Well, I obviously seem unable to make good on my posting timelines, announced or otherwise, but I'll continue the narrative when able; hopefully I'll be able to cover most of the "meat" of my solitary month in inpatient rehab in relatively short order.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Accident History: Part 7
And speaking of relapses, I neglected to mention another set of respiratory hurdles during my hospitalization. Due to the lung punctures and bronchial tearing, I was afflicted with an extreme bout of pneumonia and the initial doubt over whether or not my right lung could even be saved. My thoracic surgeon (who would require two attempts at reattaching my torn right bronchus and succeed on the second try primarily through the creative use of surrounding fibrous tissue to wrap the bronchus in place) cautioned my parents that the prospects of saving the lung were grim, and although he may be forced to remove it if the procedure went badly, he would do his damnedest to save it.
As I indicated earlier, the reattachment was successful, and despite the concern over my right lung's survival, shortly thereafter it began circulating blood once again and began to heal itself. (My chronology might be a bit off on this one: as I understand it now, the right lung began showing tangible signs of regeneration within a fairly short time after the bronchial reattachment, but its ultimate fate remained in doubt for some time.)
As I indicated earlier, the reattachment was successful, and despite the concern over my right lung's survival, shortly thereafter it began circulating blood once again and began to heal itself. (My chronology might be a bit off on this one: as I understand it now, the right lung began showing tangible signs of regeneration within a fairly short time after the bronchial reattachment, but its ultimate fate remained in doubt for some time.)
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Aesthetics
In addition to continuing the narrative, I'll also be experimenting with the general look of the blog. Just bear with me.
Accident History: Part 6
Before I could begin my surprisingly short stint in inpatient rehab, I had to actually get there. For the first time in nearly two months, I was actually outdoors, but only long enough to move me into the loading area and onto an ambulance. (I had at least one window in my hospital room, but the flat of my back was an inopportune position for seeing anything but passing clouds.)
After the artificially lit and largely sterile hospital interior, being outside for even a brief time was almost surreal. Being mostly disconnected from my menagerie of tubes, sensors, and other apparatuses was a very liberating experience, but actually being outside, if only for a few minutes, was definitely a hallmark achievement. (Because I was largely--if not entirely--cognizant at the time, I remember the nurses being very emotional at my departure; it wouldn't dawn on me until much later, but their understandable skepticism at me even surviving, much less recovering, made my leaving the hospital seem to be a nearly unprecedented accomplishment and triumph. It was a victory that they had facilitated, but I believe the gravity of the outcome of their hard work and diligence was only truly realized when I was actually cleared to leave and on my way out.)
My trip was fairly unremarkable; my dad rode with me in the ambulance, along with the requisite paramedic, and after staring at an entirely new ceiling for an hour or so, we arrived. I was then slowly taken out of the ambulance and carted into the facility. Now, much like any hospital or rehabilitative center, my new surroundings were not particularly remarkable, but the fact that they were at all different from the hospital was a rather stark change for me.
The center was divided into several "wings," with each one corresponding to different types of injuries: stroke, spinal, etc. I was wheeled into the brain injury area, which was actually sealed off from the rest of the facility via a coded door to prevent any of the patients from wandering outside the section and hurting themselves or others. (Although I was bed-bound, many of the other patients were not afflicted with such comprehensive, whole-body injuries, so they were able to come and go from their rooms, at least to a certain degree, when they were not eating or in therapy.)
Because I was still afflicted with a MRSA infection, I was the sole occupant of a two-person room; this certainly allowed me a degree of spaciousness and freedom that I would not truly appreciate until a later procedure, but that fact was largely lost on me at the time because I was boarded in a single at the hospital as well.
I may only have advanced a day thus far, but there's quite a bit more to come. As I said before, I'll try to gain positive ground this week. I'm sure I'll reflect back on times in both the hospital and inpatient rehab even after the narrative has moved beyond those times, but you'll just have to bear with my periodic chronological relapses.
After the artificially lit and largely sterile hospital interior, being outside for even a brief time was almost surreal. Being mostly disconnected from my menagerie of tubes, sensors, and other apparatuses was a very liberating experience, but actually being outside, if only for a few minutes, was definitely a hallmark achievement. (Because I was largely--if not entirely--cognizant at the time, I remember the nurses being very emotional at my departure; it wouldn't dawn on me until much later, but their understandable skepticism at me even surviving, much less recovering, made my leaving the hospital seem to be a nearly unprecedented accomplishment and triumph. It was a victory that they had facilitated, but I believe the gravity of the outcome of their hard work and diligence was only truly realized when I was actually cleared to leave and on my way out.)
My trip was fairly unremarkable; my dad rode with me in the ambulance, along with the requisite paramedic, and after staring at an entirely new ceiling for an hour or so, we arrived. I was then slowly taken out of the ambulance and carted into the facility. Now, much like any hospital or rehabilitative center, my new surroundings were not particularly remarkable, but the fact that they were at all different from the hospital was a rather stark change for me.
The center was divided into several "wings," with each one corresponding to different types of injuries: stroke, spinal, etc. I was wheeled into the brain injury area, which was actually sealed off from the rest of the facility via a coded door to prevent any of the patients from wandering outside the section and hurting themselves or others. (Although I was bed-bound, many of the other patients were not afflicted with such comprehensive, whole-body injuries, so they were able to come and go from their rooms, at least to a certain degree, when they were not eating or in therapy.)
Because I was still afflicted with a MRSA infection, I was the sole occupant of a two-person room; this certainly allowed me a degree of spaciousness and freedom that I would not truly appreciate until a later procedure, but that fact was largely lost on me at the time because I was boarded in a single at the hospital as well.
I may only have advanced a day thus far, but there's quite a bit more to come. As I said before, I'll try to gain positive ground this week. I'm sure I'll reflect back on times in both the hospital and inpatient rehab even after the narrative has moved beyond those times, but you'll just have to bear with my periodic chronological relapses.
Update...
I've been woefully delinquent in posting of late, but work/school/life have made it difficult to make time. Once again, in the next week or so I'll try to gain a good deal of ground; I won't be able to bring the account up to the present day, but I'll try to make a significant advance nonetheless. I have time today, though, so I'll advance the history a month or so.
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