After the surgery, when I was transferred to the Recovery Room, Cy, the sweetest and most compassionate nurse, found a real bed for me. I could raise it by pressing a button, which I did promptly – I was concerned about not being able to swallow my post-nasal drip and saliva. Then, when I was transferred to the ICU, I asked the night nurse to help me sit up. When I woke up the next morning, my arm and hand looked very different from what I remembered prior to the surgery: they were bent at the elbow and the wrist, and my fingers were closed. What‘s more, both felt very weak. When I recovered and my sutures evolved as expected, I was discharged with a PICC line, an extension tube, and a vial of Oxacillin in order to finish the course of antibiotic. As time went by, I kept doing what I usually do: reading and writing, having lunch, doing my exercises, and resting. There were some changes, though, because Oxacillin is quite strong and it tired me, and because I had a PICC line in my left arm.
Gradually, my arm and hand got increasingly weaker; I couldn’t “feel” where my arm was; I had a hard time moving my leg and couldn’t balance; I couldn’t find the words to speak, either in Spanish or in English; I couldn’t distinguish left from right; and I lost vision with my left eye. At first I thought it was a setback caused by the surgery and it would go away soon. But it never went away: it just got worse. When Kelly, my occupational therapist came to work with me, she advised us to call my neurosurgeon’s office. Eric did so, and the nurse called him back to say that he should drive me to the ER.
We went there the next morning, and they did a CAT Scan to know if I’d had another hemorrhage. The image was clean. So, I had a brain MRI, and it showed no infection. It was 7:30 in the evening. The neurosurgeons came in and said that since there was no sign of a stroke, it was time for the neurologists to decide, but in the meantime they wanted to do an experiment. They asked me to lie down in the stretcher, and I agreed despite my discomfort and nervousness. The woman neurosurgeon lowered the back of the stretcher, and we waited for about fifteen minutes. When the fifteen minutes were over, my English became fluent. Eric and I were relieved, and the neurosurgeons had proved their hypothesis: taking out the bone plate had caused my brain to go up. So, when I sat up, the blood couldn’t reach it. That was the reason for my gradual loss of brain function. The nurse rolled me back to the ER “room,” and I stayed there lying down flat for the rest of the evening. Then, a neurologist came to tell me that the doctors had decided to discharge me. I’d never felt so happy in my life. Eric came to get me at 2:30 in the morning under pouring rain. We were home at 4:30 and went to bed at 5 AM. Eric said, “I’m happy you’re back home.” “Me, too,” I answered.
Now my arm and wrist are stretched; I recovered my balance and the use of my leg; I can flex my foot; I can feel my hand and know where it is; my left vision is back; I know what’s left and what’s right; and best of all, I can speak fluently both in English and in Spanish! There’s only one throwback: I have to spend most of the day, and sleep, lying down. But that will be over once the neurosurgeon puts the bone plate back in its place. Although that’s a topic for another chapter…
Gradually, my arm and hand got increasingly weaker; I couldn’t “feel” where my arm was; I had a hard time moving my leg and couldn’t balance; I couldn’t find the words to speak, either in Spanish or in English; I couldn’t distinguish left from right; and I lost vision with my left eye. At first I thought it was a setback caused by the surgery and it would go away soon. But it never went away: it just got worse. When Kelly, my occupational therapist came to work with me, she advised us to call my neurosurgeon’s office. Eric did so, and the nurse called him back to say that he should drive me to the ER.
We went there the next morning, and they did a CAT Scan to know if I’d had another hemorrhage. The image was clean. So, I had a brain MRI, and it showed no infection. It was 7:30 in the evening. The neurosurgeons came in and said that since there was no sign of a stroke, it was time for the neurologists to decide, but in the meantime they wanted to do an experiment. They asked me to lie down in the stretcher, and I agreed despite my discomfort and nervousness. The woman neurosurgeon lowered the back of the stretcher, and we waited for about fifteen minutes. When the fifteen minutes were over, my English became fluent. Eric and I were relieved, and the neurosurgeons had proved their hypothesis: taking out the bone plate had caused my brain to go up. So, when I sat up, the blood couldn’t reach it. That was the reason for my gradual loss of brain function. The nurse rolled me back to the ER “room,” and I stayed there lying down flat for the rest of the evening. Then, a neurologist came to tell me that the doctors had decided to discharge me. I’d never felt so happy in my life. Eric came to get me at 2:30 in the morning under pouring rain. We were home at 4:30 and went to bed at 5 AM. Eric said, “I’m happy you’re back home.” “Me, too,” I answered.
Now my arm and wrist are stretched; I recovered my balance and the use of my leg; I can flex my foot; I can feel my hand and know where it is; my left vision is back; I know what’s left and what’s right; and best of all, I can speak fluently both in English and in Spanish! There’s only one throwback: I have to spend most of the day, and sleep, lying down. But that will be over once the neurosurgeon puts the bone plate back in its place. Although that’s a topic for another chapter…
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