Repair and Maintenance: Part 2

Part 2:

I had enough sulking. I wasn't going to die from cancer. I had surgery scheduled, and it was going to be weeks before life was “normal” again. It was time to see what cards I had to play, and to play them.

I wasn't going to accept being trapped. If crutches were my new form of mobility, I was going to become mobile. I started cautiously. I had no idea if this was feasible, or just insane. The terrain in Frostburg is far from flat, and I wanted miles. I didn't even know if I could crutch up the huge 400 vertical ft hill in my neighborhood. The first day I went to the bottom of my street and back: ½ mile. The next day I did 1.5 miles. Then 2 miles. I could do this.

I was going to take calculated risks. It was too long to live in a bubble, but I didn't want to be pigheaded either. Being reckless had a high cost, after all, I'm fond of my hip bone and there wasn't much left of it in that spot!

I was going to take everyday risks. Going into my basement to do jewelry (which I actually didn't make any jewelry, but I made sure I -could-). Weeding the garden, I managed to use an oscillating hoe and hop on one foot to weed the entire garden every few days. One day early on I was actually so frustrated I cut my entire 1 acre yard with a one handed scythe while hopping on one foot. My life was not going to go “on hold”, I would adapt, but not stop.

I love problem solving, and this was one big goddamned problem.

I prioritized “low risk” activities over high risk ones. I relearned website design. I learned about dorky computer things. I don't really “love” those activities, but I could tolerate them. I passed the time, not by wasting it, but by optimizing it for the tools I could use.

The time did pass. Fast actually, although I still wish it went faster. As it got closer what surgery actually was started to dawn on me. “Fix it, just fucking fix it” were my thoughts for so long that I didn't immediately comprehend what that fix was. I'm a pretty healthy fella, and I've certainly never been cut open and had another person rearrange my internal parts. I wasn't really comfortable with this. I've always been slightly scared of needles, they are far from my most favorite of objects in this universe. It dawned on me that a needle was actually not the most terrifying object I was going to face; a scalpel was much scarier, and until now, I never had to fathom one being anywhere near me. I was not okay with this, but if I wanted to walk again, I was going to get over it.

It didn't hurt. So many times I would forget. I would forget that there was something wrong. Drift off to think about the bike ride I could be on, or where I felt like walking Oy, then I'd open my eyes and see my crutches and think “fuck”, while hoping this was some sort of trick, a mistake—any minute I would get a phone call saying, “oh, that wasn't an x-ray of your leg, you're fine”. I would blink and the crutches would be gone and I would look at Oy and go, “lets walk”. It didn't hurt, I couldn't see it. I kept hoping it would just go away, disappear into the abyss where it came from.

I waited, and waited. July 3 was coming, but so goddamned slowly. Finally a week before, the pre op.

A 6 inch cut. A fucking 6 inch cut through my flesh and muscle to scoop out the “stuff”, then a bone graft/metal plate, that's what they were going to do.

Even after the surgery, within 2 years there was up to a 20% recurrence rate, which I was not excited about. A recurrence meant another surgery. Up to 3 surgeries could be needed.

Cancer was still not 100% off the table. 95% chance that this was benign, but the pathology report pretty much said the exact composition was strange given my age—it was typical (and even normal) for what would be found in someone 15-25, not a 31 year old. They could either do months of biopsy samples, or go in, take it out and test it on the spot. If it was fine, they would continue with the surgery. If it was cancer they would close me up, and come up with plan “b” which would require me losing part of or all of my hip in another surgery. I wouldn't know until I woke up. The thought of waking up from the surgery to have the Dr. tell me that news was almost unbearable. I was holding on so far, a little pushed and worn, but holding on—if I woke up to that news i'd lose it, I knew it, and that in itself terrified me. To see the horizon of how much shit I could handle scared me. The idea of going through with this surgery only to have to do more nearly brought me to tears. I was terrified in a way I had never been before. I was so fucking helpless.

Prior to this experience I think I had never truly known fear. I had known the trivial lookalikes. I was scared, really really really fucking scared.

It is one thing to “believe in yourself”, you know, overcome those mental barriers that the world puts in front of you. It is quite another thing to believe in your subconscious self, to believe that after being cut open your body knows what to do, can heal itself, and overall keep you alive while sustaining major damage.

The night before the surgery I was terrified. I might've actually hugged Oy for over 3 hours. I told him he better not let anything go wrong, as if he had that power.

The morning of I hopped in my parents car and went off to Morgantown.

I had never been in a surgery waiting room, the screens showing the patient numbers and their status reminded me of a mechanic shop with a fancy status display. I felt like I was going into the “shop”. The surgeons all came into the waiting room after the surgery and gave anxious families the news. I only saw good news. This vision of “bad news” coming to my parents who were waiting horrified me.

I was called to go into prep, went back and got ready. The last thing I remember was laying on a solid table in the operating room, and the surgeon saying, “you won't remember any of this”.

I woke up muttering, “ouch, ouch, ouch”. The nurse said, “don't you worry, i'll take care of that”. She did.

I insisted “the biopsy, what were the results?”, “how did the surgery go?”, “am I okay?”. The woman said, “I don't have any of the info”, then increased my drugs.

Finally I heard no cancer. Everything went well and as planned.

I was “moved” onto a hospital bed in an inpatient room. I saw my parents and my friend who came to see me. I cried. I simply fucking cried. As someone who experienced it from the patient side, if you ever have a friend having surgery, go see them when they are done. It matters.

I'll leave out the details of that night. The people in the room with me were worse than reality TV obnoxious, and I personally did not enjoy most of my scheduled activities.

In the morning the physical therapist came to see me. A young girl, mid twenties. She smiled at me, gave me a pair of hospital pants and said, “put these on, we are going to go for a short stroll on your crutches”.

Twenty minutes later when I still couldn't get my right leg in, she helped. They were not kidding when they warned me about what happens when muscle is cut. The entirety of my leg pretty much went straight and stiff.

The therapist laughed and said, “Know how that really hurts when you even bend it a tiny bit? Well, you're going to have to get through that, and keep bending it, all the time, until it no longer hurts.”

I hobbled down the hallway with her for a few feet and then back to my bed. Just the vibration from using crutches hurt, and I was heavily drugged. I got back into bed and they said, “ok, we can work on sending you home—you'll be out about noon”.

They wheeled me to the front where I got into my parents car. It took a long time to get in, it was really all I could do to bend me knee enough to fit it inside the door. Those muscles were not interested in moving.

I closed my eyes and just about woke up in Delaware at my parents house (I got out a few times but really I was in a full drug haze).

The first few days, I slept, ate, slept.

I was a jerk, I read somewhere that berries help heal wounds fastest and I bugged my parents for endless supplies of organic blueberries and strawberries. My parents are amazing and got them for me. That kale, broccoli, organic chicken and eggs were just about all I would eat. OJ, almond milk and water is all I would drink—no useless calories were going in.

By day 3 I was off of the heavy pain drugs. The haze cleared. By day 4 I was really up and moving, almost as good as pre surgery. By day 6 the wound was healed (or the surface at least), and day 8 after surgery my parents brought me back to Frostburg, I was ready to go.

My mind is still blown by how fast it seems to be healing. I'm not done yet. It could be 6 weeks or more until the bone is healed enough to hold weight again, but this is the upside of the experience I hope. I'm ready for a break in the universes choice of “surprises”, maybe it could switch into “baked goods” mode.

This experience really made me appreciate my friends and family. My friends who went to Dr's apts with me, brought me food, groceries, cookies. My friends who have been helping with my grass, or watching Oy during the times I couldn't. My friends who offered moral support or offered to help, even though I said no often, I really appreciated the gesture (I'm really stubborn and independent, sorry!). My family who stood by me this entire time ready to step in and help at any moment, and who took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. Really, I love all of you—as much as I don't like asking for help, I could not have done this one alone. Thank you.