No, this isn’t a lecture on homonyms. It’s a lesson in perseverance.
Late last September, my mother contracted a run-of-the-mill infection, the symptoms of which showed up while she was on vacation in Switzerland. Despite her taking the correct antibiotics, the infection quickly developed into something not at all run-of-the-mill – a bacteria that attacks bone. In my mother’s case, the bacteria went after her spine. Like how a cheetah goes after a baby gazelle. Like how a Wisconsinite goes after a block of cheddar.
Of course, none of this was known until my mother landed at the airport in Albuquerque on her way home from Switzerland. She was barely conscious. That’s a good thing. According to the infectious disease doctor at the hospital in Denver (Swedish Medical Center) where she was airlifted, she could have been dead.
What does any of this have to do with writing or being a writer (which is what I usually cover on my blog)? Nothing. This actually matters.
A very talented spinal surgeon at Swedish removed an abscess (caused by the bacteria) from my mother’s neck, then two days later removed a similar abscess from her lower back. After three days, Mom was moved from the ICU to a sub-acute room, where she was to spend another week fighting the infection that was eroding her spine.
Mind you, my mother was an avid golfer, skier, horseback rider and hiker right up until being admitted to the hospital. Lying in bed unable to walk, or even sit up on her own to feed herself, was completely unacceptable to her. She wasn’t about to take lying down lying down. This is the same woman who, after having a double-knee replacement at age 72 in October of 2011, was walking (with help) the next day, and skiing – yes, SKIING – that January. The only thing that could stop her then were the metal detectors at TSA due to her new titanium body parts.
But spines are more complicated than knees.
During her time in the sub-acute room and, later, in acute rehab (intensive physical therapy) my mother continued to be pumped full of antibiotics and painkillers and muscle relaxants, and fought like hell to rebuild her muscle strength enough to get out of bed and walk using a walker. Seeing her in so much physical pain and under such duress during this period put a lot of things in perspective for me. Suddenly my struggles with the novel I was working on didn’t seem so agonizing. Nor did the toe cramps I often experience when swimming laps. Even listening to news about Donald Trump became almost bearable (though I do still require a small dosage of oxycodone for that).
In December, nearly three months after first being admitted, my mother was finally released. It was a happy day, but not an entirely celebratory one. My father and I knew there was a good chance she’d have to return to Denver a couple of months later for another surgery – this time to have metal rods and screws inserted to reinforce several sections of her spine. The surgeon told us about this out in the hallway, and we all decided to withhold this info from my mother. We just wanted her to focus on getting home and continuing to get stronger. She didn’t need to know about the probability of having to go under the knife once again for a highly invasive procedure. Though looking back, considering how strong she had revealed herself to be up until that point, the news hardly would have broken her. It was my father and I who could barely handle the thought of it. Men are weak.
Once back home in Taos, my mother – who was able to get around the house using her walker – endured weeks of additional and often painful physical therapy. But that was nothing compared to the pain of sitting out the entire ski season. And then just when she had built up enough strength and stamina to almost start enjoying life again (spending quality time with friends, going out to restaurants, even driving), the spinal surgeon confirmed that she did, indeed, require the major surgery to reinforce her spine with a bunch of metal.
While my father and I winced and groaned at the news, the woman who actually had to HAVE the surgery just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Hey, if that’s what’s needed, then that’s what’s needed.” It was at that moment I realized that months of being on pain medication had turned my mother into a Zen master.
So back to Denver she and my father went for what was supposed to be four or five weeks: surgery, one week of recovery, and three to four weeks of intensive physical therapy. Now, rather than go into vivid detail about what the surgery entailed, I invite you to look at the post-surgery X-ray image featured at the top of this post. As you can see, my mother basically had the Eiffel Tower built into her back.
Most women (or men, for that matter) in their late 70s wouldn’t be able to bounce back from such an invasive operation. Hell, most women or men in their late 30s wouldn’t be able to. I still don’t know how she did it, but my mother not only bounced back, she bounced out… of the hospital, TWO WEEKS earlier than predicted by the medical staff. It was unbelievable. Each day she shocked the nurses and doctors with her progress. (Still, I’m a bit skeptical. I’m not saying I’m going to request an investigation or press any charges, but I’m convinced the medical staff provided her with illicit performance enhancing drugs. Like the kind used by the Russian men’s weightlifting team, or the Chinese women’s swim team.)
My mother still has a ways to go before getting back into pre-infection condition, but she’s making huge strides – figuratively and literally – every day. She’s gone from a walker to a cane in no time, and soon won’t even need the cane. As long as she avoids any jarring motions – and large magnets – she’s going to be golden.
If ever you find yourself in or near Taos, New Mexico, consider popping by to visit my medical marvel of a mother. But don’t be surprised if she’s not at home. More than likely she’ll be out swinging away on the golf course, or over on the slopes maneuvering down a black diamond with the greatest of ease.
As if nothing ever happened.
To my titanium warrior of a mom, I have just one thing left to say on this 22nd day of June:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
NOTE: While my mother is the star of this story, I must mention the incredible supporting role my father has played. He lived out of a La Quinta motel near the hospital for more than three months in total. He got up at 5:30 every morning so that he could exercise, have breakfast and be in my mother’s room right when she’d wake up. And he stayed at the hospital for 14-15 hours everyday, waiting until she’d have dinner and fall asleep before heading back to the motel. (I tried to arrange for an entire apartment for him via Airbnb, but he refused because there weren’t any that were as close to my mother as his little room at La Quinta.)
Over the past nine months, he has nobly served as a nurse’s aide, a physical therapy assistant, an occupational therapy assistant, a cook, a chauffer, and a cheerleader. Not bad for a 79-year old retired data processing executive whose heart was breaking on a daily basis.
Special thanks also goes out to the amazing paramedics, nurses, doctors, physical/occupational therapists, and patient advocates who worked tirelessly to get my mother back on her feet and, pretty soon, back into ski boots.
And last but not least, a boatload of gratitude to all of my parents’ devoted friends. Your cards and phone calls and emails and text messages and flowers and gifts and meals and visits have had as much to do with my mother’s recovery as any medication, surgery or procedure. Maybe even more.
ON HIS BEST DAYS, ZERO SLADE IS THE WORST MAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. HE HAS TO BE. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THE LOST GIRLS.
