Bent and Broken

CONTENT NOTE: This piece was written over a period of several months. It’s late…sorry about that.

The First 24-hrs of Hell

It was never my intention to leave the blog abandoned for this long. Actually, nothing about the past few months was planned. My body decided to be a jerk and turn my world upside down yet again.

Sometimes I ‘forget’ that my body isn’t as powerful or strong as my mind tends to feel. Thus, when something major happens, I get thrown off my ‘game’ so to speak. I’ve tried to thoroughly prepare myself mentally for many of the medical disasters that could potentially disrupt my somewhat peaceful existence, mostly scenarios where my lungs finally give out on me or whatnot … SO when my thigh bone decided to snap in half like a twig for no apparent reason in early October, I felt like my body completely blindsided me in a way I had never considered before. It really was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever encountered.

Supposedly, the human femur is the strongest bone in the body and usually only breaks due to a heavy impact. That theory doesn’t hold true for me. I don’t have an exciting story about how my leg broke, like a car collision or sporting accident, because my leg decided to crack while being slightly jostled around for bathrooming purposes. In case anyone was ever curious, the sound that a bone makes when it breaks is one of the most traumatizing sounds to hear. It resembled a snapping branch or something along those lines. I’m hoping that eventually this particular sound will leave my memory because at this point, I can still hear it like it just happened. I am fairly certain that I heard my leg break before I felt it, but about 20 seconds into the chaos, I experienced a type of pain that made me nauseous and sucked the air from your lungs. I feel confident that I have experienced a variety of physical pain throughout my life, but this … this was something altogether different and more intense than anything I have had to deal with before.

I have no idea how I survived being transferred from my bed to the ambulance stretcher because the pain that shot up through my leg upon being moved was intensely excruciating. I also don’t know how I survived having to do the initial x-rays upon arriving at the emergency room. In order to get the correct images, they required my leg to first be splayed out and then closed and straightened. I don’t remember much of that ordeal, but I do know that I couldn’t stop crying and calling out for my mom. It might sound stupid to some, but whenever I am admitted into the hospital, it’s as if I emotionally revert back to the ‘child-version’ of myself, and as a sick, fragile kid being poked and prodded endlessly, I always called out to my mother. She has always been my base of strength, and to this day, the word ‘mommy’ is uttered when I’m in agony and helpless in a hospital setting. After surviving that spurt of torture, I finally received an IV with some powerful pain killers that didn’t actually ‘kill’ anything while we waited overnight in the ER as the medical team tried to figure out what course of action to take once those x-rays showed the extent of damage to my leg. It was a complete, displaced fracture (see the image if you need a visual), and it was pretty clear that surgery was going to be my only option. The idea of having to go under general anesthesia was super scary for me as that would mean that I would need to be intubated (intubate: to insert a tube into the trachea for ventilation) during the operation which would likely weaken my lungs to the point where I would be forced to receive a tracheotomy. I’ve been fighting this outcome for the last 16 years for reasons I’ve mentioned in a previous blog, but I was sure this injury was going to be my downfall, my ‘kryptonite’ if you will. Lots of tears were shed that night alone, not just because of pain, but because I didn’t know what to do or what was going to happen. In addition to considering my breathing status during a surgery and my wishes in regards to that, the ER team also faced another dilemma that made this whole situation more complicated: my bones failed to develop fully and my femur alone was the size of a 3-or-4 year old with severe osteoporosis. Essentially, this meant that if a surgeon tried to repair my leg the way they would for a ‘typical’ 26 year old (with plates, screws, etc.), my bone would probably shatter further and wouldn’t be capable of holding the hardware in place. The whole situation kept getting more complicated as the hours unfolded and since the team of doctors didn’t have a set plan on how to move forward yet, it was decided that they would place my leg in a splint in the meantime to keep it as straight as possible. The process of splinting my broken leg felt like a medieval torture technique and I remember the room spinning while I tried to keep it together. This was just the first 24 hours and already I felt utterly shattered in ways that went beyond just a bone.

Barely Surviving

I spent five days in a leg splint, five days of crying and screaming (or what would have been a scream without being on a ventilator) every single time that I was forced to move to prevent bedsores. Five days of helplessly watching as life once again broke my spirit. Five days of wondering how this was going to play out for me, of questioning why this had to happen to me at a time when I had decided to return to school to pursue a Masters degree. My heart broke a little when I had to dictate emails to professors telling them that I was stuck in a hospital and would no longer be in class, asking them to ‘drop’ me, and remembering that I was currently carrying all A’s. In between the bouts of excruciating pain and nurses coming in and out of my room to administer drugs or mess with me in some way, my mind had tons of time to drift into some dark places. Even though it hadn’t been confirmed yet, I knew surgery was going to happen. I was convinced that a broken bone was going to be the reason I’d have to get a trache[otomy] and that this would be the start of a life where I probably wouldn’t be able to talk or swallow food because my luck is like that. I had been fighting this reality for years and there I was, about to lose the fight finally. I knew I didn’t really have a choice at this point, but I also knew that this wasn’t the life I’d be okay with in the long run if my worst-case scenario played out the way I believed it would. These are the types of thoughts that floated around my head in the late hours of the night along with ‘Oh MY God, this pain is incredibly intense! Holy shit!’ and ‘What did I do in a past life to deserve this much agony and struggle within a 26-year timeframe?’

After a couple of days of waiting, I was finally visited by a pediatric orthopedic surgeon who felt confident that she could fix my itty bitty bone with some flexible titanium wires. While I was relieved that we had a tangible plan on how to proceed, the complexities of my breathing were still a lingering dark cloud. According to the surgeon, it would be a fairly simple procedure and she wouldn’t be opposed to operating on me while using an alternative to general anesthesia if her pediatric anesthetic team felt it could be done safely. (I was 26 years old with a whole team of ‘kiddie’ doctors…that was pretty amusing.) It felt awesome having medical professionals actually acknowledge my wishes regarding my respiratory status and make attempts to work within those wishes. There were discussions of performing an epidural to avoid putting me under, but that was a far reach being that my scoliosis was so severe that placing the needle correctly would be difficult, if not impossible. They assured me that they would look into all available options, but if push came to shove, we’d fall back on general anesthesia. Though terrified of the unknown, I was ready to be ‘fixed’. The constant pain had me barely hanging on to my sanity and I was sure that I was not that far from losing my damn mind.

The Big Day…Finally

The day finally arrived, though we didn’t have a set surgery time to anticipate because I was being ‘squeezed-in’ on the schedule. Waiting was tortuous. Hours passed and the anesthesia team finally came up to have one final chat with me about the plan. I was told that the epidural option was completely off the table and that general anesthesia with intubation was the plan. When it came time for me to breathe on my own after surgery, I would have to give it a good fight. Honestly, I already felt defeated. Being taken from my hospital room to the OR felt like the longest jaunt and all I kept thinking was, “Please don’t let this be the end of my life as I’ve known it…I still have so many things that I want to experience before I become the ‘sick, voiceless, home-bound’ cripple…Please help me out here, God.” I was terrified. Once I arrived at the entrance to the ‘off-limits’ area with my entourage of people I love, the surgeon, anesthesiologists, and nurses were waiting for me. Plans had changed a bit…surgery would first be attempted with me fully awake using a femoral nerve block and some light sedative. You have no idea how relieved I was, yet simultaneously freaking out over the fact that I would be conscious through something that usually happens while people are in a nice drug-induced sleep. After saying my ‘see-you-laters’ to my people, I was whisked off. I’ve had surgeries before, but haven’t ever remembered much of the experiences at all. Once I entered the surgical unit, I couldn’t believe how freaking cold it was back there, or how creepily sterile it smelled. I kept thinking that this was probably what a morgue felt like. All the machinery and bright lights were intimidating and scary, and I secretly wished walkie-talkies or something were allowed back there with patients so I could get reassurance from my ‘circle of comfort’ – those three people that should know who they are without needing to be named. Since that wasn’t possible, I heavily relied on my inner voice to calm my nerves. Luckily, my surgeon and anesthesiologists, used to dealing with scared little kids (and honestly, I had been reduced to a scared little kid), talked me through every step which helped ease my nerves a bit.

Before being transferred from the hospital bed onto the operating table, the nerve block team had to work their magic so that I wouldn’t have to feel my leg flop around during the transfer. I was given some valium intravenously and then it was time to jump this first hurdle. My upper thigh was first sterilized, then some lidocaine was injected in the general area. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel the familiar sting that usually accompanies lidocaine injections. Maybe because I was too distracted by my fear. An ultrasound device was then used to locate the femoral nerve before a needle was directly inserted into it, injecting some form of anesthesia. It took the technician two tries to insert the needle because he pushed it too far the first time. While this sounds like it should have hurt a great deal, it wasn't as bad as I expected. After a couple of minutes passed and my leg numbed up as best as possible, I was transferred to the metal slab. I was given a few more IV drugs and covered with some sort of blue tarp-thing so I couldn’t see what the hell was happening around me. Despite the number of medications they gave me to keep me semi-sedated, I was still very alert and able to converse with the team. I’m guessing a few minutes passed uneventfully until I suddenly felt a sharp, shifting pain mid-thigh and I started screaming. (I didn’t know it at the time, but I was on a traction table and I was feeling them ‘reset’ the bone. Cool, huh?) I heard my surgeon tell the anesthesiologists to give me something more…like a lot more.

That instant shock of pain had me fairly stunned and though I heard everything being said, I wasn’t fully processing the information. I saw them inject me with something and almost instantly, everything became hazy and amplified. I couldn’t blink or feel my face and it felt like I was completely paralyzed. (Well, more ‘paralyzed’ than I already am on a daily basis.) It’s a very strange experience to explain and nothing I can say will do it justice. Whatever medication that was administered was incredibly powerful and it deeply blurred the line between what was real and what was not as my mind went to some weird scenarios that felt very real in the moment. There was no way that I was helping my sister plan her wedding or having a full on conversation with my dog, but that’s where my subconscious took me at some point. For some reason, the anesthesiologists were trying to make ‘small-talk’with me (I hate small talk) while I was higher than a kite and asked how many tattoos I had. I understood the question (though I instantly thought, ‘Why in the hell are you asking me this? I’m having surgery, I’m awake, I’m terrified, and my brain isn’t fully functioning. Don’t talk to me about trivial shit right now.’), and I swear that I managed to simply answer, ‘9’. Come to find out, I gave a more colorful answer, showcasing the ‘real’ inner me, and said ‘I don’t f*****g know’ instead. I said this to the folks that were in charge of putting me back together…bold, yeah? No, but really, I had no idea what was coming out of my mouth during that hour and 45 minute operation.

I made it through without any complications and I did it awake like some superhuman freak. The surgical team was in awe (hell, I’m in awe) that I pulled it off and that I stayed awake through the whole thing despite the amount of drugs I received. (This whole experience in the hospital uncovered my unusually high tolerance to a variety of medications. Maybe I’m really not human after all…) Though I can’t remember anything in particular, they said that I had everyone in the OR laughing with the stuff I was saying. I can only imagine, and under normal circumstances, I probably would have been mortified to know I was running my mouth, but I was (still am) too damn relieved that it went so well to care. I’m actually glad that I could provide them some comedic entertainment while they worked. I mean, how often do surgical teams get to work on a patient that is alert and responsive?

Attempting to Recover

I had surgery on a Wednesday and was then released two days later, after a total of seven days. I was ready to get back to my ‘habitat’ and figured that I could heal much faster at home. The general pain drastically decreased after surgery, but I still had to deal with the burning incisions, extremely tight hip muscles that ‘popped’ whenever I moved causing deep aches, muscle spasms, and the inability to bend my knee past a certain point before experiencing sharp, stabbing pain. All of that made it difficult to both transfer into my wheelchair and sit in it properly, so I made it home by those non-emergency medical transport services.

Once I was home, I think we all became very aware of how long this recovery would take and how trying it would be. It was great to be home and to finally see my doggy, even though we had to be physically separated (he couldn’t snuggle me like usual) for weeks while the bone healed. That was emotional torture in itself. We (carers, mom, me) had to relearn how to move my body while being subconsciously aware that any of my bones could potentially break one of these days, without any impact needed. The ways in which I had been accustomed to doing my daily tasks for 80% of my life, from going to the bathroom to getting pants on, became frustratingly challenging. I remained bedridden for a few weeks after the operation and my days became long and dark and riddled with pain that wasn’t seeming to subside. My world felt like it shrunk in size, like the Universe had taken more from me again. I just wanted to crawl beneath a boulder and fade away into existence. Obviously, that hasn’t happened. Yet, there have been far too many days I wished it would.

Fast-Forward to…March 30, 2018

It’s been a bit over 5 months since this upheaval began. On Monday, I will be going back to that lovely operating room again (wide awake) in hopes that I will be able to gain a semblance of the ‘mostly’ pain-free life I once had. While my bone healed beautifully, we realized the left side wire in the bone was protruding out into the surrounding tissues in my knee. This wire is the reason for surgery #2. I get stabbed in the knee on a daily basis and my leg just generally ‘sucks’ so much more now than when it used to just be a useless limb. Now it’s painful and useless.

I’m not entirely sure why, but the physical pain of this ordeal wore me down emotionally. Lots of feelings and emotions have had time to surface and dealing with them has been its’ own struggle. Somewhere in the past few months, the strong, ‘brave’, seemingly indestructible version of Priscilla that we’ve all come to know and love has disappeared and been replaced by a tired, emotionally-broken version. I’m trying to find the original version and bring her back, but until then… I’m only human. And humans break sometimes.

So now, after reading about 3,250 words, you are up-to-date and can see why I vanished from the blog. If you want to delve a bit deeper into my head…this song has been at the top of my playlist for some time now.

See you all after Monday’s battle. Maybe send me some prayers or good juju or peaceful vibes, or whatever positive sentiments you can spare. I sure could use ‘em. (I could use some extra love just in general.) Bye for now.