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.
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