Tell the Universe to Back Off
If someone could please intervene on my behalf and tell the universe to stop taking a giant crap on me, I would really appreciate it.
After spending about eight hours a day or more in the hospital for eight days in a row, my grandmother passed away yesterday morning at around 5:41 a.m. I got the call at 5:40 a.m. that we should get to the hospital because it was time. I arrived at the hospital at 5:56 a.m. after pulling on a pair of sweats, sweatshirt and sneakers in record time. Mr. BBM says I did brush my teeth but I don't recall. I'm quite certain I didn't brush my hair. The green lights were working in my favor and I thought I was going to make it in time.
I ran at full speed into the hospital, my only pause to allow the automatic glass doors at the entrance to her unit to open because I was moving entirely too fast for them. I sprinted down the hallway and threw her room door open to see the curtain pulled. A nurse sat beside her, holding her hand and I was too late.
"Is she. . . " and the nurse told me that she had passed almost immediately after they had called my Mom. The people from Hospice had told us that people choose when they die and I truly believe she left before we could get there because she didn't want to make it even harder on us. I also believe that she waited until the morning so that we would all go home and sleep. Sunday was spent counting her breaths per minute decrease throughout the day, the pauses in between them longer and longer.We were all exhausted and weary.
My knees, so steady as I ran the halls, felt weak and I grabbed at the nearest chair. I knew this was coming. Hospice had been involved for days. She was on a morphine drip. It was her time, but it didn't make it any easier. I hugged her goodbye, knowing full well she was already gone. She was still warm.
As the other members of my family arrived, I moved to a chair on the other side of the room. I felt nauseated, the emotional turbulence and exhaustion of the week reaching a peak. And then I had to help my grandfather get to her room with the use of a wheelchair because he simply could not walk. Watching 65 years of marriage end was brutal.
After some time, we made arrangements with the funeral home, took her personal things and left the room. The nurses from the stroke unit lined the halls, busy with their morning routines. They had grown invested in my Grammom's care and ours this week. I wanted to hug and thank them all but I just didn't have the energy.
We went to her house and started searching for necessary documents and pictures to use at her memorial service later this week. We found things that broke our hearts: money that she had saved up for this very occasion so as not to be a burden, bags full of cards (one for father's day for my pop-pop, a birthday card for my dad, and Halloween cards for the girls next year), and drawings and photos and mementos that she had kept all these years. Virtually everything we ever drew for her, every card we ever sent her, she kept.
And then we went to the funeral home to arrange her services. It took us hours to do so and it was a nightmare. At one point, I was pretty sure I was going to throw up in one of the caskets in the "showroom." Later, my Mom told me she felt the same way. One thing continued to echo in my head as he showed us these intricate caskets and gently broke the insane prices to us. During her last hospital stay, my Grammom told me "I don't need a Cadillac of a casket. You just throw dirt on it anyway." We ended up choosing something simple, yet pretty. My Grammom would still think it's overkill.
Then we had to drive to the cemetery to mark her pre-paid grave. Thank God she had done that because it saved us several hours and it was already after 4 p.m., all of us running on only half a muffin and some coffee. We stood in the rainy cemetery under huge umbrellas and the tears started again.
Last night, I came home and wrote her obituary because I didn't want just the standard stuff. She was so much more than that to all of us. After an 18 hour day, I finally went to sleep.
This morning, I used more under-eye concealer than usual and tried to head off to campus, but my car battery was dead. After a jump, I was on my way, but thanks to a detour I didn't make it on time.
Then I had my appointment with the plastic surgeon for my knee who gave me three options, none of which he thinks will be covered by my insurance because they will deem it "cosmetic," when in fact it's more "reconstructive" than anything else. He told me he would try his best to get it covered and I told him I'd be happy to kneel in front of the insurance people so that they could see that the looks of my knee are really secondary to the pain I feel each and every day that I live with a protruding screw and nothing but skin and bone in that area.
Later in the day, I went to my parent's house to meet with the Pastor and prepare materials for her services later this week. It was an emotionally trying day. Tonight, I wrote her eulogy that I'm going to try my best to get through without having to hand it over to Mr. BBM to finish reading.
I am just completely worn out, and the worst part of all of this is that I can't even go to my go-to gal who would always make me feel better. She is gone and I miss her so much already.
A Cruel Six Days
My family and I honestly thought we'd be planning a funeral by today. Despite my grandmother hating MRI's and our initial refusal of one because of her hate for them and because there was no one giving us any hope for survival, we allowed her to have one on Wednesday. The neurologist basically begged us so that he could try to figure out what was going on. Clinically, she has all signs of a stroke but the CT scan showed nothing.
Right before the neurologist came in, she had been given pain medication because she was rubbing her head and answering a muffled "yes" when I asked her if she was in pain. The medicine zonked her out to the point that she was snoring. I told him we would be ok with an MRI if they gave her some of the same stuff right before so she would sleep through it. He agreed and she did.
When the hospitalist got the report, he sat my Mom and me in the doctor's area to review the results. He read the report and explained what it meant. The damage in the right hemisphere of her brain is catastrophic. The stroke affected two major arteries feeding the brain, the ACA and the MCA. She also has slow flow in her carotid artery. In addition, the frontal, parietal and temporal lobes are all affected. Only a small portion of her occipital lobe remains undamaged. She also had major swelling in her brain that was actually displacing her brain a bit to the side and probably the reason for her decline after she seemed on the mend on Monday night. He said it simply. . . "it was a massive stroke and her changes of surviving it are 0."
We met with social workers and a palliative care doctor and within a few hours, we moved her onto "comfort care." All tests would stop. They even removed the heart monitor she so hated each time she was admitted. The only thing that remained was the bubbling oxygen and an IV port for meds. They assured us that a feeding tube would make things worse, that giving her fluids could be detrimental as well. They said her body is shutting down and we cried and made arrangements with hospice for in-hospital care or a possible move to my Mom's house for however long she has left. They told us we could swab her mouth with coffee or orange juice (her two favorite things) or whatever we liked and that we could even put a dab of ice cream on her tongue to let her slowly melt and give her the taste.
And then the neurologist stopped by to see her. He said that the most merciful thing would be if she did what he expected her to do. By 96 hours post-stroke, the swelling in the brain reaches its peak and he fully expected that to happen. She would have herniated, gone into a coma and slept until she died. He showed us the actual MRI pictures instead of the report and it was devastating to see. Massive isn't the word for it; catastrophic fits better. He didn't expect her to be there when he came in yesterday; but she was.
Before the neurologist stopped in, she opened her eyes really wide and looked right at my Mom. She said her name. Then she said mine. She didn't even have her glasses on but she knew us. She also knew the name of her teddy bear we brought to the hospital from her home. I asked her if she was hungry, thirsty or in pain and she said "no." I asked her "If you were in pain, would you tell us?" She said "yes."
The neurologist stopped in and she was sleeping after communicating with us for a while. At one point, she pulled me out of my chair with her right hand and into her chest. She rubbed my hand on her face and made an attempt to kiss my hand. Then she stroked my hair for a while, sometimes a bit roughly. He examined her, pulled her eyelids up and looked at me in disbelief. "Quite honestly, I expected her to be in a coma or dead. The fact that she's not baffles me." He then asked me some questions about when she last had fluids or anything to eat beyond the swabs and I told him it has been days. After the first day, she lost her ability to swallow. Yesterday, I asked her if she could swallow and she said "yes." He rushed out of the room and said he was making some calls about getting her on fluids. He said, "she is surviving this stroke." He also said that he doesn't understand it and that she is "amazing."
I followed him into the hallway and told him we had moved her to comfort care. I asked him what we should do and he said he honestly never expected her to still be here. He had to hurry and make calls.
A couple hours later, he called my Mom at home and told her that he had ordered IV fluids for my grandmother. He said that he couldn't, in good conscience, not give her fluids. He said, "she is too alive to not give her fluids."
I stopped in later last night again and asked to speak with a doctor. The palliative care doctor had said that giving her fluids might cause more discomfort and I had questions about giving her medications to help with the fluid in her lungs. I spoke with a doctor and her nurses for a while and this morning, the whole stroke team is meeting to come up with a plan for her care. I don't know what is happening right now. None of us know what to think. Is it a miracle or a cruel and evil twist? I know one thing is certain. . . watching my grandmother be like this is akin to torture.
Big I told me that she prayed for a miracle and that her prayers have been answered. Mr. BBM told her that each day that her Great-Grammom is here with us is a miracle and that she shouldn't expect this to last forever. She has to keep her expectations realistic. Everyone dies eventually and Big I needs to be prepared for that. The girls both saw her this week (after I had a conversation with the social worker and did some reading) so they know the state that she is in right now. We also know that she wouldn't want to live if she couldn't walk or do the things she enjoys anymore, and considering the left side paralysis (complete in her arm and about 90% in her leg), expectations need to remain realistic.
Right now, my family is so beat-up and confused. We don't understand why things are happening this way and why this horrible thing had to happen to such an incredible and GOOD woman. And the most upsetting thing right now is that we simply don't know what to do.
Numb
Yesterday, my grandmother had a stroke.
At 3:30 p.m. my grandfather called my cell phone and I didn't hear it ring. At 3:45 he called again but I didn't hear this one either. I did hear my voice mail alert and immediately checked it. I had asked my grandmother to call me over the weekend to let me know what kind of dinner she'd like me to bring her this week. I figured that was why she was calling. When there was no voice mail, I worried a bit. I checked my messages at home and there was a call from them there too. But there was no message, only silence.
I called the house and there was no answer. I hung up and figured my grandmother didn't want to bother me. I was very wrong.
When I arrived home after running errands all day long with the family, my sister called. She said my grandmother fell. That wasn't the entire story.
A few minutes later, I got my Mom on the phone. She was at my grandmother's house. The ambulance was there too because she had called them when she arrived. My grandmother had been in the kitchen and felt dizzy. Not wanting to fall and break a bone like she did a few weeks ago, she sat down and lowered herself to the floor. My grandfather eventually heard her make a noise. It's unclear what time this happened, but we know it happened at least, before 3:30. Once on the floor, she was unable to move.
He didn't want her on the floor so he dragged her into the dining room, then onto a chair and then he dragged that chair across the room so he could move her onto a rocking chair. She sat there, slumped into the radiator until my Mom arrived. My grandfather hadn't been clear about how bad she was when he called my Mom.
I was the first to arrive at the hospital, as the ambulance pulled up, and I signed the consent form for her to receive treatment. I am usually pretty good at holding myself together but when I saw her I lost it. Her face was drawn and her eyes struggled to focus. She was talking a bit and I could understand everything she was saying, but her left leg and her left arm were limp.
Over the next few hours, they did a CAT scan, blood work, and family members began arriving. The monitors beeped uncontrollably: irregular heartbeat, low O2 level and a bruise on her shoulder and gash on her arm that made me absolutely sick. I held her hand and she squeezed it tightly. She seemed to be struggling just to focus on my face and stay awake. I told her to rest.
We took turns being by her bedside and eventually, as the hours wore on, it was only me, my Mom and my sister there. She opened her eyes and seemed more alert and she said the words that brought us all to tears once again. . . "I want to die. Why can't I just die?"
They gave her a tetanus shot for the scrape on her arm, an IV antibiotic because they were concerned about pneumonia and around 11 p.m. she was moved to the stroke unit.
I was told this morning that she had a bad night, but that she is sitting in a chair today, the weakness on her left side still prominent.
My Mom and I have prayed many times that when it's her time, God takes her in her sleep and that she doesn't have to suffer. She hates hospitals and being poked and prodded and yet she is there for the third time in two months.
On the way home from the hospital last night, the song "Comfortably Numb" came on and it made me cry. Why can't she be comfortable? Why did it have to be like this? Why did this happen now when no one in my family is prepared to let her go? There is nothing comfortable about this; it's hard and painful and it sucks more than I ever imagined it could.
We know she can't go home anymore and now lives must be changed, lifestyles adjusted and reevaluated. It's going to be a rough couple of weeks and my family needs all the prayers it can get.
The least of my worries today is my own doctor's appointment later this afternoon.
The Real Life Twilight Zone
Imagine being invited to a dinner/dance where you are supposedly one of the guests of honor. Your meal has been paid for by the sponsoring party and all you have to do is show up. Imagine now, that when you arrive, those in attendance, those who have invited you there, give you dirty looks, ignore you outright (other than the mean glares and looks of disdain), and instead of seating you at an 8-top table like nearly everyone else, they seat you at a small table with two other people who are also there to be "appreciated."
Now imagine this. . . during the 20 minute period where the band takes a break, there is a raffle drawing. When the woman in charge needs to find someone to draw the winning ticket and you happen to be the absolute closest person to her, she turns towards you, only to realize it's you so her face contorts into all kinds of unhappiness and her arms protectively pull the container back into her body as she seemingly bounces off the repelling force field surrounding you and goes to a table behind you to have one of those people draw the winning ticket instead.
This was my life on Saturday night, not an episode of "The Twilight Zone" which is what it felt like. No, this, my friends, was the Officers Appreciation Dance at the country club where I'm an officer on the board.
It used to bother me that these older individuals didn't like me and that instead of saying "hi" to me, many of them do a little harrumph thing or instead emit a low guttural growl. I'm one of those people who likes people to like me. At least, I used to be anyway.
Now, after months of this type of treatment, I'm used to it and am so callous to it that I actually find it funny.
I can't figure out what's so repulsive about me to many of them. Many it's the fact that the event I planned had over 200 people there and their event had only 39. Maybe it's the fact that I took a rarely used bar and with a team of awesome people and a shoe-string budget, renovated it into a sports bar that is incredible. Maybe it's the fact that, for now, my wrinkle cream appears to be working better than theirs. I'm not quite sure.
What I do know is this. I was raised to treat people with respect whether I like them or not. I sometimes have a problem with this and operate under the premise of "three strikes and you're out," but I try my very best to be civil to people who irritate me. Instead of growling at people, I tend to just ignore them if I'm not a fan; sometimes I "kill them with kindness" instead. I abhor trashy behavior and tend to be one of those people who rise above it all. I think most people who know me well tend to think I have class and that I know how to behave in professional and social situations.
After spending 80+ years on this planet, one would think that a human could develop some basic manners and social skills. One would think. . . and one would be wrong. The moaners and groaners should know something though. I'm over being bothered by their obvious dislike of me. In fact, I'm over it to the point that it's now what drives me. It drives me to say "hello" with a great big smile every time I see them because I know it physically kills them to even look in my direction. I'm over expecting that they'll eventually like me when they see that what I'm trying to do is for the good of the club, because I've realized that their self-interest has always outweighed their desire to see the business succeed.
When I was elected to the board, a fellow board member and now friend said something very wise to me. "People either love you or they hate you and there's no money in between." He also told me I'd have to become "bullet proof."
I'm there.
Own Worst Enemy
Three years ago, if you asked me "Who are you?" I could tell you easily. I had a strong sense of self and knew who I was. Today, not so much.
Growing up, I was extremely athletic. I had no interest in television. I only wanted to play with the boys, whether it was kickball, baseball, softball or a good game of tag, I was always ready for whatever activities the day brought with it. When I was younger, I was an all-star softball player, did two seasons of swimming, took up figure skating for a while, played field hockey and ran track for a season. I spent my summers doing anything but relaxing on the beach. I was too busy to do that. I played volleyball for hours a day while on vacation, and when I wasn't doing that, I was playing tennis until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
Then I found karate and that became my new obsession. I would make dinner and do kata while waiting for things to cook. I would come home from class and practice self defense techniques on Mr. BBM for hours. For years, he wasn't even able to hug me if I wasn't expecting it, because otherwise I'd be trying my techniques out on him. I imagined myself as one of those karate-ka that people looked up to. I had hopes of re-igniting a self defense program and becoming a leader on that topic. I saw it as a lifetime endeavor and it was something that I absolutely loved. It was all I could talk about for several years.
And then I tore my ACL and everything changed.
The worst part about tearing my ACL was losing the confidence I had in my body, in myself. It's something that I thought returning to karate would conquer. For a while, it did. When I was training for shodan testing, I spent hours every day working out and preparing. I pushed myself both physically and mentally like never before. But the little voice of doubt and the fear never really left.
After the second surgery, I thought I would bounce back, but it only made me more afraid. It's a legitimate fear. If you tear an ACL for the second time, revision surgeries aren't as successful; and having gone through the pain and agony of one, I can't say I'd ever be eager to go through that period of my life again.
Last week, after my new surgeon told me to limit all activities and stop working out, karate and running altogether, I asked my instructors to put my monthly karate withdrawal on hold again. All these months, when I've only been going once or twice a month because it has taken a good two weeks for my knee to return to normal post karate class, I've been paying and hoping. It was like I thought if I continued to pay, that I'd still be active in karate. I know, full well, I'm not.
I've been grumpier than ever these past few months. I've flown off the handle on several occasions. Telling people off has become my new past time, and I don't like who I am right now.
Little pieces of me have been pulled apart and off in so many directions that I am struggling to figure out what I'm supposed to do and who I'm supposed to be now.
It's not as simple as having a third surgery and getting back to it. It's so much more than that. The fear is out of control. The anger and frustration is at levels I've never felt before.
I'm mad that every physical activity brings with it limitations, self-doubt or outright fear. I'm angry that I can't take my girls roller skating or ice skating like other parents do. I hate that when Lil C asks me to play soccer with her, I usually have to tell her "I can't," or I do and then have to quit far sooner than I want to because my knee doesn't feel right, or I pay for it later in the form of a swollen and painful knee.
I'm downright furious that I am having to go through this all again, and I'll be honest, I don't know how to deal with it.
The other day when I was driving home from campus, I heard Pink's song "Don't Let Me Get Me" and the part "I'm my own worst enemy" hit home for me.
I don't know who I am anymore; and while I know that beating myself up about it isn't a productive thing to do, it seems to be the only thing I know how to do anymore.
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