You read about him, but will never be him. Right?
“Hunter injured in fall from tree stand.” I’d be willing to bet you have read that line or one similar a few times. Do an internet search of it. The stories are everywhere there are hunters in the woods. “Tree stand fall injures man,” “hunter found after fall,” you pretty much know the rest of the story. I know I do. And if you’ve read some of my other stories you know mine. But there’s more to the story.
I’m not sure there was ever a headline about my fall. Had there been I would read it over again to remind myself that I had become that guy somebody else read about. Does anyone ever follow up on the story of that guy? Did the paper or the t.v. station ever tell you weeks, or months later how they were? I think it would help if we had heard those stories or even the stories from the families whose husband, son, brother, mom, sister did not survive their fall. The damage done does not end with the fall and the ambulance ride details you hear on the news. No, it extends long beyond and affects everyone around us. We don’t know what we are risking sometimes. That guy on the news didn’t truly know. I didn’t either.
Things the news never covers
I spent a total of 30 days in two places following my ambulance ride and air lift. The first two weeks in the Neurology department on the seventh floor of University Hospital was my home. Thankfully I do not remember the food. I also remember nothing about the t.v. and very little about the room itself except that it was cold. Yes, ironically they couldn’t get the heat working correctly. It’s possible that it was only I who was cold. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind and I had nerve damage and was heavily medicated.
While in their care there was a constant parade of med students and nurses performing blood clot shots, taking vitals, testing what I could feel and not feel in my feet. I felt like a lab rat being subjected to sleep deprivation test. I exaggerate some because I know I spent most of the first days drifting in and out of consciousness. My friends would sit hours while I slept. I would wake, mutter something incoherent and fall back into the arms of the opioids. When I was awake the pain was not completely subdued by meds. I was always on the verge of tears, I kept a lot of that to myself not wanting my wife, my parents or my friends to feel even worse.
I required three surgeries over six days as they attempted to piece me back together. At one point the spine specialist surgeon sat with my parents and me explaining that he didn’t expect I would ever walk again and I should brace for that fact. My parents and I cried. It was as painful to watch them crying as it was facing the possibility I would lose the use of my legs. I know they left that night, went to the hotel and cried as they prayed. I never told my wife this until later. She had enough to think about. I kept this to myself for a while. They don’t write about that kind of pain in the paper or on the news. Miracles seemed to be everywhere. I took my first steps since October 5 the day I woke from surgery. The pain that I thought would kill me, that I felt would keep me from every standing again, was reduced to a tolerable fire under control of medications.
A good number my friends and family visited but I couldn’t expect anyone to stay long. I drifted in and out of consciousness so much that I forgot for some time who did come to see me. I would wake up, mutter some gibberish and go back to sleep. One particular day between surgeries I woke to see three of my best friends sitting side by side next to my bed. I don’t know if I can ever express to them how much it meant to know that though I was a sleep they spent time just sitting with me. I am also surprised those three didn’t write on my face and body some depraved joke they thought was funny with a sharpie , or possibly shave my eyebrows. They probably are reading this saying, “shit! we should’ve thought of that.”
The last thing I ever want to be is a burden
My wife could not take leave from her job. That was understood, she was the only one to do it and had no other choice but to drive ninety miles back and forth almost daily. She brought work with her to try and keep up the pace. And slept in a chair when she needed to. My parents, who were in their upper eighties, also drove several times. Their drive was two hours plus. They would sit all day in God awful hospital chairs that were probably left over instruments from the Spanish inquisitions and stay overnight in a hotel. Brothers, sisters, friends from high school I hadn’t seen in years, other trauma survivors from home and more all drove hours to cheer me up. For just that reason, I was, in fact, a burden. I wasn’t the only one suffering. I put a lot of people through hell with one moment of carelessness. To say I was angry with myself is a gross understatement. I still deal with that anger to this day. I suspect I always will to some degree.
WARNING! It’s going to get unpleasant here. I’m not holding back.
Unless you have spent time recovering from major surgery or with someone who has you don’t think about how they shut down your systems while cutting you open. Maybe those functions will return to functioning or maybe not is another hurdle you face. I mention that because for nine days I did not relieve my bowels. It was a major point of concern for my doctors and nurses. The nurses tried most everything short of a plunger or liquid plumber. Being in that condition only added to my discomfort and frustration. By that ninth day I should tell you I had been stripped of all modesty, dignity and concern for personal privacy of any sort. My body was an open book for all to investigate. I got used to being “injected, inspected, detected, infected, neglected and selected” to borrow a line from Arlo Guthrie. So when without notice my bowels decided they had rested long enough, I had no problem telling everyone it was coming and calling for the nurses. I didn’t know what to think. I certain didn’t expect what happened next. They calmly just threw sheets down on the floor and just let it happen. I stood there, holding their hands for stability, and the gates of hell opened. Gross! Told you I would get graphic. Minutes passed before I was done. It was by far the most disgusting thing I had ever done in my life. I offered to buy the nurses new shoes but they laughed as though this happened a lot. One of my favorites told me they keep a locker full of shoes on this floor. To this day I think they should have sealed off that room, taken a Molotov cocktail and tossed it in. I really can’t believe I shared this. Truth is, I could have gone into further detail but you get the picture and I think you’ve heard enough.
Though I have two sisters who are nurses I never knew nurses did so much until I was in their care. They literally did everything for me that I needed. I think they might have the toughest job on the planet. I see Victoria and Karen so differently now.
It took two weeks on the 7th floor before I was expelled from the hospital. They were very anxious to discharge me. Imagine that. I had stayed longer than a usual patient (overstayed my welcome maybe) and I needed to be up out of bed and learning to walk again somewhere other than the neuro unit of M.U. My new digs would be Rusk Rehabilitation Hospital. I heard so much about Rusk, I was happy I got in there. Not everyone does. So I was shipped off to a new room and new adventures. I think I’m going to put that experience in the next entry. There simply is too much to tell about in just one go. Let’s just call this Being that guy; Part one.
See you on the next page,
Tim
