect of nearly nine hours under anesthesia on the operating table. This, and the accumulated effect of his IV pain meds, made him pretty uncomfortable, and not very happy. A lot if not all of this will be remedied when they switch him to oral meds, but they can’t do that until everything’s working properly, which should be very soon. Around 4:00, he got into bed and had just gotten begun to doze when the Occupational Therapy crew showed up—not the beloved Kristin, but Erica, a gum-cracking sparkplug who could be in the chorus of Grease, along with an OT trainee and an RN trainee. They said it was time to get moving (he’d just been on yet another jaunt around the facility.) Knowing how he felt, I fully expected him to tell them to fuck off—but no, our Mick was not only game, he was charming. They challenged him to put the slipper-socks on himself. It was not easy, but he did it. They’d brought an adjustable cane for him to try out, and he took to it like a trouper. Then the whole crew of us—Mick, the three OT nerds, and me—went for a walk. I’ve known this man more than half my life, but he never fails to astound me. If you could substitute brocaded duds for the bathrobe and gown, and a scepter for the rolling IV stand, he would have looked like Louis XIV, with retinue, touring Versailles. Satisfied with his progress (but for the IV pole, they were ready to have him walk up stairs), the OT crew left. Minutes later a custom-length wood cane was delivered. Mick was by this time exhausted, got into bed, and was dozing peacefully by 5:00.
Perhaps most significantly, when the orthopedic surgeon came by early in the morning (a lifetime ago in terms of the progress I saw Mick make over the course of the day), he said Sunday might be going-home day. That’s something to look forward to.
Perhaps most significantly, when the orthopedic surgeon came by early in the morning (a lifetime ago in terms of the progress I saw Mick make over the course of the day), he said Sunday might be going-home day. That’s something to look forward to.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Small Steps and Giant Leaps
It snowed overnight in Manhattan. In the wee hours it was picture-postcard lovely, but by the morning rush hour the snow turned to sleet and rendered midtown a slushy mess, every street corner a guessing game of which step will not leave you shin-deep. This, and some other crap, kept me from getting to Beth Israel as early as I had hoped. I mention this only because when I walked into room 3 Dazian 3 at quarter of eleven, I was greeted with a breathtaking sight: Mickey, sitting upright in the chair beside his bed, talking animatedly with Andrea, the daytime private-duty nurse; Gerry, a physician’s assistant so sharp I assumed she must be the head of something; and Kristin, the physical or occupational therapist (I heard her referred to as both). Our boy had managed to sleep for about four uninterrupted hours during the night—a very good thing, except that when he awoke he was acutely reminded that four hours had passed without his using the pain pump (if you have never seen one, they look exactly like what you hit your thumb with when you want to answer a question on Jeopardy.) Meds were adjusted, and a brief crisis averted. Minutes before I got there, Mick had, with these sterling ladies’ help, for the first time risen from his bed, walked to the door of his room (a distance of ten or twelve feet), and back to the chair. Based on his condition the day before, I would have been only marginally more surprised if they told me he had levitated.
Gerry changed the dressings on the incisions, a delicate maneuver that increased Mick’s comfort level considerably. Penny and Susan arrived just after I did. Mick was back in bed, tired from his excursion, but obviously happy and empowered by it. Andrea (a spirited woman with a melodic Caribbean brogue and a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of how handle post-spinal surgery patients) is a cat owner and lover, and she and Susan and Penny and Mick traded animal stories.
Later, the bright-eyed Kristin (whom we’d met and liked on a pre-op visit to the hospital, and who has the charm of your second-grade teacher and the will of George S. Patton) returned and said it was time for another walk. She and Andrea got Mickey out of bed and across the room and took him for a walk out and around the immediate area and back, a total distance of what I would estimate to be close to a hundred yards. He said it was like learning to walk all over again, and I have no doubt that that is true; rising and sitting are the hardest parts now, but getting all those joints and muscles to perambulate in their new configuration is no picnic, either. It will come as no surprise to you that while none of this was anything close to easy, Mick approached it all with methodical calm, determination, and amazing good humor. When he returned to the room, he sat in the chair and had a great phone chat with his father, Tony. Soon after, he was understandably exhausted, and got back in bed. As Andrea and Mira, the staff nurse, did one of their periodic checks of his vitals, he talked about how good he felt about what was going on. Mira referred to him as a “one-of-a-kind patient”—attentive to and cooperative with his caregivers, and reaping the resulting rewards. I know that this, too, will come as no surprise.
At 4:00 Adele returned, and Andrea left, and so did I. Mickey had a very good day, and deserves a very good night.
Gerry changed the dressings on the incisions, a delicate maneuver that increased Mick’s comfort level considerably. Penny and Susan arrived just after I did. Mick was back in bed, tired from his excursion, but obviously happy and empowered by it. Andrea (a spirited woman with a melodic Caribbean brogue and a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of how handle post-spinal surgery patients) is a cat owner and lover, and she and Susan and Penny and Mick traded animal stories.
Later, the bright-eyed Kristin (whom we’d met and liked on a pre-op visit to the hospital, and who has the charm of your second-grade teacher and the will of George S. Patton) returned and said it was time for another walk. She and Andrea got Mickey out of bed and across the room and took him for a walk out and around the immediate area and back, a total distance of what I would estimate to be close to a hundred yards. He said it was like learning to walk all over again, and I have no doubt that that is true; rising and sitting are the hardest parts now, but getting all those joints and muscles to perambulate in their new configuration is no picnic, either. It will come as no surprise to you that while none of this was anything close to easy, Mick approached it all with methodical calm, determination, and amazing good humor. When he returned to the room, he sat in the chair and had a great phone chat with his father, Tony. Soon after, he was understandably exhausted, and got back in bed. As Andrea and Mira, the staff nurse, did one of their periodic checks of his vitals, he talked about how good he felt about what was going on. Mira referred to him as a “one-of-a-kind patient”—attentive to and cooperative with his caregivers, and reaping the resulting rewards. I know that this, too, will come as no surprise.
At 4:00 Adele returned, and Andrea left, and so did I. Mickey had a very good day, and deserves a very good night.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
PS
In that last post I forgot one of the most important things: When Mick was in recovery, long before we saw him, the young doctor standing over him trying to hoist him out of eight-and-a-half hours of anesthesia said “I’ve heard people say a lot of crazy shit when they’re coming to, but I’ve never heard anyone say what you said.” Bleary and brainless, Mick asked him what he'd said. The doctor said "You said Life is so beautiful."
Day Two
At 9:30 Monday evening Mickey was moved from recovery into what they call at Beth Israel step-down care—sort of like ICU, a place to keep watch over people who have had major surgery before they are dispatched to their regular rooms. He was in a room with three beds, and a nurses’ station that adjoined another room. The other two beds were unoccupied. His spirits were generally good, but he was in pain, and a little cranky. By the time his sister, Penny (who had arrived from Philadelphia), Susan, and I got there he had a full hate on for the young male nurse on duty, a strapping guy with a thick Korean accent everyone called Mr. Oh (or perhaps O, I don’t know if it was an initial or his name—sorry.) Mick had been visited by a physical therapist, and was already occasionally rolling from side to side, stretching ever so carefully, because it felt good. This astonished us. At one point while we three visitors chatted apart, Mr. Oh came in and checked all Mickey’s tubes and beepers and clamps and flashing screens, and adjusted his meds. They seemed to make their peace. I think Mr. Oh had simply become a focus for our boy’s discomfort and frustration. But who could blame him? The room was overheated and noisy and open to random intruders. (Mick to the cleaning lady: “Miss! Please stop mopping.”)
A little before 3:00 Mr. Oh disconnected Mick from almost everything but the self-administered pain pump and said he would shortly be moving to his actual room, which pleased everyone. (We’d been told it would happen around this time, but you never know.) By 4:00 Mickey was firmly ensconced in a private room. Adele, the first private-duty nurse, could not have been nicer or more attentive. Ditto staff nurse Natalya, a stout Borat’s-sister type, with matching accent.
A little later a young associate of the orthopedic surgeon came by. She allowed the head of the bed to be raised to a 35 or 40 degree angle (because the removal of the benign growth involved entering the spine and stitching it up, he’d had to remain flat on his back for 24 hours.) She also authorized him to drink water. Tomorrow he begins a clear fluid diet. (Heretofore his diet has been restricted to ice chips, and swabs from those heinous little sponge-on-a-lollipop-stick things.) By now he was beginning to doze for the first time, so I got the hell out of Dodge.
Mickey is doing very well. It will some time before he is ready for calls or visits, but he sends his love and thanks for everyone’s good wishes. As do we all.
A little before 3:00 Mr. Oh disconnected Mick from almost everything but the self-administered pain pump and said he would shortly be moving to his actual room, which pleased everyone. (We’d been told it would happen around this time, but you never know.) By 4:00 Mickey was firmly ensconced in a private room. Adele, the first private-duty nurse, could not have been nicer or more attentive. Ditto staff nurse Natalya, a stout Borat’s-sister type, with matching accent.
A little later a young associate of the orthopedic surgeon came by. She allowed the head of the bed to be raised to a 35 or 40 degree angle (because the removal of the benign growth involved entering the spine and stitching it up, he’d had to remain flat on his back for 24 hours.) She also authorized him to drink water. Tomorrow he begins a clear fluid diet. (Heretofore his diet has been restricted to ice chips, and swabs from those heinous little sponge-on-a-lollipop-stick things.) By now he was beginning to doze for the first time, so I got the hell out of Dodge.
Mickey is doing very well. It will some time before he is ready for calls or visits, but he sends his love and thanks for everyone’s good wishes. As do we all.
Monday, January 26, 2009
A Successful Procedure
At 4:30 our pal the orthopedic surgeon showed up in the waiting room, still in his scrubs and shower cap, and told Mickey’s mom, Susan, and me that Mickey was fine and that the whole procedure had gone as well as it could have gone. In addition to fusing L5 to L4 and L4 to L3, he had also, after seeing everything live and in person, fused L3 to L2 (he’d told Mickey last week that this was a possibility.) The additional fusion would not, he told us, cause an appreciable reduction in Mickey’s mobility or flexibility. In fact, once he’s healed, his movement will be less restricted than it currently is by pain and muscle spasms. The only downside of this I see is that he may have to cross “joining Cirque du Soleil” off his to-do list.
Beth Israel’s post-op visiting policy is to allow two loved ones per patient to visit in recovery for about ten minutes, every two hours on the half-hour—12:30, 2:30, etc. We’d missed the 4:30 viewing (and anyway, as the orthopedic surgeon blithely mentioned when he first came down, “they’re still sewing up the skin,” which frankly kind of grossed me out), so after such a long day it was a very long two hours for Suze and me to wait until 6:25 when we could go upstairs. But go we did, and there our boy was, tubed and clamped about everywhere you could put a tube or a clamp, but happy to see us, and happy that the procedure was a success and, more importantly, over. He already had the self-administered, no-more-than-every-six-minutes pain pump, which he used with gusto. All things considered, he looked great. The wit was intact. When I told him they’d done the additional fusion, he asked “Is it included?” And as the older man in the next bed, only about three feet way but mercifully separated by a curtain, moaned loudly in a haunted-house kind of way, Mick muttered “Dude, if you can’t take the pain, don’t have the surgery.” This, of course, was followed by a few choice Ows! on Mick’s part, and a couple of pumps in vain of the pain button.
They’ll keep him in recovery for a while, possibly until tomorrow, and the next destination will likely be step-down care, before he lands in an actual room. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to feel as good tomorrow, or even the next day, as he felt this evening. But it is done, and it went well, and now he just has to work on resting and healing.
Beth Israel’s post-op visiting policy is to allow two loved ones per patient to visit in recovery for about ten minutes, every two hours on the half-hour—12:30, 2:30, etc. We’d missed the 4:30 viewing (and anyway, as the orthopedic surgeon blithely mentioned when he first came down, “they’re still sewing up the skin,” which frankly kind of grossed me out), so after such a long day it was a very long two hours for Suze and me to wait until 6:25 when we could go upstairs. But go we did, and there our boy was, tubed and clamped about everywhere you could put a tube or a clamp, but happy to see us, and happy that the procedure was a success and, more importantly, over. He already had the self-administered, no-more-than-every-six-minutes pain pump, which he used with gusto. All things considered, he looked great. The wit was intact. When I told him they’d done the additional fusion, he asked “Is it included?” And as the older man in the next bed, only about three feet way but mercifully separated by a curtain, moaned loudly in a haunted-house kind of way, Mick muttered “Dude, if you can’t take the pain, don’t have the surgery.” This, of course, was followed by a few choice Ows! on Mick’s part, and a couple of pumps in vain of the pain button.
They’ll keep him in recovery for a while, possibly until tomorrow, and the next destination will likely be step-down care, before he lands in an actual room. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to feel as good tomorrow, or even the next day, as he felt this evening. But it is done, and it went well, and now he just has to work on resting and healing.
Monday mid-day
After a day marked by remarkable calm and strength, and an evening marked by a couple of bursts of quite understandable jitters, and thanks to the miracle of modern pharmaceuticals, everyone in apartment 10C managed to sleep last night. We were at Beth Israel Admitting (which is also the Surgical Waiting room--more about that in a later post, from home rather than a creepy 14th Street internet cafe) at 5:45. Mickey filled out several hundred pages of forms and at 7:00, when he was tagged and gowned, I bade him farewell. At 11:45 the orthopedic surgeon, who is the team leader and a great guy, called me on my cell from the OR to say that phase one had gone very well, and that they were about to start on phase two, from the back.
I figure phase two will take just as long, so he won't be in recovery until the cocktail hour (at least that's how Mickey would parse the day.) His Mom's coming down this afternoon and I imagine if we're able to see him at all, it will be briefly, and in the evening.
More soon.
I figure phase two will take just as long, so he won't be in recovery until the cocktail hour (at least that's how Mickey would parse the day.) His Mom's coming down this afternoon and I imagine if we're able to see him at all, it will be briefly, and in the evening.
More soon.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday
Early on the morning of Monday, January 26, our guy Mickey will enter Beth Israel Medical Center for spinal fusion surgery, to end pain that has worsened exponentially in recent months, and which he has borne all along with characteristic cheerfulness and grace. It’s no walk in the park—in a single procedure a team of three surgeons will open him from the front and insert the steel rods that will correct the spinal degeneration and allow the fusion to occur, then close him and reopen him from the back, where the neurosurgeon will remove a benign growth around his spinal nerves that is not causing a problem now, but which will be inaccessible once the fusion takes place. The orthopedic surgeon will remove some herniated and burst discs, remove some bone spurs, deconstruct and reconstruct three vertebrae, and then bone graft them all together (that’s the fusion part). Hours of fun!
Originally it was scheduled as two surgeries, separated by a three-day hospital rest. After conferring, the surgeons decided that, since Mickey is young and healthy, it would in fact be easier on him to do everything all at once. However it’s possible that once the surgery is underway, the doctors may decide to revert to the original two-surgery plan. (Cross your fingers they stay with the one-day option.) The procedure will take a long time, and we assume he won’t be in recovery until late in the day; after that he will be in step-down care, and we’re guessing perhaps not in his regular room until Wednesday.
Mickey has asked me to tell you he has bought lots of fashionable loungewear for his hospital stay. He has also announced plans to grow back his moustache.
I’ll try to post an update here at least once a day, probably in the evening.
Originally it was scheduled as two surgeries, separated by a three-day hospital rest. After conferring, the surgeons decided that, since Mickey is young and healthy, it would in fact be easier on him to do everything all at once. However it’s possible that once the surgery is underway, the doctors may decide to revert to the original two-surgery plan. (Cross your fingers they stay with the one-day option.) The procedure will take a long time, and we assume he won’t be in recovery until late in the day; after that he will be in step-down care, and we’re guessing perhaps not in his regular room until Wednesday.
Mickey has asked me to tell you he has bought lots of fashionable loungewear for his hospital stay. He has also announced plans to grow back his moustache.
I’ll try to post an update here at least once a day, probably in the evening.
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