Medusa Hair and an Eggplant Thigh

(*a little note to start: this is taking me a few days to write. Make that, several days. Seems that sitting at my desk for extended periods of time is not an option for the time being. In fact, I barely get a sentence done at each sitting. Between the discomfort from my banged up leg, and the morphine, and the banged up leg, and the morphine, and the....wait a minute....this sounds familiar.....  Okay. I think you get the point. I am also finding words are disappearing on me. Yes, I usually have more words than this. Scary, huh... So, forgive the extended nature of this post. I hope it sounds cohesive and coherent. Barring that...may at least be entertaining....)


I have discovered one of the most unique and unexpected positives about getting older and gaining perspective: the joy of being wrong. Now I am not talking about doing the wrong thing, because that's never good, and I'm not talking about saying the wrong thing, because that's just mean, and certainly am not talking about wearing the wrong thing or accessorizing wrong, because, well...it just makes me shudder to think about it.... I am talking about having a point of view or an outlook on a particular subject, and possibly even arguing enthusiastically your point - only to find a ways down the road that you were W-R-0-N-G!! And it turns out to be the best, happiest wrong you could be.

Case in Point: when Don's Real Estate biz was swirling around the commode for the umpteenth time, he wanted to work for one of the Time Share sales places around here. Nuh-uh. Tell me, don't you get just a wee bit heebie-jeebied at the mere mention!??? Well, I got a LOT heebie-jeebied. Don and I had been to at least three, and had not once left NOT livid. I don't like schmoozey pushy creepy smarmy high-pressure condescending superior salespeople. Of any product. And I am a former Tupperware Lady!!! Anyway, my hubby is none of those things on his worst day, and I still just believed in him and his business so much. Don believed in eating and paying rent and having health benefits. After a few reeeeeally enthusiastic....discussions, shall we say, I finally quieted down long enough for God to speak to me, I backed off - and Don got this job which is not a thing like the days of olde. He loves the program, (most) of the people, and the benefits. The benefits which got me into the doctor.

Soooooo happy to be soooooo wrong!!

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I knew I was going to have my left femur "stah-bih-lised" by one of the O-cubed (Ortho Oncos on O'ahu). I am fascinated by medical stuff, and I also wanted to prepare myself for what might lie ahead. So, of course, I hit the internet, knowing that this is where any of us can go to diagnose and choose proper treatment for ANYTHING. Figuring I knew what to search for, I plugged in "femur replacement" - because, after all, everything that can be found on the internet is totally factual and is just as good as a decade or so of medical school and who needs doctors when you have webmd!?!? Actually, Since I went to college to study religion and psychology, this qualifies me to got to actual Journal articles - which I did.

HOLY MEAT SLAB, BATMAN!!! Greg was still visiting, and since he was pre-med for his first semester at San Diego State, he was maybe even over-quailified to look at this stuff. The "eeeaaauuuw!!" that emerged from his lips didn't sound quite professional, however. What we saw was  what was purportedly a human leg, laid open from mid-calf to mid-hip. Neither Greg nor I are the squeamish types, but the prospect of that being done to my leg....ehh...yech.  But fascination took over and we got a little lost in looking at the amazing apparatus that would be attached to my leg.

After a bit, I looked at the after care stuff, which was my original intent for looking all this gory stuff up. After reading this, I want to go back to the meat slab. Five days in the hospital in traction - which, to me, meant one thing: BED PAN!! Then four-to-six weeks on crutches - meaning, no ocean for at least another month. This had me happy not a bit -which is what led to my yelling-at-God-in-the-open-jeep meltdown detailed in the previous post. But, I finally resigned myself to whatever would have to be - and we packed up for a week on O'ahu.

We scored big on the flight over to O'ahu from here - Don finding uber cheap tickets that were from our little local airport (5 minutes away) instead of the main one in Kahalui (50 minutes away). I still managed to make us nearly late. I am NOT used to moving this slow! Taking a nice sized puddle jumper to Honolulu was great - but it would get interesting later.  But more on that....later.

We also opted to rent a little car, trying to avoid the hilarious/calamitous/near disasterous adventures of cab rides. Besides, Don would need a ride back and forth between hospital and hotel. Never, in all our visits to Honolulu, have we failed to get lost. This was no exception, even though we got their little nav system. For one thing, she spoke tooooo sloooowly.... or she was reading her map and not sure where we were going either. At any rate, Don, the tiny lady in the Nav, and I had quite a tour of the area surrounding our doctor and the hospital in which all the stuff that was gonna happen was gonna happen. We finally made it though - after discovering that the street didn't quite go through. But we made it.

To say that this collection of doctors is impressive is an understatement. The group is an entire floor of orthopedic surgeons, and their credentials and specialties are equally so. After checking into the main registration desk, we were then sent to another suite of rooms to meet my young surgeon. And i do mean young. The youngest yet. He graduated high school only THREE YEARS BEFORE OUR OLDEST BOY!! But considering the group he was  part of, we didn't question.

Okay. So now we have as part of my medical entourage: Dr. Darren (Asian Doogie Howser) Egami, the ortho who has championed this from the beginning;  the main oncologist, Dr. Ramin (Dr. Labradoodle) Altaha; the radiation onco, Dr. Diane (Tswing Tskirt) Tsai, and now, my onco ortho, Dr. Gary Blum...num-num-yum-yum. Too stinkin' good looking. But, as with the others, super qualified and educated and smart enough to PRACTICE IN HAWAII!!

Let's cut to the chase (or chase to the cut...AHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I am too funny for my own good....ahhhhhh tears of mirth I must wipe away....). Our visit to Dr. Blum (num-num) was thorough and made me oh-so-happy - not because he was good-looking, but because he let me know quickly how WRONG I was, and oh, how happy I was to be so wrong AGAIN!!

I asked about the mile-long incision. He said, no, three small ones! I said, out of the water for six weeks? He said, no, two weeks. I LOVE THIS GUY!! Don thought that this meant it wouldn't be quite so painful, to which Dr. B (n-n) said, uh, no, it will definitely feel like someone hammered a rod down the middle of her femur. Shoulda quit while we were ahead...

Now I have to write faster. Just took all my sleepytime and painkilling drugs which means I could be nodding off in the middle of this. Like some of you all are. Don't lie.

We showed up for surgery (after having been a little lost...again) at the snazziest looking hospital ever! Queen's Medical Center lies above Waikiki, and looks more like a museum or old hotel - with historic displays and plaques, and hardwood floors so shiny that it is almost indecent for skirt-wearing ladies. Having checked-in, we then went to a holding area where we, along with other surgical patients...held. Technically, they were considering this a day surgery. Crazy, huh? We went from days in the hospital in traction to being bounced in a day, in less than 48 hours! But hold we did, and found ourselves blessed by a couple of prayer phone calls from a couple of our favorite prayer warriors. Awesome....truly blessed and overwhelmed....just awesome.

I met my new best friend in that time - the anesthesiologist - who SEEEERIOUSLY looked like he was a high school freshman dressed up in his dad's scrubs for Halloween. But he became my best friend after giving me a mix of anesthesia that did NOT have my insides looking for the quickest post-surgical exit. But I'm ahead of myself...

When it was my turn, Dr. B(n-n) came down to drive the gurney himself! I have had more experience with surgery than I ever intended, and this was a first. I found out later that this guy is so insistent about being hands-on in every aspect that he has no interns or residences that work for him. He is the original DIY Doc. My surgical staff was made up entirely of men - and, yes, most of them Hawaiian Hunky Men. Either that, or my new BFF had started the drugs earlier than I knew....at any rate, kinda okay with it!

I actually woke up fairly bright-eyed in recovery - hence the permanent BFF status (isn't that redundant?) of my Junior Anesthesiologist....who is probably waaaay older than I think, and certainly waaaaay smarter than most of us ever hope to be. I was fresh as a daisy so fast that I actually beat my hubby to the room. I had a private room, which was nicer than most motel rooms. There was a large comfy chair there for Don, which we later discovered opened up into a quasi-bed-cot-sleeping contraption. But I was comfy, and isn't that what truly matters?

To say that my care was special is quite an understatement. I had the most attentive nursing staff, which for me, meant that they would need to be around for the first walking adventure...to the potty...because I refused to use the dreaded bedpan. I mean, really. I was not about to sit and, you know, on something that looked like a large metal model of what can best be described as a giant Lego Man Hat. SO, walk it was. And walk I did. Well, I guess shuffle would be more like it, and I did have to plan well ahead of when I thought I might actually need to go potty. But we made it through the night, and into the morning for rounds...round...with Dr. B(n-n). AT 6:30 a.m., this guy was still as chipper as he had been every other time we chatter. I think this guy really does love his work!! He expressed how pleased he was, then proceeded to draw a very ACCURATE picture of my bones and what he did. Maybe this is why Dr. Labradoodle never became an orthopedic surgeon - he could never pass the art class. But this guy here was so confident, he sprung me that afternoon - much to the shock of our Calvary Chapel Westside Helping Hands Ministry Leader - or, her short name, The Angel, Denise Smith. This poor girl had met with me and set up meals to begin the next Thursday, not on Saturday or Sunday. oops.

(Oh, Lord love a little fuzzy duck. I am now about to start typing with my nose I'm so sleepy. And I haven't much of a nose with which to type. My plan was to stay up as late as possible, because as I write about one surgery that happened 4 weeks ago Friday, I am preparing for the next one tomorrow afternoon. But no sneak peeks. Guess I'll have to finish this in the morning....)

(**okay...this has been interrupted by that other surgery and the other blog - which means that you will have to figure out the the confused timeline I am presenting to you....WELCOME TO MY WORLD!!!)

Our return to Maui, was to say the least, a bit of a blur for me. I was fairly jacked up on pain killers, and what pain got through was enough to keep me occupied. The one teeny-tiny drawback was the whole wheelchair situation. This being our little Kapalua airport, there was no jetway (duh!) and not even a ramp to accommodate a regular wheelchair. What they do have is one of those cargo lifts (go ahead....make the obvious jokes...), but again, too skinny for a regular wheelchair. Instead, it is a little, armless chair on wheels, with a high back and enough straps on it for a M*A*S*H helicopter-side gurney. By this time, I was sweating profusely from the weather, exertion, and just downright nasty pain. And I then had to grab the necks of a couple of fortunate airport workers as they lifted me into the contraption that would eventually get me on the ground. The began the strapping. By the time they were done with me and bringing me out, all the was missing was the wire muzzle to keep me from looking like a female, sweaty Hannibal Lector. And Gregory was enjoying every bit of it.

Once the cargo lift got me and my strapped-in self down, it was then time to transfer to the regular wheelchair. Having spent a few more minutes sweating and getting slimier, it was now time for me to wrap my arms around a very strong-looking, Hawaiian gal...God bless her. As we were there, my nose to her cheek, as someone else maneuvered the skinny chair out and the regular one in and under, asking her to dance seemed the only polite thing to do. But then I pointed out that she would have to lead.

After what seemed like forever - for all involved - I was wheeled into the little waiting area where Greg was waiting. But not our ride home with friends Johnny and Dixie. Seems someone for got to call and tell them I was on the way home.... Johnny and Dixie live only ten minutes or so from the Kap airport, but egad, that felt like a long ten or fifteen. But their cheerful, loving faces showed up, and somehow, I got into the car. I seriously do not remember that part, but I am sure it was as entertaining as all other efforts to move me from Point A to Point B.

My re-entry into home was met with a bit of fanfare and anxiety from my normal not -anxious pup, FloJo. This doggy gets happy, but not whiny when her family comes home from being gone a couple of days. This time was different, and she knew it. Not only was there whining, but full on frantic-trying-to-get-out-of-the-yard craziness. Obviously, she had to wait, but it was one of those things where you see that dogs are much smarter than humans when it comes to sensing bad stuff.  Not that we humans raise the bar that high, but you get my drift.

I also had the special treat of my very own borrowed walker!! Johnny and Dixie had borrowed it from their 90+-year-old upstairs neighbor. I don't know if the lady just was immobile, or what, but a couple of days later, I got my very own used one - replete with fuzzy tennis balls - that J&D got free from Salvation Army. Wait 'til I show the other girls!!! But it got me around (and does again now), it came with love and a smile, and for freeeeeeee!!

The rest of the night was navigated through fog - with one notable exception: as if Johnny and Dixie had not done enough for us, they also made us a delicious dinner - Dixie's delicious spaghetti and meatballs. I wasn't very hungry, to say the least, but this just sounded too good.  My issues were also that I was pretty much done with sitting up for the night, and I was still orbiting somewhere near the Space Station. My beloved hubby got my as comfy as possible in bed (and OH, did that bed feel good!!!), then gave me a little bowl. Since I couldn't sit up, that meant lying on my back, and placing said little bowl balanced on my sternum. Don offered to feed me, but I told him to just enjoy the chow with his boy while watching college football. I also knew that it was not going to be pretty. Don laid a napkin on me between chin and bowl, asked again about sitting me up, to which I responded "ummnmnm-umnah"...to the best of my recollection.

Me and my yummy spaghetti and meatballs were free to relate in privacy. With every ounce of my already limited coordination, I speared a meatball, managed to cut said meatball in two, and then like a little crane, pulled the fork-impaled meatball the six or so inches to my waiting mouth, which was open and facing upward, chewed, and consumed the deliciousness. Then I took a break. Over the next twenty minutes or so, I continued this process - including twirling the noodles! I am a particularly good spaghetti noodle twirler, I must admit. Bowl finished, I set it back on the nightstand and drifted off into my drug-hazed happy place.

A while later- somewhere between ten minutes and two hours - I woke up to see that the little food elf had made a visit, and there was my little bowl on the nightstand with more of Dixie's yummy spaghetti and meatballs. My napkin/bib/safety shield was still in place from my first serving, so I just placed the little bowl back on my sternum and began to enjoy my seconds. Now, what transpired next is even more of a blur than other....transpirations (I get in my own way with words sometimes, but...just go with it...), but during the whole moving food from bowl to mouth, I either got cocky, lost concentration, or just simply nodded off, because I found myself the recipient of a pasta and marinara facial. The blob was sorta in line with my mouth, but nowhere near its designated target. This marked the end of the meal. Since there was no point in even attempting to call to my beloved caretaker, I simply removed the  glob. Did I eat said glob? Honestly....couldn't tell ya. But Don said nothing about there being anything left in the bowl or napkin....

I, for better or worse, am the veteran of more than a couple of surgical procedures. Not enough to earn myself a spot on a reality freak show, but enough to require extra space when medical forms ask about previous surgery. I should know to not ever judge how great a surgical site looks just a day or two after the damage was done. While I was definitely bandaged from hip to just above the knew, much of the skin was visible, and it was relatively clear and un-swollen.

My sister, Vicki, and I had a conversation during her visit here, about vegetables - particularly, eggplant. While she believes that eggplant is a most delicious veggie, and has a garden full of them back in her Minnesota home. I think eggplant could be the most vile thing I have ever laid my little palate on. Can't find an edible way to prepare it. BUT!! I think it could also be the most beautiful vegetable in appearance (there is a metaphor in that, but I'll save it for another time...). I think the color "eggplant", when used in design, is rich and saturated. But it should never, ever be seen as the color of a leg. After a few days, the bandages started easing off, revealing such an eggplant hue...and my swollen thigh had grown pretty much to an eggplant shape - and not the long, skinny type, either. ahhhh...beautimous......

To add to my overall post-surgical loveliness was the no shower for a week edict. look back up, what may seem volumes ago but is actually only a few paragraphs, to the rather sweat-covered return home. mmm-hmm. Over the years, my hair has gotten much curlier - especially around humidity. It can, at times, look kinda cute. This was not one of those times. So, add together no shower plus mucho sweat plus high humidity, and that equals not so much cute, but downright mythological creature horrifying. Now, while no one actually turned to stone upon visiting me, what rested atop my head was certainly Medusa-like in quality. By Tuesday, it had reached such a level of...of...really, words fail - that we had to attempt washing it kind of adjacent to the tub.

Since standing was not an option, and even sitting long was still not so good, we had to figure out how to manage getting at least seven layers of glech (THAT is the word I was looking for!!), without soaking down the entire bathroom. Our "master" bath is essentially a long skinny room with two sinks on one side, a shower/tub combo at the end, and a toilet jammed in between the two. Somehow, we had to get a chair over to the tub, between the potty and wall, with enough room for Don to stand there with the handheld and wash his invalid wife's head. The only chairs we have are our dining room chairs and a big fake leather desk chair. We opted for one of the dining room chairs - especially considering that the desk chair is on wheels. Might have made it easy to get me to the tub, but hard to keep me there. You know all those romantic book/tv/movie scenes that have these tender scenes of a man washing his wife's hair!?!?  It's so loving....so sweet...such a picture of devotion.... Yeah, well it was none of that. Between him trying to drown me (he swears he wasn't, but I don't know...), me either yelling in pain or at him - because he was trying to drown me - it was less than, shall we say, pitter-pattery-hearts inspiring. But we both made it out alive.

And now, we are almost five weeks after surgery - the titanium leg one, that is. We went back to O'ahu on the 19th for the post-op, and Dr. Blum-num-num was just as nummy and yummy as he was before. He was also even more excited, as he got to show us the x-rays of his work. Impressive, to be sure! The rod really does extend the length of the femur, and there is one long bolt holding it into my hip, and a shorter one just above the knee. Cool stuff. As far as the arm and any further follow up - that will happen in three or four months. Dr. B-n-n is sure that the arm should be okay since it isn't a load bearing bone. But I think he is looking forward to more HGTV-meets-The Health Channel medicine as he gets to pour in some kind of cement or plaster or grout filler. He calls it bio-carpentry. Don't know if that is an actual term, or if he really is as funny as he is cute and smart and gifted and cute.

I am so impressed with this guy's absolute enthusiasm for what he does - but I do remind him that his hands were chosen and gifted by God's hands. He did not disagree. In fact, every doctor hears the same from me. None disagree. Oh, for sure, some might be muttering under their breath as they leave the room because they don't want to argue with the lady with cancer, but I don't think so. We have yet to encounter arrogance, cockiness, or anything short of compassion and sweet spirits mixed with crazy smarts and credentials and education. I expect nothing less as God continues to guide us through this journey.

So, I promised you a long post. I kept my promise. There will be another one in the next couple days about this last bit of action on my legs. I intend to keep that promise, as well. Aren't you glad!?!?

Thanks for listening. You are appreciated. You are prayed for.