My foot was x-rayed and
the dreaded news was confirmed: my Charot was back, and my foot was
broken once more. My brother drove me out to Langhorne PA to see my
surgeon, who confirmed that my situation was not good. Surgery would
be needed once the Charcot went dormant. Meanwhile, it was back to
using the roll-about.
That was a Thursday. By
Friday, I was running a fever and had to literally crawl to the
bathroom. My legs would not support me. By Monday, I was shaking so
badly that I called my friend Ellen, who called 911. It was off to
St. Peter's University Hospital ER. I was admitted with a leg that
was crimson, hot and painful up to the knee. Test after test
confirmed that I had staph in my bloodstream. I had Sepsis. The
next few days were a blur. I had almost bitten through my tongue, and
could not sleep at night. Bag after bag of antibiotics were pumped
into my system, while a copious amount of blood was taken to the lab
(I ended up needing two transfusions later).
Leg - not looking good...
Meanwhile, my brother and
I decided that I could not safely return to my house. Brother is a
realtor for a retirement community, and so he started arranging for a
new house – handicapped accessible. That's when the family
discovered that my finances were in ruin. With the aid of my loving
nephew, Keith, the money was made available to purchase a nice co-op.
However, at the time, I felt like I was slowly loosing the battle.
My siblings visited and sat around me, asking about credit card debt,
balances owed, minimum payments required etc. yet, in my head, all I
could see were three death ravens. They were all speaking at once,
and I had the thought “I'm dying, and these birds are asking me to
do math problems.” I still crack up when I think of it.
Thankfully, the sepsis
passed, and I was sent to Aria Health. That first night, I had a
conversation with my surgeon. Tests at St. Peter's determined I had an
abscess and the foot was full of osteomyelitis. I had a 10% chance
of saving my leg. Was I willing to try? Well, of course! I'm rather
attached to “lefty” and would like to continue the association. I
was hoping for a miracle, and I think I got one. Further tests, and
surgery to drain the foot and remove the old hardware, showed no
abscess and no infection.
foot after clean out
The next step was to be
transferred to a rehab center in Langhorne. If I had any sense of
modesty or problems with body image, I lost them here. I had as many
male aids as female, no part of my body went untouched, and I was
even showered by Kim the “shower queen”. (I promised not to
mention her but..oops!). My room mate was 92 and hard of hearing.
She was also demanding, especially at night, so the lights went on
and the nurses shouted to her all through the wee hours until
morning. There were also characters like Walter, who sat in the hall
shouting “Help me! Help me!” and who would try to roll into my
room at night. THAT was an experience. I will NEVER go to a nursing
home in my old age. Never. Mine was one of the nicer ones and, even
at that, I damn near lost my mind!
Gary visited me at the rehab
The one saving grace,
beyond the support of my family and friends, was writing. As I lay
in the grip of the sepsis in New Brunswick, Ellen came to visit me.
“I can't even work on my book,” I moaned. “I have no way of
doing the research.”
“Write something else,”
said she.
“Like what?”
“Give me a premises.”
“What if Sherlock
Holmes had an older sister who once was in love with John?”
“I'll get you some paper
and a pen.”
That began our
collaboration. I have the pen, and she has the mystery plots in her
head. I wrote every possible waking minute, calling her at odd times
for plot discussions and changes in direction.
At one point, I had to go
to the ER for a cast change. While I was sitting on the gurney, I
got a call from her.
“Look, I'm in the ER.
There's blood coming from my cast and they have to take a look. I
just have one question. How are we killing off Dominic (One of our
characters)?”
Ellen burst out laughing.
“Can anyone HEAR this conversation?”
I looked up, and three
interns were standing in the doorway, mouths agape. “It's a novel,”
I said as they half smiled and walked away.
Pretty soon, the hospital
and rehab staff knew I was a published author. Some started calling
me “The Sherlock lady” while others went on line to Graven Images
Oracle to get free readings. It was the only bright spot in nearly
two months of hospitalization.
My new home in Monroe Twsp. My co-op is downstairs.
So, here I am. I will
keep the blog going until I'm ready for the next surgery, at which
time I'll have to take another break.
Fingers crossed, everyone.
