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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)