Rehab

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Rehab

Name: Elaine Baly
Email : ebaly@aol.com
Date: 07 Nov 1999
Time: 04:37:28
Remote Name: quincy-ip-9-65.dynamic.ziplink.net
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Obviously I am alive and out of the hospital at last. I have been lax in writing because I have been adjusting to being at home, slogging through over 3 months worth of back mail (most of it junk), bills, phone messages, etc., but I am going to try to be as thorough as I can about what I have been doing for these past months.

I was very enthusiastic and optimistic back in May when I had surgery and some hardware implanted to strengthen my spine on May 19th. Apparently the centers of 3 of my lower discs were filling up with calcium deposits which caused a squeezing of my spinal cord to the point where the pain got so bad that I would have sold my soul to the devil or used an Uzi (so that I wouldn't miss) to put myself out of my misery. You can imagine my surprise when I woke up from the surgery surrounded by a group dressed in scrubs and could feel or move nothing from the waist down. Apparently during the surgery when they had to move the spinal cord out of the way, one nerve which controls the movement and control over my feet and another that controlled my control over my bladder didn't take too kindly to being handled and shut down, but they are taking longer than the others to wake up and get back to work.

Meanwhile, my orthopedic surgeon had to tell my health care provider in no uncertain terms that I was HIS patient not theirs and that whatever treatment and how long it should be would be decided my HIM and not them (score one for the home team)! I got a first–hand lesson in HMO101 – another adjustment to life in the good ole' US of A. While that battle was being waged all of the nerves south of my waistline were waking up and getting back to work except for those that prevented me from being able to control my bladder and feel my feet and thus made my ability to walk null and void. Not to mention the embarrassment of always wetting myself.

Although I didn't see much of my daughter, (her job, the boys and the fact that a trip into Boston took about 45 minutes by car, kept her busy), I did have a friend who visited regularly, massaged my feet and always made sure to get me out of my room and out to the hospital's gardens for fresh air and a soothing atmosphere, and another who didn't get to visit as often, but kept me supplied with Poland Springs water (HOORAY!) and sent or brought me goodies or things I needed. I was also regularly visited by my surgeon, the chief hospital shrink and a host of religious counselors who were all amazed by my high spirits and cheerful outlook thus I became the favorite of the staff on my ward. I was convinced that I would be walking again any day.

Although physical therapy was administered on a daily basis, I fell down a lot in my room because either I would wake up needing to go to the bathroom forgetting my condition or else my smart–ass self decided that I could do this or that on my own. I was severely scolded by the nurses and therapists and I have quite an array of quite colorful bumps, scrapes and bruises in various stages of healing because even now I have not succumbed to the fact that I must not attempt to do certain things on my own and must deal with the reality that I cannot walk and of getting around in my wheelchair when I am alone, which is most of the time :–( My surgery healed beautifully and the original pain I suffered for years is gone! :–) Unfortunately that pain was replaced by peculiarly painful spasms and pins & needles sensations in my legs and feet.

Every once in a while my heart plays tricks by giving me palpitations, severe chest pains and extremely high blood pressure. After doing all they could, including nitroglycerine tabs under the tongue, and being afraid that I would stroke out on them, they sent me to the Intensive Care Unit. My cardiologist prescribed medication, and even went so far as to explore my heart, veins and arteries with a tiny camera only to find nothing seriously wrong. By that time my blood pressure had returned to normal, the palpitations and chest pains had ceased and the small incision from the surgery done by the cardiologist was itching – a good sign that it was healing well. Whatever it was seemed to be over.

Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital in Boston has a reputation of being a place where patients get excellent, rigorous, specialized physical therapy tailored to their individual needs. On that basis my surgeon decided that I should be transferred there in an attempt to speed my recovery, so I enthusiastically went from New England Baptist Hospital's ICU to the Cardiac ward at Spaulding. I knew I would miss NEBH's Jordan Rehab wing where I'd had a cheerful, airy private room and was spoiled by the attention of my surgeons and the rest of the staff, but I was anxious to be rehabilitated and walk again. Besides, I have enough pairs of shoes to compete with Imelda Marcos and I was anxious to be able to wear them again. After an uneventful week it was decided that my heart was OK so it was a matter of determining whether I went to the Neurology or Physical Therapy ward. They opted for the Neurology ward. That's when the nightmare began.

The place was a zoo. It had not been built for the use that was currently being made of the building, so everywhere was cramped or a tight fit and privacy wasn't even in their dictionary. My roommate had suffered some sort of fall which caused some memory loss and disorientation, so every few minutes she would ask me where she was, what day it was, what was the building that faced our window. This went on the whole time I was on this ward so that I was beginning to feel as if I were trapped in the movie 'Groundhog Day'.

The chief neurologist administered a test (the name of which is permanently blocked from my mind by the agony it caused) to determine the state of the nerves and muscles in my legs and feet. The test entailed zapping me with severe electric shocks and sticking long, sharp needles into my muscles. In some places I felt absolutely nothing but in other places I felt as if they were using torture to get information from me which I would have gladly given up if I knew what they wanted to hear. When I got back to my bed 45 minutes later I curled into a fetal ball and went to sleep. About 20 minutes later they woke me to send me to the Brace Lab where the M.D. in charge would examine me. That was a breeze by comparison, simply a shuffle along the parallel bars and then I was asked to make some movements with my feet which I couldn't do. Afterwards the two doctors had a tug–of–war again concerning whether I would go to the neurology ward or the physical therapy ward. I ended up on the PT ward. At the first chance I got myself to a phone I called my surgeon at NEBH and asked him to GET ME OUT OF HERE, and make arrangements to get me back to Jordan Rehab. I must say, he put up a good fight.

Spaulding's Management had changed their game plan and implemented deep cuts in their policies and personnel so subsequently the only wards for specialized treatment that were left were for Cardiac, Neurological (Mental) Disorders and Alcohol & Drug Addiction. Everyone else went to the PT ward. So the fact that they were famous for their excellent and effective specialized care was still being propagated even though they no longer lived up to or operated according to their reputation. I felt as if I had been had.

I was the only one on the ward recuperating from spinal surgery and for some reason the staff was under the impression that I had had an accident or a fall that had affected my back. I was also the youngest patient on that ward. The rest of the patients were mostly elderly stroke victims or were suffering/recovering from some sort of ailment that required that various bags and tubes be attached to them.

My roommate was an 85–year–old woman with Parkinson's Disease and Leukemia who had had a stroke and was unable to speak. Fran drooled a lot but the napkins she needed to wipe her mouth were never within her reach. She was being fed intravenously, but needed to have her mouth sponged regularly with cool water and her Depends changed when needed. She had difficulty ringing for the nurses and even when she was able to they very often either did not come or if they did they would simply put out her call light and go away. I was appalled at the way she was being 'nursed', so I ended up doing as much for her as I could. I also could understand what she would be trying to say so I became her interpreter for the nurses. I complained about the way she was being treated both to my doctor and my case manager. My doctor's response was that I had to concern myself with myself and not other patients, and to concentrate on my own recovery. Fran's treatment never changed and they ended up putting me in another room by the window where I could see the Charles River.

One day when they were wheeling me to my afternoon PT session I saw a man get off of the elevator whose eyes reminded me of those of the addict that raped and robbed me at gunpoint so many years ago. I had a panic attack and the flashbacks to that incident started again. I couldn't sleep at night, when I did I had terrible nightmares, I was reliving that awful incident and I did not feel safe. The ward on the South side of the floor that I was on was for addicts and alcoholics. I told them I wanted to get out of there. They offered to put me on another floor, but I knew that would not solve the problem. I was frustrated also by the lackadaisical pace of my therapy because with the exception of replacing the stiff braces that I had arrived with with stiff custom fitted ones, the PT I got at NEBH's Jordan Rehab Wing was better and more vigorous. By that time I was resentful and furious as well as frustrated and I let them know. Two weeks later they sent me home with a wheelchair, a walker and a footed cane among other things. The Back–to–School sales were being advertised.

I must say that I have made more progress with the PT who comes to the house 3 times a week since I have been home than the whole time I was at Spaulding, but other than for those 45 min sessions I am home alone all day until around 7pm, fending for myself as best I can, emptying and cleaning my commode. I am starting to wonder if it is worth all of this exhaustion, agony, loneliness and frustration and what am I going through this for? My driving road test is scheduled for next week and if I don't pass........

ivan

Name: ivan
Email : beta@gagmail.com
Date: 05 Apr 2008
Time: 17:17:25
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Unknown

Name: mimaxa_mb
Email : mimaxa_td@glittergrrrls.com
Date: 06 Apr 2008
Time: 01:37:02
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Date: 08 Apr 2008
Time: 05:02:47
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Email : mimaxa_bx@glittergrrrls.com
Date: 09 Apr 2008
Time: 01:59:34
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ivan

Name: ivan
Email : sigma@gagmail.com
Date: 09 Apr 2008
Time: 18:54:51
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oleg

Name: oleg
Email : pinta@gagmail.com
Date: 02 Apr 2008
Time: 17:53:15
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Rehab

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ivan

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Last changed: April 09, 2008

oleg

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