Now that I've been detoxing for a few days I've had a chance to notice a pattern. I feel mildly crappy in the morning. I wake up with a sore arm and remember that I'm going to be managing withdrawal symptoms for the next 24 hours--not the best way to start the day. But the afternoons are always the worst.
I think it's partly a function of fatigue. As the day wears on I become more aware of the pain in my arm as I have less reserves to call on. The withdrawal symptoms seem to magnify at exactly the same time. I reach a point where I can't read or write or talk on the phone. I certainly can't pay bills, answer emails, cook or tidy-up the kitchen. I eventually find myself on the couch with the remote control in my hand. Thank God for Oprah and DVDs!
My son and I watched eight episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" yesterday. It's so much easier to just let Ted and Lily and Marshall and Barney and Robin deal with their lives while mine remains on hold. Some form of video crack gets me through the couple of hours it takes for the worst of the symptoms to pass. Then I'm mainly tired. But I'm usually too stubborn to just go to bed. Instead I soldier on until my 10:30 PM dose.
By the time I've taken my half-pill of Percoset, choked down a teaspoon of dry herbs (Did I forget to mention constipation? It isn't bad enough narcotics cause major plugging of the plumbing while still helping with the pain, they continue to slow digestion to a painful crawl even when you are getting nothing but withdrawal symptom relief.), washed my face, and changed into my nightgown, I'm so exhausted I feel like crying.
I finally get in bed and spend several minutes--no exaggeration--finding a comfortable position for my arm. This is complicated by the fact that my right humerus has migrated far forward in the shoulder joint due to a very tight pec muscle. Simply lying on my back creates a gravitational pull on the joint that feels simply awful--think weight-bearing on a very tight, sore muscle. I have to shift around until I find the one position in which I can relax into the mattress without encountering that icky sensation.
But it is all worth it because this is when P. G. Wodehouse takes over.
Coming up: the ultimate soporific
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
SRD12 & 13 The Clinic
A/N: Life as a detoxing, shoulder rehabbing, therapeutic cooking, non-teaching Pilates instructor is so busy I'm falling behind on my blog! If you're reading this I'm pleased. If you would care to comment I would be even more pleased.
I arrived at the acupuncture clinic a little before 9 to fill out my paperwork. While I checked the appropriate boxes and signed the various consent forms required for free acupuncture, I noticed a little table near the door was slowly being covered with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tubs of chunky peanut butter, and plates piled high with whole grain rolls. A large metal bowl filled with freshly picked spring mix sat next to two small jars of salad dressing. Smaller bowls held two different types of roasted vegetable salad. The food smelled fantastic even though I was too full to eat any of it.
The acupuncture clinic flyer had promised breakfast, but when I read "breakfast" I visualized cheap, store bought danish and weak coffee. So I still made a point of getting up early enough to eat my own home cooked steel cut oats with goat yogurt, walnuts, fresh blueberries, and maple syrup. As other participants filled their plates with wholesome goodies, I had to admit I hadn't expected the people taking advantage of free acupuncture for withdrawal symptoms would partake of such excellent fare. I guess I'm a food snob.
Because it was my first time there, I had to speak with a counselor before I could have a treatment. Amanda led me down a long hall to her office. She asked me very little about why I was there and seemed most concerned that I consider the psychological impact of being disabled and unable to work. I considered both and admitted that they suck.
Having met all the requirements for treatment, I followed Hope, the clinic's acupuncturist, to the treatment room. I soaked a cotton ball with alcohol, as previously instructed, and rubbed both ears clean. Hope handed me a piece of paper with the number "7" written on it and a clean cotton ball. I sat on a stool while she inserted seven needles; two in my right hand (for the pain in my shoulder), two in my right ear, and three in my left ear. Then I moved to one of the large, comfy chairs lining three sides of the room and sat in near silence just like the other 10 or 12 people with needles stuck in their ears.
Talking is actively discouraged in the treatment room. Most people seem to just close their eyes and chill. I took their suggestion and did the same. I've had acupuncture many times before so I wasn't surprised by the sudden calm. It was extremely refreshing to feel like I could relax in my own skin for a change. Next to nausea, feeling irritable and jumpy is the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. I sat back and enjoyed a vacation from those unpleasant feelings for about 40 minutes.
When I felt finished, I pulled the needles out of my hand and used a mirror at the front of the room to remove the needles from my ears. I stuck the needles into the cotton ball and showed them to Hope before dropping the whole thing into a container hanging on the wall.
I stopped by the reception office to say goodbye and made a little peanut butter on whole grain roll for the road. I still wasn't hungry but it seemed such a shame not to enjoy some of the bounty.
I had decided to try walking home. I stopped about halfway to take my 10:30 AM dose of Percoset, pleased I hadn't been looking at my watch for the past 15 minutes willing the time to pass.
Next up: afternoon is always the worst
I arrived at the acupuncture clinic a little before 9 to fill out my paperwork. While I checked the appropriate boxes and signed the various consent forms required for free acupuncture, I noticed a little table near the door was slowly being covered with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, tubs of chunky peanut butter, and plates piled high with whole grain rolls. A large metal bowl filled with freshly picked spring mix sat next to two small jars of salad dressing. Smaller bowls held two different types of roasted vegetable salad. The food smelled fantastic even though I was too full to eat any of it.
The acupuncture clinic flyer had promised breakfast, but when I read "breakfast" I visualized cheap, store bought danish and weak coffee. So I still made a point of getting up early enough to eat my own home cooked steel cut oats with goat yogurt, walnuts, fresh blueberries, and maple syrup. As other participants filled their plates with wholesome goodies, I had to admit I hadn't expected the people taking advantage of free acupuncture for withdrawal symptoms would partake of such excellent fare. I guess I'm a food snob.
Because it was my first time there, I had to speak with a counselor before I could have a treatment. Amanda led me down a long hall to her office. She asked me very little about why I was there and seemed most concerned that I consider the psychological impact of being disabled and unable to work. I considered both and admitted that they suck.
Having met all the requirements for treatment, I followed Hope, the clinic's acupuncturist, to the treatment room. I soaked a cotton ball with alcohol, as previously instructed, and rubbed both ears clean. Hope handed me a piece of paper with the number "7" written on it and a clean cotton ball. I sat on a stool while she inserted seven needles; two in my right hand (for the pain in my shoulder), two in my right ear, and three in my left ear. Then I moved to one of the large, comfy chairs lining three sides of the room and sat in near silence just like the other 10 or 12 people with needles stuck in their ears.
Talking is actively discouraged in the treatment room. Most people seem to just close their eyes and chill. I took their suggestion and did the same. I've had acupuncture many times before so I wasn't surprised by the sudden calm. It was extremely refreshing to feel like I could relax in my own skin for a change. Next to nausea, feeling irritable and jumpy is the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. I sat back and enjoyed a vacation from those unpleasant feelings for about 40 minutes.
When I felt finished, I pulled the needles out of my hand and used a mirror at the front of the room to remove the needles from my ears. I stuck the needles into the cotton ball and showed them to Hope before dropping the whole thing into a container hanging on the wall.
I stopped by the reception office to say goodbye and made a little peanut butter on whole grain roll for the road. I still wasn't hungry but it seemed such a shame not to enjoy some of the bounty.
I had decided to try walking home. I stopped about halfway to take my 10:30 AM dose of Percoset, pleased I hadn't been looking at my watch for the past 15 minutes willing the time to pass.
Next up: afternoon is always the worst
Monday, July 28, 2008
SRD11 Hitting bottom
Everybody is familiar with the concept of "hitting bottom". I feel compelled to acknowledge my "bottom" was roughly the depth of a kiddie wading pool.
Wendy, my drug dependence counselor, buzzed the CDRP doctor to ask for help figuring out what to do with me; the problem client who wasn't messed-up enough for the clinic. When the doctor joined us in Wendy's office I recognized her immediately as a fellow family camper. We'd been in a play together.
It was surprisingly not awkward to encounter someone I knew in a completely different context while being counseled for drug dependence. In fact, it was kind of great.
The doctor confirmed what Wendy had already said and then proceeded to tell me what I needed to do to get off Percoset. In about 5 minutes, I learned enough to leave the CDRP confident I could detox safely on my own. It's not rocket science, it's actually quite straight-forward, but I didn't know several things that made a big difference. For example; I had been trying to wean myself by increasing the amount if time between pills. The doctor said they recommend reducing the dose but keeping the time interval constant. I also learned that narcotic withdrawal is not life-threatening. Unlike kicking Valium or alcohol--which can cause serous problems like seizures--people withdrawing from narcotics may feel like dying, but it won't kill them. Good to know.
After fleshing out my self-guided detox program, the doctor wished me the best of luck and departed--no doubt to help someone who was in vastly worse shape than I. As soon as the door closed Wendy took me into her confidence.
"I didn't want to say anything while the doctor was here," she said. "But I don't think the doctor has actually experienced narcotics withdrawal, and I have."
With that, Wendy pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and laid it on my lap. "That's my back," she said.
It was an x-ray showing two rods and four bolts installed in the lumbar region of Wendy's spine. "That's how I got hooked on narcotics," she said. "I was never addicted either. But I can tell you from personal experience that it's going to take more than a week to wean yourself."
Wendy proceeded to amend the time-table I had discussed with the doctor. Rather than 3 days, she suggested I spend 5 to 7 days at each dose level, moving on only when I felt ready. If the symptoms get too intense, she explained, I could always go back to the previous dose. But the whole process would be much easier if I take it very slow.
Here's the plan:
Take one-half of a pill every 4 hours.
Drink detox tea (chamomile, mint, licorice, skullcap, and hops) all day long.
Get daily acupuncture treatments for free at a local public clinic.
Reduce the dose to one-quarter of a pill after 5 - 7 days.
Repeat.
Coming up: the acupuncture clinic
Wendy, my drug dependence counselor, buzzed the CDRP doctor to ask for help figuring out what to do with me; the problem client who wasn't messed-up enough for the clinic. When the doctor joined us in Wendy's office I recognized her immediately as a fellow family camper. We'd been in a play together.
It was surprisingly not awkward to encounter someone I knew in a completely different context while being counseled for drug dependence. In fact, it was kind of great.
The doctor confirmed what Wendy had already said and then proceeded to tell me what I needed to do to get off Percoset. In about 5 minutes, I learned enough to leave the CDRP confident I could detox safely on my own. It's not rocket science, it's actually quite straight-forward, but I didn't know several things that made a big difference. For example; I had been trying to wean myself by increasing the amount if time between pills. The doctor said they recommend reducing the dose but keeping the time interval constant. I also learned that narcotic withdrawal is not life-threatening. Unlike kicking Valium or alcohol--which can cause serous problems like seizures--people withdrawing from narcotics may feel like dying, but it won't kill them. Good to know.
After fleshing out my self-guided detox program, the doctor wished me the best of luck and departed--no doubt to help someone who was in vastly worse shape than I. As soon as the door closed Wendy took me into her confidence.
"I didn't want to say anything while the doctor was here," she said. "But I don't think the doctor has actually experienced narcotics withdrawal, and I have."
With that, Wendy pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and laid it on my lap. "That's my back," she said.
It was an x-ray showing two rods and four bolts installed in the lumbar region of Wendy's spine. "That's how I got hooked on narcotics," she said. "I was never addicted either. But I can tell you from personal experience that it's going to take more than a week to wean yourself."
Wendy proceeded to amend the time-table I had discussed with the doctor. Rather than 3 days, she suggested I spend 5 to 7 days at each dose level, moving on only when I felt ready. If the symptoms get too intense, she explained, I could always go back to the previous dose. But the whole process would be much easier if I take it very slow.
Here's the plan:
Take one-half of a pill every 4 hours.
Drink detox tea (chamomile, mint, licorice, skullcap, and hops) all day long.
Get daily acupuncture treatments for free at a local public clinic.
Reduce the dose to one-quarter of a pill after 5 - 7 days.
Repeat.
Coming up: the acupuncture clinic
Saturday, July 26, 2008
SRD10 Through the looking glass
The CDRP is discreetly located on the second floor above a discount restaurant supply on a major downtown thoroughfare. My husband and I arrived around 9:30 AM.
When I returned my completed forms to the receptionist, he told me one of the "facilitators" would be with me right after the current group meeting.
The spacious, sunny waiting area filled with participants when the meeting broke up a few minutes later. A man and woman, each wearing staff badges, conferred briefly in the hallway. Then the woman approached me.
I'm thinking, "Ah, they decided I should talk to the female counselor because I'm a woman."
By previous agreement, I kissed my husband goodbye and followed "Wendy" to her office. It was a good size room, filled with sunlight from tall windows overlooking the street below. We sat in side chairs facing each other in front of the windows.
"So," Wendy began, "I've taken a look at your paperwork. It looks like you're here because of Percoset."
I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. I'm talking to someone who actually knows something about Percoset withdrawal. I can finally get the help I need.
I proceed to fill Wendy in on the last eight weeks of my life--breaking my shoulder, flying home, the first surgery, the second surgery, and my recent realization that I'm hooked on the pills. I told her how it had been pulling teeth to get a referral to the CDRP. It was only when I finished my story that I noticed Wendy looked uncomfortable.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this," she said, shifting her position in the chair. "We're really not set up to serve people like you. The CDRP is for addicts. You're not addicted to Percoset. You're physically dependent, but you didn't take it to get high, you only took it for pain. To treat you here you'd have to do the whole program. That means coming here for most of the day, everyday for a couple weeks. Can you do that?"
I felt like the floor had just dropped out from under me. Like Alice, I was falling down the rabbit hole. The lovely Victorian office building was just a stage set for the absurdist play of my life.
"The system failed," she continued. "Your regular doctor should have been able to help you handle this problem."
Tomorrow: hitting bottom
When I returned my completed forms to the receptionist, he told me one of the "facilitators" would be with me right after the current group meeting.
The spacious, sunny waiting area filled with participants when the meeting broke up a few minutes later. A man and woman, each wearing staff badges, conferred briefly in the hallway. Then the woman approached me.
I'm thinking, "Ah, they decided I should talk to the female counselor because I'm a woman."
By previous agreement, I kissed my husband goodbye and followed "Wendy" to her office. It was a good size room, filled with sunlight from tall windows overlooking the street below. We sat in side chairs facing each other in front of the windows.
"So," Wendy began, "I've taken a look at your paperwork. It looks like you're here because of Percoset."
I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. I'm talking to someone who actually knows something about Percoset withdrawal. I can finally get the help I need.
I proceed to fill Wendy in on the last eight weeks of my life--breaking my shoulder, flying home, the first surgery, the second surgery, and my recent realization that I'm hooked on the pills. I told her how it had been pulling teeth to get a referral to the CDRP. It was only when I finished my story that I noticed Wendy looked uncomfortable.
"I'm not sure how to tell you this," she said, shifting her position in the chair. "We're really not set up to serve people like you. The CDRP is for addicts. You're not addicted to Percoset. You're physically dependent, but you didn't take it to get high, you only took it for pain. To treat you here you'd have to do the whole program. That means coming here for most of the day, everyday for a couple weeks. Can you do that?"
I felt like the floor had just dropped out from under me. Like Alice, I was falling down the rabbit hole. The lovely Victorian office building was just a stage set for the absurdist play of my life.
"The system failed," she continued. "Your regular doctor should have been able to help you handle this problem."
Tomorrow: hitting bottom
Friday, July 25, 2008
SRD9 Intervention
Close readers of this blog probably already figured out why the Percoset I've been taking no longer touches my pain, and I can't stop taking it because I get withdrawal symptoms. I finally got the memo today. I'm addicted. Shit.
I started by calling my surgeon's nurse to ask for assistance. I left a message in his mailbox.
It had been several hours since my last pill and I was already feeling petty squirrely. So, rather than wait around for my surgeon to get back to me, I decided to try calling my regular doctor's office too. The way that works with my HMO is you call a central number and speak to an "advice nurse". The advice nurse asked why I was calling, so I explained that I'd been taking Percoset for seven weeks, I'd developed tolerance and although I wanted to stop taking it I was afraid to stop because the symptoms were so unpleasant. Her reply took me by surprise. She actually said, "I don't know if there's anything you can do about that."
After a brief, stunned silence I said, "Maybe not, but there are people who specialize in detox and I want to talk to one."
"Oh," she said, like that sounded like a good idea, "let me see what I can find out."
While I was on hold I thought, "Is it possible this person whose title is "advice nurse" doesn't have a protocol for responding to patients who call for help with drug addiction?"
When the advice nurse returned to the phone she had a number for me to call. "It's called the Chemical Dependency Recover Program," she said, like shed never heard of it before now. She was obviously reading to me from a brochure or flyer when she told me the hours and address of the CDRP.
I am grateful, truly grateful for the information. But I am appalled that she might have failed to refer me if I hadn't known about addiction specialists.
I called the number and learned I could drop in the next morning and talk to a counselor. I relaxed a little and had started thinking about how to manage my symptoms for the next 18 hours when the phone rang. It was the "triage nurse" from my surgeon's office returning my call. She thought I was running out of pain medication. Once again I explained the situation. "I've been taking Percoset since May 30th," I said. "But now it's not really working as well and I want to stop taking it but I get these awful symptoms."
I didn't get a chance to tell her I had found out about the CDRP and planned to walk in to the clinic in the morning.
"Well what did you expect," she cut in. "You knew you wouldn't be taking those pills forever didn't you? It can be very tough to stop."
I started to come unglued. "That is so not helpful," I answered. "You might want to ask the folks at your Chemical Dependence Recovery Program what you should say when a patient says she is experiencing withdrawal. Since the HMO already offers the service, you might as well be able to refer people who are asking for help."
Tomorrow: the CDRP
I started by calling my surgeon's nurse to ask for assistance. I left a message in his mailbox.
It had been several hours since my last pill and I was already feeling petty squirrely. So, rather than wait around for my surgeon to get back to me, I decided to try calling my regular doctor's office too. The way that works with my HMO is you call a central number and speak to an "advice nurse". The advice nurse asked why I was calling, so I explained that I'd been taking Percoset for seven weeks, I'd developed tolerance and although I wanted to stop taking it I was afraid to stop because the symptoms were so unpleasant. Her reply took me by surprise. She actually said, "I don't know if there's anything you can do about that."
After a brief, stunned silence I said, "Maybe not, but there are people who specialize in detox and I want to talk to one."
"Oh," she said, like that sounded like a good idea, "let me see what I can find out."
While I was on hold I thought, "Is it possible this person whose title is "advice nurse" doesn't have a protocol for responding to patients who call for help with drug addiction?"
When the advice nurse returned to the phone she had a number for me to call. "It's called the Chemical Dependency Recover Program," she said, like shed never heard of it before now. She was obviously reading to me from a brochure or flyer when she told me the hours and address of the CDRP.
I am grateful, truly grateful for the information. But I am appalled that she might have failed to refer me if I hadn't known about addiction specialists.
I called the number and learned I could drop in the next morning and talk to a counselor. I relaxed a little and had started thinking about how to manage my symptoms for the next 18 hours when the phone rang. It was the "triage nurse" from my surgeon's office returning my call. She thought I was running out of pain medication. Once again I explained the situation. "I've been taking Percoset since May 30th," I said. "But now it's not really working as well and I want to stop taking it but I get these awful symptoms."
I didn't get a chance to tell her I had found out about the CDRP and planned to walk in to the clinic in the morning.
"Well what did you expect," she cut in. "You knew you wouldn't be taking those pills forever didn't you? It can be very tough to stop."
I started to come unglued. "That is so not helpful," I answered. "You might want to ask the folks at your Chemical Dependence Recovery Program what you should say when a patient says she is experiencing withdrawal. Since the HMO already offers the service, you might as well be able to refer people who are asking for help."
Tomorrow: the CDRP
Thursday, July 24, 2008
SRD7 & 8 Gingerbread Therapy
If you didn't see this coming you just aren't paying attention.
Yesterday's wallow in self-pity required an intervention. Fortunately, I have a Cook's Illustrated recipe for Gingerbread that has proven palliative properties. (God I love alliteration!) It takes a few minutes to put together--mostly because you have to measure so many spices--but it isn't difficult. I felt better even before the cakes came out of the oven. The glossy, thick batter looked so substantial in the pans. The steam pouring out of the vent perfumed the kitchen with spice and caramelized sugar. No one can resist such smells.
Baking took all morning. The gingerbread helped, but I still maxed out on Percoset pills to get through the rest of the day. At night I couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep in and when I got out of bed my face was puffy and pale. Maybe that was because it was so early. I had a PT appointment at 7:20 this morning. I had to shower, dress, and get out the door. So I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself.
Thank God for my physical therapist. He stretched and manipulated my shoulder, then he taped it so it wouldn't hurt so much. He is optimistic about the eventual recovery of my range of motion. I came away with exercises and hope.
Yesterday's wallow in self-pity required an intervention. Fortunately, I have a Cook's Illustrated recipe for Gingerbread that has proven palliative properties. (God I love alliteration!) It takes a few minutes to put together--mostly because you have to measure so many spices--but it isn't difficult. I felt better even before the cakes came out of the oven. The glossy, thick batter looked so substantial in the pans. The steam pouring out of the vent perfumed the kitchen with spice and caramelized sugar. No one can resist such smells.
Baking took all morning. The gingerbread helped, but I still maxed out on Percoset pills to get through the rest of the day. At night I couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep in and when I got out of bed my face was puffy and pale. Maybe that was because it was so early. I had a PT appointment at 7:20 this morning. I had to shower, dress, and get out the door. So I didn't have much time to feel sorry for myself.
Thank God for my physical therapist. He stretched and manipulated my shoulder, then he taped it so it wouldn't hurt so much. He is optimistic about the eventual recovery of my range of motion. I came away with exercises and hope.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
SRD6 Are We There Yet?
My arm hurts. I don't think it's fair. I've been doing this for seven weeks and I am tired of being in pain.
The pins are gone and the pain is both less intense and less restrictive. I can move around without inflicting a great stabbing pain in my shoulder. But I am still experiencing a significant amount of discomfort. It is a deep, constant ache that makes it difficult to sleep even though I am still taking pain pills.
I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow. I'm holding out great hopes my PT will be able to help me with the pain. But I'm afraid I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
Other than toughing it out, I don't know what I can do. I don't want to take more Percoset--to which I suspect I have already developed a tolerance. I can distract myself during the day, but as afternoon approaches my energy level drops and I can no longer operate on top of the pain.
That's when I become a pain.
BTW: This is yesterday's post. I plan to add something later today for SRD7.
The pins are gone and the pain is both less intense and less restrictive. I can move around without inflicting a great stabbing pain in my shoulder. But I am still experiencing a significant amount of discomfort. It is a deep, constant ache that makes it difficult to sleep even though I am still taking pain pills.
I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow. I'm holding out great hopes my PT will be able to help me with the pain. But I'm afraid I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
Other than toughing it out, I don't know what I can do. I don't want to take more Percoset--to which I suspect I have already developed a tolerance. I can distract myself during the day, but as afternoon approaches my energy level drops and I can no longer operate on top of the pain.
That's when I become a pain.
BTW: This is yesterday's post. I plan to add something later today for SRD7.
Monday, July 21, 2008
SRD5 Activities of Daily Living
Today was a banner day. I zipped up my hoodie ALL BY MYSELF. I used both hands to put on my socks and earrings. I wore a pullover top. I endorsed a check with my right hand. I cooked dinner. I am touch typing this entry.
You have no idea how many things you take for granted until you cannot do them.
You have no idea how many things you take for granted until you cannot do them.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
SRD4 Divine Spam
A dear, dear friend sent me a chain letter email yesterday. I am very fond of this particular friend; I am not fond of chain letters. I never want to be the one to break the chain and I don't want to impose the burden of not breaking the chain on anyone else. But, because of something that happened yesterday, this chain letter struck me differently.
Yesterday was Saturday and my first Shabbat since the second of two surgeries to repair my broken shoulder. It was, to be precise, my third day of rehab following the removal of four very unpleasant pins that held my bone together while it healed. Although I attend Saturday morning services at my synagogue only infrequently, I wanted to attend this particular Shabbat because my husband was participating in the service. He was scheduled to chant from the Torah; an honor and a mitzvah.
I got up in plenty of time to get myself bathed and dressed--a challenging project with my wounded wing. I even managed to put on a little makeup. Upon our arrival at shul, I greeted people and answered the inevitable questions prompted by having my arm in a sling. We settled into a pew and the service began.
Three notes into the opening song I started to cry. Tears streamed down my face and literally pooled in my lap. My husband took my hand, “Are you okay?” he asked with his eyes. I nodded, mopping my face again and blowing my nose. I was grateful the handkerchief in my purse was a substantial, cotton number with plenty of absorption power. Even so it was thoroughly soaked in minutes.
During the past seven, long, painful weeks since my injury I never cried. Every time I was ready to succumb to despair, I’d look in the mirror and insist I pull myself together. It worked. I’d stayed dry-eyed through it all.
Sitting in the chapel, with the worst of my ordeal behind me, I could not stop the waterworks. But despair and pain were not the source of these tears. I cried in awe of the miraculous ability of my body to heal; the calm, kind, competence of the emergency technicians who transported me to the hospital; the skill of the surgeon who repaired my shoulder. I cried in gratitude for the loving, patient support of my friends and family.
Crying never felt so good.
And that is why I decided to send this chain letter to five people.*
Dear loved one:
HaShem - (neither masculine nor feminine & absolutely no plural); the word means, literally, 'The Name,' & it is the way that Jews refer to G-d when not in a Prayer or Torah Reading or Torah citation context.
HaShem determines who walks into your life ... It is up to you to decide who you let walk away, who you let stay & who you refuse to let go.
HaShem, bless all my friends & special family in whatever it is that you know they may be needing this day! And may their lives be full of peace, prosperity & power.
Amen.
Now send it on to 5 other people, including the person (me) who sent it to you. Within minutes you have caused a multitude of people to pray for others.
*I have no expectation you will send the letter to anyone. But feel free if you are so disposed.
Yesterday was Saturday and my first Shabbat since the second of two surgeries to repair my broken shoulder. It was, to be precise, my third day of rehab following the removal of four very unpleasant pins that held my bone together while it healed. Although I attend Saturday morning services at my synagogue only infrequently, I wanted to attend this particular Shabbat because my husband was participating in the service. He was scheduled to chant from the Torah; an honor and a mitzvah.
I got up in plenty of time to get myself bathed and dressed--a challenging project with my wounded wing. I even managed to put on a little makeup. Upon our arrival at shul, I greeted people and answered the inevitable questions prompted by having my arm in a sling. We settled into a pew and the service began.
Three notes into the opening song I started to cry. Tears streamed down my face and literally pooled in my lap. My husband took my hand, “Are you okay?” he asked with his eyes. I nodded, mopping my face again and blowing my nose. I was grateful the handkerchief in my purse was a substantial, cotton number with plenty of absorption power. Even so it was thoroughly soaked in minutes.
During the past seven, long, painful weeks since my injury I never cried. Every time I was ready to succumb to despair, I’d look in the mirror and insist I pull myself together. It worked. I’d stayed dry-eyed through it all.
Sitting in the chapel, with the worst of my ordeal behind me, I could not stop the waterworks. But despair and pain were not the source of these tears. I cried in awe of the miraculous ability of my body to heal; the calm, kind, competence of the emergency technicians who transported me to the hospital; the skill of the surgeon who repaired my shoulder. I cried in gratitude for the loving, patient support of my friends and family.
Crying never felt so good.
And that is why I decided to send this chain letter to five people.*
Dear loved one:
HaShem - (neither masculine nor feminine & absolutely no plural); the word means, literally, 'The Name,' & it is the way that Jews refer to G-d when not in a Prayer or Torah Reading or Torah citation context.
HaShem determines who walks into your life ... It is up to you to decide who you let walk away, who you let stay & who you refuse to let go.
HaShem, bless all my friends & special family in whatever it is that you know they may be needing this day! And may their lives be full of peace, prosperity & power.
Amen.
Now send it on to 5 other people, including the person (me) who sent it to you. Within minutes you have caused a multitude of people to pray for others.
*I have no expectation you will send the letter to anyone. But feel free if you are so disposed.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
SRD3 Cake and Monkeys
It turns out Percoset withdrawal takes longer than one day. I've added sweaty palms and general squirreliness to my list of symptoms. Also, the arm still hurts a lot; too much to sleep, too much to sit still and watch TV, too much to eat anything more demanding than soup. I decided to take another pill and deal with all this later when my arm doesn't hurt so much. I guess I've got a monkey on my back.
But, hey, cake!! I made a cake yesterday. Friends and family already know that I indulge in therapeutic cooking. When feeling a little blue I often attempt to lighten my mood by baking. Also, the clearest signal I am coming to the end of a cold or virus is the appearance in my kitchen of freshly baked cookies, cake, or bread. It's creative, makes the house smell good, and people can always eat the baked goods. Although I have been known to whip up an old stand-by under these circumstances, therapeutic baking usually involves preparation of something I've never made before. The serious and protracted nature of my recent malady seemed to demand an experiment.
This time it was poppy seed cake with blackberry topping. Upon encountering the stack of sticky bowls and rubber spatulas the project left in the sink, my husband entertained the idea of banning future therapeutic cooking until I am also capable of cleaning up. He changed his mind when he tasted the cake.
I was not prepared to declare the cake an unqualified success when I removed it from the oven. The recipe called for adding the blackberries after 30 minutes of baking. This was designed to keep the berries from sinking into the batter. But either my oven was too hot or my substitution of goat cheese for cream cheese threw off the moisture content, because the surface of the cake was already pretty firm. My berries did not sink, they didn't even stick to the surface of the cake. Instead of creating what I imagined a "berry topping" should look like, my blackberries were precariously perched on top of the cake looking ready to topple off at the slightest provocation. Berries did indeed fall off when I sliced the cake. But all was forgiven when I took a bite. The rich lemon/vanilla/poppy seed cake was just sweet enough to offset the tart berries; definitely a keeper.
But, hey, cake!! I made a cake yesterday. Friends and family already know that I indulge in therapeutic cooking. When feeling a little blue I often attempt to lighten my mood by baking. Also, the clearest signal I am coming to the end of a cold or virus is the appearance in my kitchen of freshly baked cookies, cake, or bread. It's creative, makes the house smell good, and people can always eat the baked goods. Although I have been known to whip up an old stand-by under these circumstances, therapeutic baking usually involves preparation of something I've never made before. The serious and protracted nature of my recent malady seemed to demand an experiment.
This time it was poppy seed cake with blackberry topping. Upon encountering the stack of sticky bowls and rubber spatulas the project left in the sink, my husband entertained the idea of banning future therapeutic cooking until I am also capable of cleaning up. He changed his mind when he tasted the cake.
I was not prepared to declare the cake an unqualified success when I removed it from the oven. The recipe called for adding the blackberries after 30 minutes of baking. This was designed to keep the berries from sinking into the batter. But either my oven was too hot or my substitution of goat cheese for cream cheese threw off the moisture content, because the surface of the cake was already pretty firm. My berries did not sink, they didn't even stick to the surface of the cake. Instead of creating what I imagined a "berry topping" should look like, my blackberries were precariously perched on top of the cake looking ready to topple off at the slightest provocation. Berries did indeed fall off when I sliced the cake. But all was forgiven when I took a bite. The rich lemon/vanilla/poppy seed cake was just sweet enough to offset the tart berries; definitely a keeper.
Friday, July 18, 2008
SRD2 (shoulder rehab day 2 for you newbies)
Day 2; less than 48 hours since the surgery to remove my pins. My shoulder is still sore, but bearable with a minimum of medication. Which brings me to the fact that in addition to rehabbing my shoulder I am also detoxing from seven weeks of narcotics.
Since my shoulder collided abruptly with the sidewalk in New Orleans, I've taken morphine, Demerol, Dilaudid, and Vicodin, but mostly it was Percoset. I've had a bottle of Percoset in my pocket or by my beside at all times. I counted the remaining pills and calculated the days before my second surgery, computed the average number of pills consumed per day and considered various back-up plans for securing more pills if I should run out. I think it is safe to say that I was drug-dependent and I don't think it is a stretch to think that I could be addicted.
I've already experienced some of the classic withdrawal symptoms; stomach upset, sleeplessness, anxiety, and muscle pain. But I'll never know if it's a result of actual physical dependence or a product of compulsively researching Percoset withdrawal for the past three weeks. Either way, none of the symptoms are particularly intense.
I'm going to go with "over-active imagination" rather than "strung-out middle-aged mom."
Rehab goals for SRD2: walk around the block and bake a cake.
Since my shoulder collided abruptly with the sidewalk in New Orleans, I've taken morphine, Demerol, Dilaudid, and Vicodin, but mostly it was Percoset. I've had a bottle of Percoset in my pocket or by my beside at all times. I counted the remaining pills and calculated the days before my second surgery, computed the average number of pills consumed per day and considered various back-up plans for securing more pills if I should run out. I think it is safe to say that I was drug-dependent and I don't think it is a stretch to think that I could be addicted.
I've already experienced some of the classic withdrawal symptoms; stomach upset, sleeplessness, anxiety, and muscle pain. But I'll never know if it's a result of actual physical dependence or a product of compulsively researching Percoset withdrawal for the past three weeks. Either way, none of the symptoms are particularly intense.
I'm going to go with "over-active imagination" rather than "strung-out middle-aged mom."
Rehab goals for SRD2: walk around the block and bake a cake.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Flash forward 6 weeks or so
Today will be known henceforth as Shoulder Rehab Day 1 or SRD1. The pins are out! My arm is moderately sore and my biggest challenge is not overdoing it the day after surgery. Stay tuned. My rehab focus of the day (SRD1) is rest.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Pins come out in three days
We left New Orleans promptly on the morning after my injury. Changing our return flights was expensive and we ended up flying through Cleveland, adding a significant number of miles and a few hours to our trip. Still, considering my 100% displaced humerus—the trip could have been worse.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Why I am blogging about shoulder rehab
>Planning our recent trip to New Orleans, my husband and I thought we were being terribly magnanimous. He offers training seminars for users of his software a few times each year. We chose New Orleans so his clients would join us in spending money there—our little contribution to rebuilding the hurricane-ravaged region. Or so we thought.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Not the summer I expected (Pilates update)
Laurie’s Pilates Update June 2008
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
2. Dude, where’s my core?
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
Private sessions 1 for $54, 5 for $245, 10 for $440
Duet* sessions 1 for $64 ($32 each), 5 for $300 ($150 each), 10 for $560 ($280 each)
* In Pilates jargon, a duet is a semi-private lesson - two people sharing one instructor (sorry, no singing). Clients choose duets for several reasons; they cost less, an exercise partner can be motivating, and it’s fun. You can find your own partner or let me match you up with someone. Please note; I need to work privately with each person at least once, duets are not appropriate for all clients.
2. Dude, where’s my core?
I continue to offer workplace workshops on upper body releases and strategies for preventing repetitive strain injuries (RSI). During these 45 minute group lessons I teach both standing and sitting exercises, all of which can be done in casual business attire without getting sweaty or wrinkled. Participants learn effective ways to stretch shoulder, neck, and back muscles, sit and stand with good alignment, relieve muscle tension, reduce pain, and prevent injury. A perfect “stretch break” for intensive training seminars or conferences, Dude, where’s my core? is serious exercise that’s fun. $150, plus travel in excess of 5 miles.
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
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