Chicken Soup

““I am of certain convinced that the greatest heroes
are those who do their duty in the daily grind of domestic affairs
whilst the world whirls as a maddening dreidel.

― Florence Nightingale

For Kaitlan and Elizabeth…

It's hard to screw up chicken soup. If that's on the menu at a hospital I highly recommend the choice.  I pulled an ace today when I ordered the chicken soup and the chicken tenders.  Maybe this is already known in the culinary business, but I think dipping the chicken tenders in the chicken soup is a pure stroke and genius.  I don’t want the credit.  I mean it's not like I accidentally mixed peanut butter and chocolate together…it's more like stumbling upon a food that's too wet with  food that's too dry and coming out with one that's  just right. Kind of like when Goldilock’s burned her mouth on Papa Bear's porridge. She figured it out and then it was all just right…

That gives me a good idea for dessert.  I've been ordering the knock off Blue Bell ice cream called Blue Bunny in the vanilla cup.  I've got some contraband Twix bars that showed up during a smuggling operation when a friend visited.  I'm thinking about dipping those Twix into the softened ice cream…it's hard to get cold ice cream at a hospital. The cup is always pretty soft and melted by the time it arrives.  That sounds a lot closer to a winning combination which I will now call my Goldilocks search for suitable hospital food.  I've got one more, it involves a  chicken breast, a side of rice, and a small side salad.  You get the idea. Just right.  Maybe I'll write a hospital cookbook while I'm here.  I'm fantasizing about these little wins.  I'm still pissing in a bottle. Little wins help.

At least here at the rehabilitation center everyone takes their job seriously…since I got here the sheets on my bed have been changed every single day.  If that's a hospital protocol somebody needs to tell Fairfax Abysmal.  The bedding in that cell was never changed.  Six days in that same bed and it was getting ripe.   How do I know?  I never left that observation cell until I was rolled out on a gurney to be moved to the rehab experimentation center.  

Another major victory for the rehab center is I’ve that I've had my second shower.  Having  gone 10 days without one and now having had 2 in a row is something to write home about…so here you go.  I think I'll go for a third shower tomorrow.  My OT, we will call her Elizabeth, doesn't seem to mind.  In fact showers are in their job jar…they're called activities for daily living or ADLs. I keep having to look that one up. My dyslexia makes me wanna see Latter-Day Saints in that acronym.  Apart from the ridiculously low water pressure my showers have been lovely.  I never got a shower back in Fairfax Abysmal. I washed myself once at that place…in the sink.  I think an OT helped me out.  Those poor slobs must be helping aliens bathe on other planets too.

Back here at Folsom,  the OT’s job the entire hour was to get me into and out of the job safely.  And try not to stare at my pecker in the process.  They have it figured out.  They can do it in a highly successful and private manner.  Never once, would I have to have that embarrassing conversation with  her.  “I’m a grower not a show-er”.  Basically, the way it goes down is that they first make sure you are wearing the very sticky shower slippers.  They can be completely wet but still hold the tile like slicks at the Brickyard.  Then they transfer you…or get you seated on the shower bench in your undies.  They use a lot of towels…they seem to be everywhere.  I think it has to do with not letting any surface have water that might be slippery.  Then the curtain is drawn.  Then you remove your undies.  If you so desire you can place a towel over your manhood. I did not so desire. At this point she sticks her hand behind the curtain to turn on the water.  You are instructed not to get up but rather use the shower hose to do all of your biddings.  She continues to adjust the water until it’s the proper temperature and then she stands outside the stall, on the other side of the curtain, and hopes like hell that you don’t do something stupid. I don’t think it was my imagination, however, that one time when she reached behind the curtain, her head glanced in my direction.  The white’s of her eyes seemed to widen just a little bit.

I’ve been settling into the therapeutic grind of this place.  The rule seems to be three hours of therapy of some sort each day.  I’ve only gotten to do Physical Therapy (PT), that's the piece that’s supposed to cure me with conservative care. And I have to work with the OT on other things beyond just ADL.  Activities for Daily Living, I had to look that up, again. OT is the piece that’s supposed to help me when they kick me out of here and I have to live in a wheelchair the rest of my life.  In a perfect world, I guess, I would be cured by the PT and wouldn’t have to live with the OT. In a way they are diametrically opposed professions.  I’m surprised fights don’t break out in the therapy rooms. Note to self, try to instigate fight in break room between OT and PT.   

Another type of correctional activity is Speech Therapy (ST) which I don’t have to take.  And that one is the one where they make sure you can eat your food or drink your drink without aspiration. Aspiration is the act of sucking your food or drink back into your lungs. It's not hoping your food or drimk wins a gold medal.   It involves thickening agents and other strange magic.   I’ve  also discovered that they have yet another correctional opportunity called.  Recreational Health Therapy (RT).  I am a little disappointed that I haven’t been invited into that one.  I'm still trying to figure out what they do there.  I wouldn’t mind a little recreational health going on while on the inside. 

PT, however, is what this place does.  The PTs are the fighter pilots of the rehabilitation center.  If you are going to get better, you are going to push the limits of what your human body can currently achieve and its the PT's that run that show. 

Philosophies differ, and we all know there are thousands of unconventional methods out there they claim to be the ticket to rehabilitation.  But my PT is in charge of my program.  My PT, we will call her Kaitlin, has been beating me up for a few days in a row now.  She's dedicated to her profession.  No Florence Nightingale situations are developing with her.  I hate her.  Her job is to hurt me.  This is what will make you better…if you can get better.

In my case however, we already know it hurts, because pain is the reason I can’t walk.  If it didn't hurt to walk I would walk. So there's some irony in watching myself dip into pain as I try to walk.   I’ll keep trying but it’s pretty clear to me my pain stems from a mechanical issue.  We can't will that mechanical issue to fix itself.  If it heals itself, that’s one thing, but here at Folsom are not engaged in a mechanical fix.  We are engaged in a, “Let’s see if we can walk today”.  Kind of a fix.  Well, no.  I can't walk today.  OK, let’s get up a little slower, and then put a little more pain on it here, and maybe tomorrow you will do slightly better.  And we progress from there.  I’m not saying I don’t have a positive attitude about  all this and don’t want to get better.  I do.  Everyone knows that if you go into your recovery with a positive attitude you will achieve a much better outcome. It’s stupid not to be positive about it.  So I smile.  I say good morning.  And then we dive into more pain.    

I think Kaitlin has a good handle on the business because she seems disappointed when I say I don't think the PT is going to be successful. But she counters with, it thats true, she will build a case for the mechanical fix, ie surgery to prove it.  To date she is the only one who has shown definitive weakness in my Great Toe--the one that went to the market.  This is the smoking gun to say the pinched nerve is at the L45.  She's already found it. We are done here.  But she's also focused on getting me up and walking the old fashion way.  In order to do that she has to take considerable weight off of my fat frame…which weighs in at about 198 lbs.  Given my height, that puts my BMI at a 27.  I read that staring at a chart on the wall today--but I digress.  

Kaitlin is involved with doing the calculations so that she can put me in a harness and into the Zero-G machine.  A device that rides on a track above the therapy center floor and lets you walk around at less than your own body weight. Normally this would sound fun if I could bounce around at my moon weight. But they don't let you do that.  My problem isn’t one of weight, it’s one of alignment.  If my body is in perfect alignment then the nerve in my L45 is not pinched.  If I'm out of alignment, and the nerve is pinched, it’s game over. Today, however, was a special day.  Today is the day I’m supposed to be at maximum effect from the mega dose of Decatron steroid I am on.  I, of course, didn’t walk.  Couldn’t even stand. What I can report is that my body is loose.  All the joints feel as if I am some sort of large puppet on a multitude of strings.  Nothing should be tugging additionally at places they shouldn’t.  If today was maximum effect, I think think tomorrow things will start going in the wrong direction. Kaitlin will be sad.  But I'll be one step closer to the surgery that I need.

After therapy and a visit from a good friend who brought Rockland’s for lunch but more importantly is heading out to South Carolina next weekend to try out for the US Soccer Association's Men's over 40 World Cup Team…I shit you not--another Superman…I've taken my recovery into my own hands. 

I scheduled an appointment to get a second surgical opinion. If you're inside a health system they hate the second opinion. Basically I'm going to have to pay for some of this out of my own pocket including the trip in the Uber medical transportation van.  It's just like an Uber but the round trip cost you $356 bucks. Someone figured out how to strap a wheelchair into the back of a minivan-- genius.  

So at the appointed hour I was picked up by the service and driven across town. The destination was to meet with a physician's assistant working for an osteopathic spinal surgeon for the stars. I met with her…her job was to teach me everything I needed to know in order to speak to the surgeon. ”They are very busy” is what she said.  I wouldn't be able to speak with the actual surgeon until mid-September. What the ever living fuck? That was a complete waste of time. I've now officially met with four PAs and not a single surgeon with regard to my back condition. I literally haven't even talked with one. I've got another appointment tomorrow. I am meeting with a real surgeon. I'll let you know how that goes. 

When I came out from that appointment I discovered that the $356 bucks for the round trip Uber doesn't include him waiting for me. I had to call the service and was told 45 minutes for their return. That wouldn't be so bad except this is the first time I've been in public in the wheelchair. And I was by myself…and I was alone in big, strange city…I love chair.  When I made it back too the rehabilitation center, after an episode of road rage and a police escort, details available upon request.  The staff at rehabilitation island were particularly horrified. I don't think they're going to let me off my leash as much tomorrow.

I am looking forward to tomorrow…as I count down my checklist there's not much more that can threaten me.  Given the preponderance of all practical evidence I am caught up in a system that doesn’t seem to know shit from Shinola.  They are at least running out of Shinola.

“So here we are”, as I have said. 

“So it goes”, as Vonnegut has said.   “Borne back ceaselessly into the past”, as Fitzgerald has said.

“Control yourself, take only what you need from it”, as Instagram is now saying.

They are all correct…