First week on my own. The feeling I had on Saturday morning when I woke was the same I used to get when I was a teenager and my folks had gone somewhere for the weekend. There is a stillness that seems amplified by the fact that you are the only one in the house. Every disturbance is concentrated: house cracks are louder, clocks have thunderous ticks and even the fridge compressor wines to its high pitch and then stops with an echo.
My chest is feeling much better these days so I can actually sit straight up without the protective tuck or roll I was required to do for the first month. As I sat up in bed, bug eyed and disoriented, the cobwebs started to dissipate and all my plans for the day, the week and the month started to flood my brain. I started to itemize all the errands I would do (with the truck), I figured out when I would do my walks, I started meal planning for the week and for about an hour I sat their thinking about doing stuff. When I finally got out of bed, I did the walk around. You know, you walk around your house almost like you want to make sure everyone is gone and you're alone. I used to do this every time my folks left me alone.
With my action plan ruminating in my brains I took care of the first order of business: Latte. During my recovery, for some reason or another, I decided I wasn't going to hit the espresso maker. I fired up the Rancilio, grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and proceeded with my coffee morning ritual. Things are getting back to normal.
This week was more Rehab sessions. The sessions themselves are designed for people who are 50+ in age and unfamiliar with exercise and healthy living. That means that I don't fit in very well, but the way I look at it, I'll see how adaptive they are with their program for a 37 year old that knows about training plans, diet logs and periodization. So far the physiotherapist have been pretty conservative, but I'm still technically in my eight week healing period. I have Rehab every Monday and Wednesday. The sessions consist of a consultation (5min) with the Physio, an aerobic workout (40 min), a set of cool down exercises consisting of weights and stretching and then a "talk" about some healthy exercise topic (i.e. hydration). During the exercises portion of my sessions this week I had to use 1lb weights (thats right one (1) pound) because I'm still in the healing period. Fortunately I have checked my ego permanently at the door of the OHI.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Home - Week 7 - One final game
From my first day of recovery I have been terrified of the possibility that my chest bone (sternum) doesn't heal properly. The healthcare team has warned me with every movement that I must be careful not to disturb the healing of my chest. The consequences are painful and repair is unlikely. I can't lift anything greater than 5 pounds. I have to be careful when twisting in bed. When I sneeze, laugh, cough or yawn I need to cross my arms in front of my chest. At the beginning the amount of pain I was felt any time I moved my chest was reinforcement enough. After a while though, the pain wasn't so bad, but by then I was fully brainwashed to protect my chest at all costs.
The healing schedule for my chest, as described by the physiotherapist, is the following: after 4 weeks the bone begins to mend, after 6 weeks the bone can withstand movement, and after 8 weeks the bone is healed. When I met with the surgeon 2 weeks ago he said the x-rays showed the bone was healing and everything was good. I was still pretty worried because I was still having pains in my chest and occasionally I'd get a popping of bones around the sternum. It was nothing too significant, more like a knuckle crack. This week I decided to call the nursing coordinator (NC) at the OHI to confirm that I could start driving and to ask some questions about my chest.
Once I was on line with the NC I gave her my name and surgery date. She said, "oh ya you're a young fella aren't ya".
I acknowledged that I was young from a certain perspective and then proceeded to ask about the driving. She answered, "how do you feel and how are your walks going?"
To which I replied "I feel good, I still have some numbness and soreness in the chest. I'm doing 2-40min walks a day".
She then says "OK you can drive".
"That simple?", I say.
She says, "yup".
Feeling good about the driving I then started telling her about my worries that my chest may not be healing correctly. She replied "when you look down at your chest and breath in, does one side come up before the other?"
"That simple?", I say.
She says, "yup".
I say good bye and hang up. Of course the first thing I do is look down at my chest and breath in. Both sides came up at the same time. All is well and I am ready to drive.
Today (Friday) is my mom's last day here. After suffering through another night of insomnia, I woke late and went in to pick up my truck. It was a little funny to start driving, but not as foreign as I thought it would be. When I returned home, my and I had lunch and then decided to play a game of crib. One final game. As it turned out with the time line my mom set for herself in combination with a couple of interruptions we weren't able to finish the game. As much as I need to move on to the next step of recovery, I'm going to miss having my mom and dad around. Very few of us get to spend 8 solid weeks with our parents anymore. We're all too busy. I'm glad the game was left unfinished. Too me we didn't say "good bye", we just said "until next time".
The healing schedule for my chest, as described by the physiotherapist, is the following: after 4 weeks the bone begins to mend, after 6 weeks the bone can withstand movement, and after 8 weeks the bone is healed. When I met with the surgeon 2 weeks ago he said the x-rays showed the bone was healing and everything was good. I was still pretty worried because I was still having pains in my chest and occasionally I'd get a popping of bones around the sternum. It was nothing too significant, more like a knuckle crack. This week I decided to call the nursing coordinator (NC) at the OHI to confirm that I could start driving and to ask some questions about my chest.
Once I was on line with the NC I gave her my name and surgery date. She said, "oh ya you're a young fella aren't ya".
I acknowledged that I was young from a certain perspective and then proceeded to ask about the driving. She answered, "how do you feel and how are your walks going?"
To which I replied "I feel good, I still have some numbness and soreness in the chest. I'm doing 2-40min walks a day".
She then says "OK you can drive".
"That simple?", I say.
She says, "yup".
Feeling good about the driving I then started telling her about my worries that my chest may not be healing correctly. She replied "when you look down at your chest and breath in, does one side come up before the other?"
"That simple?", I say.
She says, "yup".
I say good bye and hang up. Of course the first thing I do is look down at my chest and breath in. Both sides came up at the same time. All is well and I am ready to drive.
Today (Friday) is my mom's last day here. After suffering through another night of insomnia, I woke late and went in to pick up my truck. It was a little funny to start driving, but not as foreign as I thought it would be. When I returned home, my and I had lunch and then decided to play a game of crib. One final game. As it turned out with the time line my mom set for herself in combination with a couple of interruptions we weren't able to finish the game. As much as I need to move on to the next step of recovery, I'm going to miss having my mom and dad around. Very few of us get to spend 8 solid weeks with our parents anymore. We're all too busy. I'm glad the game was left unfinished. Too me we didn't say "good bye", we just said "until next time".
Friday, April 11, 2008
Home - Week 6 - A flicker of light
When I was 9 years old our family moved into our first house. The biggest and most novel feature of this new house was a fireplace on the main floor and a slow burning stove in the basement. This was a "country" house and my dad's thinking was that the majority of the heating would be done with the stove.
The novelty of the fireplace and stove remained for quite some time. Who gets tired of making and feeding fires with huge pieces wood? As we got settled into the house we also needed to establish a discipline of feeding the stove so that the house stayed warm throughout the day and night. Whether I was the beneficiary of a traditional sexist father (boys do men things and girls do women things) or ultimately the sucker of a more savvy sibling (my sister); I don't want to speculate, but I became the designate for ensuring that the fire in the wood stove remained active throughout the night.
Although the stove could handle some pretty serious pieces of wood, a maximum load with the minimum efficient air intake would last roughly 6 hours. I was 9 and to bed early so my dad would typically get the stove set before heading for bed. That meant that between 4am and 6am the house was out of heat. It was a struggle for me to get up into the freezing house, make my way downstairs and get things heating again. Over time I would simply sleep downstairs and feed the fire constantly through the night. For the first few hours I would leave the doors open and use just the grill so that I could look at the fire. There was something about the flickering light, the smell and the sound.
I wasn't always the perfect fire keeper, but between ages 9 and 16 I spent many nights falling asleep in front of the fire. It didn't hurt that the couch we moved down to the basement was incredibly comfortable. The purpose of sleeping downstairs was simply to avoid getting up early and/or making several trips downstairs to feed the fire. Yet I think over time the fire became a comforting catalyst to slumber.
This will be my fourth entry in this blog where my sleep patterns are central to the theme (Home - Day 4 - Restless Sleep; Home - Day 6 - The Afternoon Nap; Home - Day 13 - The All Nighter). I'm starting to think the hardest part of my recovery has been dealing with a schizophrenic sleep cycle. For the last 3 weeks I have slept miserably. My spirit, energy and mood are all affected by a broken sleep. I decided to return to my childhood to see if I could conjure up an old friend. I grab a big blanket from the bed and head down to the main floor. I flick the switch for the fireplace (gas) and I hunker down on my couch and watch the flames. No sound and no smell, but still a flicker of light that seems to have a hypnotic affect on me.
I wish I could report that this new tactic triggers an unconscious reaction and immediately sleep overcomes me, but it doesn't. Some nights I think the flickering light of the fire actually does help; other nights I think whatever troubles I'm having are beyond childhood comforts, homestead nostalgia and plain old wishful thinking. The sandman runs from me as if I were the embodiment of a mushroom cloud.
At some point a "normal" sleep pattern should return. I hope I won't need to resort to medication. In the mean time I'm plowing through my reading list (4 books last week) and exploring some new concepts around the midnight snack.
My session at the OHI rehab. clinic was a bit of a bust. I think I probably set my expectations a little too high. The 3 hour session ended up being a series of short meetings with various people to schedule various information sessions and visits. I was hoping to actually ask some questions. Apparently my next appointment in a week will be with a real physiotherapist where we set goals and establish limits for physical activity. For the moment I feel pretty good physically. We've had to cancel some walks because I have been brutally tired from a lack of sleep, but when we do get out and walk I feel pretty good.
1 more week and I get to drive!
The novelty of the fireplace and stove remained for quite some time. Who gets tired of making and feeding fires with huge pieces wood? As we got settled into the house we also needed to establish a discipline of feeding the stove so that the house stayed warm throughout the day and night. Whether I was the beneficiary of a traditional sexist father (boys do men things and girls do women things) or ultimately the sucker of a more savvy sibling (my sister); I don't want to speculate, but I became the designate for ensuring that the fire in the wood stove remained active throughout the night.
Although the stove could handle some pretty serious pieces of wood, a maximum load with the minimum efficient air intake would last roughly 6 hours. I was 9 and to bed early so my dad would typically get the stove set before heading for bed. That meant that between 4am and 6am the house was out of heat. It was a struggle for me to get up into the freezing house, make my way downstairs and get things heating again. Over time I would simply sleep downstairs and feed the fire constantly through the night. For the first few hours I would leave the doors open and use just the grill so that I could look at the fire. There was something about the flickering light, the smell and the sound.
I wasn't always the perfect fire keeper, but between ages 9 and 16 I spent many nights falling asleep in front of the fire. It didn't hurt that the couch we moved down to the basement was incredibly comfortable. The purpose of sleeping downstairs was simply to avoid getting up early and/or making several trips downstairs to feed the fire. Yet I think over time the fire became a comforting catalyst to slumber.
This will be my fourth entry in this blog where my sleep patterns are central to the theme (Home - Day 4 - Restless Sleep; Home - Day 6 - The Afternoon Nap; Home - Day 13 - The All Nighter). I'm starting to think the hardest part of my recovery has been dealing with a schizophrenic sleep cycle. For the last 3 weeks I have slept miserably. My spirit, energy and mood are all affected by a broken sleep. I decided to return to my childhood to see if I could conjure up an old friend. I grab a big blanket from the bed and head down to the main floor. I flick the switch for the fireplace (gas) and I hunker down on my couch and watch the flames. No sound and no smell, but still a flicker of light that seems to have a hypnotic affect on me.
I wish I could report that this new tactic triggers an unconscious reaction and immediately sleep overcomes me, but it doesn't. Some nights I think the flickering light of the fire actually does help; other nights I think whatever troubles I'm having are beyond childhood comforts, homestead nostalgia and plain old wishful thinking. The sandman runs from me as if I were the embodiment of a mushroom cloud.
At some point a "normal" sleep pattern should return. I hope I won't need to resort to medication. In the mean time I'm plowing through my reading list (4 books last week) and exploring some new concepts around the midnight snack.
My session at the OHI rehab. clinic was a bit of a bust. I think I probably set my expectations a little too high. The 3 hour session ended up being a series of short meetings with various people to schedule various information sessions and visits. I was hoping to actually ask some questions. Apparently my next appointment in a week will be with a real physiotherapist where we set goals and establish limits for physical activity. For the moment I feel pretty good physically. We've had to cancel some walks because I have been brutally tired from a lack of sleep, but when we do get out and walk I feel pretty good.
1 more week and I get to drive!
Friday, April 4, 2008
Home - Week 5 - Organizational Shredding
This week I have moved my things (laptop, books, magazines, ideas book, etc.) from my comfortable spot on the couch by the fireplace up to my study. The intent with moving to the study is to keep some form of discipline for doing something in the morning and afternoon that resembles work, or at least productivity. Without the stress of course.
I have been feeling better and better physically and so this week I decided to start on some small projects that don't require too much physical work and have established permanent residency in the "need to do" portion of my personal projects list. First on this list was to organize my files. I had done a little organizing before my surgery for things like my will, insurance, mortgage, etc., but what I'm talking about is a complete cleansing.
I probably have at least 10 years of accumulated files that I have neatly transitioned every year from my filing cabinet to a legal box. The legal boxes have subsequently been stacked in an appropriate closet of my respective house. I dragged (mostly using my feet because I have the 5lb limit for my arms) each box to the center of the room, removed the cover and assessed the contents. 10 years is a long time and the contents of each box holds a small record of that period of my life. Each box discovery resulted in some "holy shit I still have that" moments along with the occasional nostalgic sigh, "good times, good times". Most of the time I give the contents the big WTF and put it in the disposal pile.
While I purge a decade of personal and professional records my mom is fully engaged with organizing every other storage space in my house and cleaning stuff that I thought was perfectly clean. I'm not about to argue or tell her to stop; it keeps her occupied, she enjoys it and finds it to be good exercise. On my part, I may have a little re-arranging to do when she leaves because I didn't have a valid argument at the time of re-organizing for why my beer glasses should be on a certain shelf instead of where they are most efficiently stored.
In my world every task, problem or adventure has a gear requirement and this organizational quest of mine is no exception. The majority of the records are financial or contain some kind of personal or confidential information and so it's not so smart to put it straight into the garbage or recycling. Translation, required gear: shredder. I had picked up a "cross-cut" shredder last year with the full intent of becoming more responsible in my personal filing and disposal. Needless to say that didn't occur, but as luck would have it I needed one now.
Its funny how sometimes a little personal property destruction at the hands of a home appliance provides as much entertainment as a Jerry Bruckheimer shoot-em-up movie. It's not as thrilling or dramatic as say taking a chain saw to a dilapidated picnic table, but shredding has a calm rhythm of turning order into an absolute chaos of confetti. Besides, swinging a chainsaw is specifically identified in my rehab brochure as only something I can do 12 weeks after the surgery.
So as my mom scrubs away at something or asks me "do you really need this" and my personal favourite, "when was the last time you cleaned this", I feed sheet after sheet into the shredder enjoying the pile of paper shards accumulating in garbage bags and watching progress as the boxes empty. I go until the overheat light comes on, take a break for a little Tetris and then back to shredding.
My rehab meeting happens this Friday (April 11) and I'm pretty anxious. I have had to fill out various questionnaires for psychological state, diet and fitness. I figure they'll use it to determine what specialists I will consult during the rehabilitation process. I'm looking forward to this meeting because it will set a reality for what is possible. I don't expect any restrictions, but I'll see when I get there. I'm still having lots of trouble sleeping and rarely falling asleep before 4am. The walks are going well although I seem to be struggling with deep recovery breaths. I even had my first beer (half beer really). It was no special occasion, I just decided I wanted a beer.
I have been feeling better and better physically and so this week I decided to start on some small projects that don't require too much physical work and have established permanent residency in the "need to do" portion of my personal projects list. First on this list was to organize my files. I had done a little organizing before my surgery for things like my will, insurance, mortgage, etc., but what I'm talking about is a complete cleansing.
I probably have at least 10 years of accumulated files that I have neatly transitioned every year from my filing cabinet to a legal box. The legal boxes have subsequently been stacked in an appropriate closet of my respective house. I dragged (mostly using my feet because I have the 5lb limit for my arms) each box to the center of the room, removed the cover and assessed the contents. 10 years is a long time and the contents of each box holds a small record of that period of my life. Each box discovery resulted in some "holy shit I still have that" moments along with the occasional nostalgic sigh, "good times, good times". Most of the time I give the contents the big WTF and put it in the disposal pile.
While I purge a decade of personal and professional records my mom is fully engaged with organizing every other storage space in my house and cleaning stuff that I thought was perfectly clean. I'm not about to argue or tell her to stop; it keeps her occupied, she enjoys it and finds it to be good exercise. On my part, I may have a little re-arranging to do when she leaves because I didn't have a valid argument at the time of re-organizing for why my beer glasses should be on a certain shelf instead of where they are most efficiently stored.
In my world every task, problem or adventure has a gear requirement and this organizational quest of mine is no exception. The majority of the records are financial or contain some kind of personal or confidential information and so it's not so smart to put it straight into the garbage or recycling. Translation, required gear: shredder. I had picked up a "cross-cut" shredder last year with the full intent of becoming more responsible in my personal filing and disposal. Needless to say that didn't occur, but as luck would have it I needed one now.
Its funny how sometimes a little personal property destruction at the hands of a home appliance provides as much entertainment as a Jerry Bruckheimer shoot-em-up movie. It's not as thrilling or dramatic as say taking a chain saw to a dilapidated picnic table, but shredding has a calm rhythm of turning order into an absolute chaos of confetti. Besides, swinging a chainsaw is specifically identified in my rehab brochure as only something I can do 12 weeks after the surgery.
So as my mom scrubs away at something or asks me "do you really need this" and my personal favourite, "when was the last time you cleaned this", I feed sheet after sheet into the shredder enjoying the pile of paper shards accumulating in garbage bags and watching progress as the boxes empty. I go until the overheat light comes on, take a break for a little Tetris and then back to shredding.
My rehab meeting happens this Friday (April 11) and I'm pretty anxious. I have had to fill out various questionnaires for psychological state, diet and fitness. I figure they'll use it to determine what specialists I will consult during the rehabilitation process. I'm looking forward to this meeting because it will set a reality for what is possible. I don't expect any restrictions, but I'll see when I get there. I'm still having lots of trouble sleeping and rarely falling asleep before 4am. The walks are going well although I seem to be struggling with deep recovery breaths. I even had my first beer (half beer really). It was no special occasion, I just decided I wanted a beer.
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