8/20/05
"What do you want?" "Information."
"who are you?"
"I am number 2."
"Who is number 1?"
"You are Number 5."
"I AM NOT A NUMBER, I AM A FREE MAN!"
Anyway, that aside - I do need information.
There is a severe shortage of interior photos from Roanoke's old hotels. What did the interior of the Ponce look like? Not the postcard view either - Im talking about the everyday view. People had events there, some came to stay just for a visit - there has to be photos somewhere.
The Hotel Shenendoah, same deal. We all know how it looked towards the end, but what about when it was in its prime? Anyone?
So thats what Im looking for, interior photos from Roanokes Grand Ol' Dames. If you or anyone you know has some, please contact me and I will be more than happy to take them, scan them and return the original to you with a digital copy that will forever be archived. Plus, you get credit if/when I use the photo on the website.
So let me know, if you please.
Thanks.
"I am number 2."
"Who is number 1?"
"You are Number 5."
"I AM NOT A NUMBER, I AM A FREE MAN!"
Anyway, that aside - I do need information.
There is a severe shortage of interior photos from Roanoke's old hotels. What did the interior of the Ponce look like? Not the postcard view either - Im talking about the everyday view. People had events there, some came to stay just for a visit - there has to be photos somewhere.
The Hotel Shenendoah, same deal. We all know how it looked towards the end, but what about when it was in its prime? Anyone?
So thats what Im looking for, interior photos from Roanokes Grand Ol' Dames. If you or anyone you know has some, please contact me and I will be more than happy to take them, scan them and return the original to you with a digital copy that will forever be archived. Plus, you get credit if/when I use the photo on the website.
So let me know, if you please.
Thanks.
Visitor log for RoanokeFound
Visitor log for RoanokeFound
So now not only can I track your IP, I can see where you are.
evil? Who me?
So now not only can I track your IP, I can see where you are.
evil? Who me?
8/19/05
Editorials from The Roanoke Times -Victory Stadium as directional signal
One has to wonder how many editorials the Times has written like this over the past years.
"Aunt Mabel used to come a'visitin' every Thanksgiving, and greet us as we came through the door after the big game with the smell of her pecan pie."
Boy, what a high opinion they have of their readership.
And might I mention the dripping irony this op/ed has? Sad, really. It is the very definition of "a good talking-down to."
Oh yes, and by the by - take a look at Florida. U of Miami Hurricanes vs. FSU Seminoles vs. U of Florida Gators. 3 big teams, 3 huge rivalrys. So I guess a college football rivalry is still a major event in someones life.
Me thinks the Times needs to realize for as much griping about how people "want Roanoke back the way it used to be," they too are secretly hoping for things back the way it used to be - when their circulation was high, readership was widespread, and while you would always have your Bill McClure's, the majority of people generally agreed with them.
Ahh the halcyon days of journalisim. When people rarely questioned the validity of a newspapers opinions.
Editorial board of the Times: I am fairly certain most people allready have an opinion on Victory Stadium, be it white-water rafting area when it floods, or landfill when its torn down. Write the article explaining both sides, do not opine and condescend to tell us what we should think.
"The pitched political battle over the stadium reflects two very different visions of what the city and its place in the region should be: competitive, insular, wedded to the past; or collaborative, open, ready for change. And change will happen, guaranteed."
Umm.. yeah, ok. If thats what you believe. Or it could be that the vision that you term competitive, insular, and wedded to the past might be competitive with, say... Greensboro for concerts and whatnot. Insular in that we are not recieving funding for the rebuild from Salem or any other local municipality. And wedded to the past could be mistaken for actually appreciating the past, and what it can bring forth to the future.
Times, I have a feeling your clock is nearing midnight.
"Aunt Mabel used to come a'visitin' every Thanksgiving, and greet us as we came through the door after the big game with the smell of her pecan pie."
Boy, what a high opinion they have of their readership.
And might I mention the dripping irony this op/ed has? Sad, really. It is the very definition of "a good talking-down to."
Oh yes, and by the by - take a look at Florida. U of Miami Hurricanes vs. FSU Seminoles vs. U of Florida Gators. 3 big teams, 3 huge rivalrys. So I guess a college football rivalry is still a major event in someones life.
Me thinks the Times needs to realize for as much griping about how people "want Roanoke back the way it used to be," they too are secretly hoping for things back the way it used to be - when their circulation was high, readership was widespread, and while you would always have your Bill McClure's, the majority of people generally agreed with them.
Ahh the halcyon days of journalisim. When people rarely questioned the validity of a newspapers opinions.
Editorial board of the Times: I am fairly certain most people allready have an opinion on Victory Stadium, be it white-water rafting area when it floods, or landfill when its torn down. Write the article explaining both sides, do not opine and condescend to tell us what we should think.
"The pitched political battle over the stadium reflects two very different visions of what the city and its place in the region should be: competitive, insular, wedded to the past; or collaborative, open, ready for change. And change will happen, guaranteed."
Umm.. yeah, ok. If thats what you believe. Or it could be that the vision that you term competitive, insular, and wedded to the past might be competitive with, say... Greensboro for concerts and whatnot. Insular in that we are not recieving funding for the rebuild from Salem or any other local municipality. And wedded to the past could be mistaken for actually appreciating the past, and what it can bring forth to the future.
Times, I have a feeling your clock is nearing midnight.
8/18/05
Shanna Flowers -The poor are always with you, Roanoke County
Shanna Flowers -The poor are always with you, Roanoke County
I've been quiet too long. And Im not picking on you Shanna, but this whole San Souci/Mews low income apartment deal is asinine.
First off, for those who can't meet the guidlines for income, I say - look around. I can tell you for a fact that the apartments which Im living in are cheaper than the new prices in the Villages at Garst Creek. Im not in a low income housing development. Actually Im in a prime location, probably far better than that of the Villages.
Between the convient location to everything, and I mean - it just does not get any more convienient, the wonderful buildings, the pool, the view from the pool. And Im not paying what they will be at the Villages.
Well, actually I might be paying close to it, but I have 2 dogs, and I opted for the Washer-Dryer in the apartment. So it adds a little. Still not what the Villages allegedly will charge.
This hubbub over the Villages tho comes down to 2 words that have the locals up in arms. "Low Income"
Granted, the government of Roanoke County really can do nothing about it - so stop pestering them. The citizens cannot do anything either. Such is the way of private property.
But Shanna, please. Show some understanding of this issue. Find me where Roanoke County has legislated the non-development of affordable housing? And Roanoke County itself, not being a landlord, has no responsibility towards those with lower incomes. Just like Roanoke County does not see the validity in having a public transit system, or funding one.
There is no requirement for them to have one, its just an nice thing to have.
But seriously Shanna, you found some numbers to back up your point about Roanoke City's housing situation, but still revert to baseless critisims of the residents of the county. You will not change a mindset by pointing out the fears that cause it.
The neighbors are giving voice to their worst fears, and what else could you think when you hear of the crime and drug hotspots in Roanoke. Now I understand that it is not solely attributable to low income housing, but they do seem to be a hotspot for it. There are several reasons for this, of course.
Similar arguments are tried in NYC, with crime rates in housing projects being double what they are in similar income neighborhoods, and people say there is no correlation. Well there is, sad to say, and for whatever reasons there continues to be.
Shanna, I think you need to realize the story from all angles, and stop attempting to portray the residents of Roanoke County as elitist. Maybe some of them are, but they don't have an option - so let them vent, ignore them, and wait for them to quiet down.
But remember that the perception will not change until change occurs within the community itself. And no opinion piece will change that.
I've been quiet too long. And Im not picking on you Shanna, but this whole San Souci/Mews low income apartment deal is asinine.
First off, for those who can't meet the guidlines for income, I say - look around. I can tell you for a fact that the apartments which Im living in are cheaper than the new prices in the Villages at Garst Creek. Im not in a low income housing development. Actually Im in a prime location, probably far better than that of the Villages.
Between the convient location to everything, and I mean - it just does not get any more convienient, the wonderful buildings, the pool, the view from the pool. And Im not paying what they will be at the Villages.
Well, actually I might be paying close to it, but I have 2 dogs, and I opted for the Washer-Dryer in the apartment. So it adds a little. Still not what the Villages allegedly will charge.
This hubbub over the Villages tho comes down to 2 words that have the locals up in arms. "Low Income"
Granted, the government of Roanoke County really can do nothing about it - so stop pestering them. The citizens cannot do anything either. Such is the way of private property.
But Shanna, please. Show some understanding of this issue. Find me where Roanoke County has legislated the non-development of affordable housing? And Roanoke County itself, not being a landlord, has no responsibility towards those with lower incomes. Just like Roanoke County does not see the validity in having a public transit system, or funding one.
There is no requirement for them to have one, its just an nice thing to have.
But seriously Shanna, you found some numbers to back up your point about Roanoke City's housing situation, but still revert to baseless critisims of the residents of the county. You will not change a mindset by pointing out the fears that cause it.
The neighbors are giving voice to their worst fears, and what else could you think when you hear of the crime and drug hotspots in Roanoke. Now I understand that it is not solely attributable to low income housing, but they do seem to be a hotspot for it. There are several reasons for this, of course.
Similar arguments are tried in NYC, with crime rates in housing projects being double what they are in similar income neighborhoods, and people say there is no correlation. Well there is, sad to say, and for whatever reasons there continues to be.
Shanna, I think you need to realize the story from all angles, and stop attempting to portray the residents of Roanoke County as elitist. Maybe some of them are, but they don't have an option - so let them vent, ignore them, and wait for them to quiet down.
But remember that the perception will not change until change occurs within the community itself. And no opinion piece will change that.
8/17/05
pbwiki - wikiroanoke: FrontPage
pbwiki - wikiroanoke: FrontPage
Hey, I tried to warn yall that this was coming. Now - the true WikiRoanoke is born. you can find the password over at WikiRoanoke.
Join in, lock in, and rip the knob off.
Its easy, simple, and fun. So shaddup and do it...
Hey, I tried to warn yall that this was coming. Now - the true WikiRoanoke is born. you can find the password over at WikiRoanoke.
Join in, lock in, and rip the knob off.
Its easy, simple, and fun. So shaddup and do it...
BST24: Summations and Closing Arguements
So 24 days from smacking my head in Atlantic City, to sleeping in bed in Moneta. With a side trip to Charlottesville in the middle somewhere.
I was home, recovering, relaxing. Retired? Well, thats debateable.
August 17th, I was officially discharged, I was officially free. And as for meds out of the hospital, I had 2 perscriptions. One for 2 days worth of "take once daily" steroids, as they weaned me off. Expensive buggers, that 2 days worth was one split in half, and still cost $30 for one pill. And the other perscription was for Potassium in the form of a salt pill. Those were cheap, and I had a 15 day supply. To this day I still take potassium supplements, my body just sucks the stuff up.
But if you have never taken a Salt pill, a quick word on its unintended and unmentioned side effect. Ever get salt on your finger, and suck it off? You know how your mouth begins to water? Well taking a salt pill - your mouth begins to water to the point of nearly being drool. A lovely feature I bet you did not know you had.
And thats it, those are the sum total of my perscription needs. To this day nurses and doctors still look at me funny when I tell them I take no medications, although why - I do not know.
On August 19th it was back to UVA to have my staples removed (which I did not totally realize I still had in), more bloodwork, and a general checkup.
The pronouncement was 98% normal. 2% looney. And 5% clinically nuts.
"But thats 105%!"
Right you are sir, if your going to do something - give it all you've got and then some.
That was my last trip to UVA for a while. Next one was for a follow up MRI at the 1 month mark.
In the weeks following, I made a few (and I do mean few) trips to Rocky Mount. Carilion Franklin Memorial's outpatient rehab department. I had a total of 1 physical rehab visit, which was more just to see if I needed it than anything else. And 3 occupational visits. My fine fine motor skills are shot, so no scrimshaw for me. Other than that, Im alive. Fairly healthy. Put back on the 100lbs I lost thanks to moms cookin. Yes, life looks different now - and not in the "It's a Wonderful Life" kind of way.
Subtle things. But too few to mention.
So now my thank youse:
Thank Youse to my parents, family, and friends - who put up with my silly ass while I kept hemming and hawing about going to a doctor, who did the prayin' and praisin' while I was in the hospital, and who took the time to not only sit by my bedside - but actually sleep in the same room on a cot while I was down.
Thank Youse: to Dr. Steven Lewis of Moneta, who had more of a clue than an entire hospital in NY did. The man is a miracle worker, and Im not the only one who says that.
Thank Youse: to the Staff of the UVA Neurosurgery Department, including all those nurses and nursing students who had to put up with me. Dr. Shaffrey and his surgical team. Drs. Farace and Irons from the Neuropsychology crew. The Doctor me and my folks referred to as the Iron Surgeon, whose name we dont remember - but whose skills we cant forget.
And most of all Thank Youse to all you people reading this. I have had days where I recorded more hits than I had in a week of writing normally. I know its hard to leave a comment when you dont know what to say, but I'd like to hear it anyway. Especially from you fine folks at Carilion, who seem to enjoy reading this. You can put it in my comments section below, or e-mail me at forgotten.roanoke@gmail.com.
There is one final chapter to this whole story, but that does not come till December. And it will wait till then to be told.
We now resume our regular broadcasting... Which means all my usual targets better be wary. Im back.
I was home, recovering, relaxing. Retired? Well, thats debateable.
August 17th, I was officially discharged, I was officially free. And as for meds out of the hospital, I had 2 perscriptions. One for 2 days worth of "take once daily" steroids, as they weaned me off. Expensive buggers, that 2 days worth was one split in half, and still cost $30 for one pill. And the other perscription was for Potassium in the form of a salt pill. Those were cheap, and I had a 15 day supply. To this day I still take potassium supplements, my body just sucks the stuff up.
But if you have never taken a Salt pill, a quick word on its unintended and unmentioned side effect. Ever get salt on your finger, and suck it off? You know how your mouth begins to water? Well taking a salt pill - your mouth begins to water to the point of nearly being drool. A lovely feature I bet you did not know you had.
And thats it, those are the sum total of my perscription needs. To this day nurses and doctors still look at me funny when I tell them I take no medications, although why - I do not know.
On August 19th it was back to UVA to have my staples removed (which I did not totally realize I still had in), more bloodwork, and a general checkup.
The pronouncement was 98% normal. 2% looney. And 5% clinically nuts.
"But thats 105%!"
Right you are sir, if your going to do something - give it all you've got and then some.
That was my last trip to UVA for a while. Next one was for a follow up MRI at the 1 month mark.
In the weeks following, I made a few (and I do mean few) trips to Rocky Mount. Carilion Franklin Memorial's outpatient rehab department. I had a total of 1 physical rehab visit, which was more just to see if I needed it than anything else. And 3 occupational visits. My fine fine motor skills are shot, so no scrimshaw for me. Other than that, Im alive. Fairly healthy. Put back on the 100lbs I lost thanks to moms cookin. Yes, life looks different now - and not in the "It's a Wonderful Life" kind of way.
Subtle things. But too few to mention.
So now my thank youse:
Thank Youse to my parents, family, and friends - who put up with my silly ass while I kept hemming and hawing about going to a doctor, who did the prayin' and praisin' while I was in the hospital, and who took the time to not only sit by my bedside - but actually sleep in the same room on a cot while I was down.
Thank Youse: to Dr. Steven Lewis of Moneta, who had more of a clue than an entire hospital in NY did. The man is a miracle worker, and Im not the only one who says that.
Thank Youse: to the Staff of the UVA Neurosurgery Department, including all those nurses and nursing students who had to put up with me. Dr. Shaffrey and his surgical team. Drs. Farace and Irons from the Neuropsychology crew. The Doctor me and my folks referred to as the Iron Surgeon, whose name we dont remember - but whose skills we cant forget.
And most of all Thank Youse to all you people reading this. I have had days where I recorded more hits than I had in a week of writing normally. I know its hard to leave a comment when you dont know what to say, but I'd like to hear it anyway. Especially from you fine folks at Carilion, who seem to enjoy reading this. You can put it in my comments section below, or e-mail me at forgotten.roanoke@gmail.com.
There is one final chapter to this whole story, but that does not come till December. And it will wait till then to be told.
We now resume our regular broadcasting... Which means all my usual targets better be wary. Im back.
8/16/05
BST23: A visit from an old friend.
Now had I know ahead of time that this would be my 200th post, I would have made a cake. As it is, I have a twinkie and a lighter. I'd be wise not to light the twinkie - as I have heard they are explosive.
So the day dawns clear and nice, and the usual habits ensue in the morning. Blood, Nurse (for vitals), Doc, Food. Although today, between the blood and the nurse, something unusual happened.
I developed a low grade fever.
Heads were slapped around the room, as everyone was waiting for those magic words: "Get the hell out, go home, your not wanted anymore, get!"
We were so close to the end, yet so far. This fever was seen as a Code Red Crisis.
Why the hell is this kid running a fever again? What the hell could be wrong now?
Well, this meant more testing, and testing and whatnot, and testing.
Finally, when the situation seemed most impossible - they called in the heavy hitters.
The Infectious Disease Team. *dum da dum-dum*
Well, obviously this did not apply to me, as I did not have ebola, nor was I in the general area of monkeys. So what did I have to worry about?
Well - they could keep me another few days, that cause worry?
Hmm.. so in walks this doctor-ly lookin guy, surrounded by student-ly lookin people. Great, now Im a class project. They ask me to sit up, cough, and all that stuff. He asks the class if there is anything outstanding which could be indicative of anything.
One girl pipes up, "Well, he has a rash on his back."
My mother, on cue and tired of hospital food: "Of course he has a rash on his back, he has been laying in bed for days now. Plus he did have a reaction to the dilantin, which caused fevers. And Dr. Shaffrey said it would take time for it to leave his body."
I think in her mind she finished the last line with "..., asshat."
Suddenly a ray of light opened in the room and shone on the Infectious Disease Doc. Ahhh yes, that must be it. Ok folks - we shall move along, nothing to see here.
So we were left to wait it out, till Shaffrey got the Docs word. A couple of hours later, it came. I was going home.
The next day, August 17th, at 8:45am I was discharged from UVA Medical Center after that one last visit from Dilantin. It was a quiet discharge, not much to say. Everyone wishing me well, and gathering my goodies for the trip home. And in the interest of brevity, and allowing me to get back to current issues, I am finishing it now.
After the paperwork was handled, the final days meds were administered, prescriptions were passed out, and follow up appointments were filed, I was waiting for the chair to come take me down to the car home. Dad had gone to get it. The woman who wheeled me down was the same woman who had wheeled me up to my room that Friday 2 weeks ago. She was nearly in tears talking about how she had prayed and prayed for me. All I could say was thank you.
Its nearly impossible to think of how just my very entry into that hospital touched people, and to see me heading out - nearly 95% better, was a miracle in their eyes. I found out in the ensuing days that I had near legions of people praying for me, special masses for me... insane the amount of backing that I had at that point.
And here I was, going home - not a vegetable. Plus, I had a head with a commodity in it. Always a bonus.
But wait, there was still the challenge of actually getting in the car. Anxious to get home, I jumped out of the chair and stood. Standing, outside. Breathing the hot, humid air. I was ready to get in the car... blech - heat.
I leaned forward to get in, and smacked my head right into the frame of the door.
DOH!
So off we go, back to 29 south. Well, if you know anything about 29 and UVA - you know there are a few lights before you get to the actual open road part. Well, at each light, as we came to a stop my head rolled forward. Now remember, I had not used my neck all that much in the hospital. Well, light goes green.... head goes back, and back, and bumps the back of the seat.
This happened a few times on the trip. There was no way I could possibly keep it from happening either, aside from laying down - which at 6'3" was not going to happen in the backseat of a Chevy Blazer. 29S to 460W to 122 to Moneta. I remember thinking of how deafening the rumble was, how bizzare the trip itself seemed.
Sensory overload for someone who has not seen much lately. It was only 2 weeks for god's sake.
Pulling into the driveway, my grandmother threw the door open wide. I came in, went right to the bathroom to do the thing UVA could not get me to do, and made the trip upstairs - right to bed.
I slept long and deep, peaceful under blankets which seemed to weigh a ton. Home again home again, jiggity jig.
Tomorrow: BST24:Summation and Observations.
So the day dawns clear and nice, and the usual habits ensue in the morning. Blood, Nurse (for vitals), Doc, Food. Although today, between the blood and the nurse, something unusual happened.
I developed a low grade fever.
Heads were slapped around the room, as everyone was waiting for those magic words: "Get the hell out, go home, your not wanted anymore, get!"
We were so close to the end, yet so far. This fever was seen as a Code Red Crisis.
Why the hell is this kid running a fever again? What the hell could be wrong now?
Well, this meant more testing, and testing and whatnot, and testing.
Finally, when the situation seemed most impossible - they called in the heavy hitters.
The Infectious Disease Team. *dum da dum-dum*
Well, obviously this did not apply to me, as I did not have ebola, nor was I in the general area of monkeys. So what did I have to worry about?
Well - they could keep me another few days, that cause worry?
Hmm.. so in walks this doctor-ly lookin guy, surrounded by student-ly lookin people. Great, now Im a class project. They ask me to sit up, cough, and all that stuff. He asks the class if there is anything outstanding which could be indicative of anything.
One girl pipes up, "Well, he has a rash on his back."
My mother, on cue and tired of hospital food: "Of course he has a rash on his back, he has been laying in bed for days now. Plus he did have a reaction to the dilantin, which caused fevers. And Dr. Shaffrey said it would take time for it to leave his body."
I think in her mind she finished the last line with "..., asshat."
Suddenly a ray of light opened in the room and shone on the Infectious Disease Doc. Ahhh yes, that must be it. Ok folks - we shall move along, nothing to see here.
So we were left to wait it out, till Shaffrey got the Docs word. A couple of hours later, it came. I was going home.
The next day, August 17th, at 8:45am I was discharged from UVA Medical Center after that one last visit from Dilantin. It was a quiet discharge, not much to say. Everyone wishing me well, and gathering my goodies for the trip home. And in the interest of brevity, and allowing me to get back to current issues, I am finishing it now.
After the paperwork was handled, the final days meds were administered, prescriptions were passed out, and follow up appointments were filed, I was waiting for the chair to come take me down to the car home. Dad had gone to get it. The woman who wheeled me down was the same woman who had wheeled me up to my room that Friday 2 weeks ago. She was nearly in tears talking about how she had prayed and prayed for me. All I could say was thank you.
Its nearly impossible to think of how just my very entry into that hospital touched people, and to see me heading out - nearly 95% better, was a miracle in their eyes. I found out in the ensuing days that I had near legions of people praying for me, special masses for me... insane the amount of backing that I had at that point.
And here I was, going home - not a vegetable. Plus, I had a head with a commodity in it. Always a bonus.
But wait, there was still the challenge of actually getting in the car. Anxious to get home, I jumped out of the chair and stood. Standing, outside. Breathing the hot, humid air. I was ready to get in the car... blech - heat.
I leaned forward to get in, and smacked my head right into the frame of the door.
DOH!
So off we go, back to 29 south. Well, if you know anything about 29 and UVA - you know there are a few lights before you get to the actual open road part. Well, at each light, as we came to a stop my head rolled forward. Now remember, I had not used my neck all that much in the hospital. Well, light goes green.... head goes back, and back, and bumps the back of the seat.
This happened a few times on the trip. There was no way I could possibly keep it from happening either, aside from laying down - which at 6'3" was not going to happen in the backseat of a Chevy Blazer. 29S to 460W to 122 to Moneta. I remember thinking of how deafening the rumble was, how bizzare the trip itself seemed.
Sensory overload for someone who has not seen much lately. It was only 2 weeks for god's sake.
Pulling into the driveway, my grandmother threw the door open wide. I came in, went right to the bathroom to do the thing UVA could not get me to do, and made the trip upstairs - right to bed.
I slept long and deep, peaceful under blankets which seemed to weigh a ton. Home again home again, jiggity jig.
Tomorrow: BST24:Summation and Observations.
8/14/05
BST22: So close, so close yet so far...
Allright - seeing as how officially as of tomorrow morning, Forgotten Roanoke is re-launched, (feel free to poke around, things look different - but the old pages arent back up yet. But the new ones are pretty cool, I think) Im going to do some time compression here.
So the 14th passes with my making leaps and bounds improvements, being up and moving around - being ravenously hungry. Making my phone calls for the first time in days, answering tons of questions for the docs. STILL getting bloodwork at 5am.
Which leads to this tragic passage in the story. How to make a Phlebotomy tech cry unintentionally.
I had achieved a level of sleep which is precise, and dangerous. Military snipers sleep like this. Ever watchful while resting. I was programmed with the 4:45am wakeup call for the 5am-ish blood check. And the 6am doc visit. And the 7:30am breakfast call.
Well, I had some of the nicest blood-suckers one could ask for. Including this girl. She really could not have been more than 20, and she had been in a few times. We yapped casually as she sucked another few ounces of blood out of me.
Well, on the morning of either the 14th or 15th (that early its nearly impossible to remember), she had come in as usual. Started locking in her target vein for the day, began to slide the needle in, and the vein quickly ran the other way. She tried to coax it back, but it was not having any of it.
No, not in the least. And apparently it had joined a rebellion amogst my veins. She tried 3 times to tap in, and 3 times they just scooted out of the way at the last minute.
She started apologizing, like it was her fault I had union veins.
She was very upset, thinking that she was hurting me. As much as I tried to tell her she was not, she kept on with that thought. She left the room, fighting back tears, saying she would get her supervisor to come in.
About a half hour later, in comes the Head Vampire. A shortish, swarthy, no-nonsense looking fellow. We shall call him Vlad.
He walks up to me, takes a look at my arm, swabs it, preps the needle and bottles, and with nary a word - he pops me.
My veins, rigid with fear, don't move. Vlad has what he came for, and again - no words. He packs up and leaves, taking with him a deep shadow, and my veins relax.
Even the walls seemed to sigh in relief. I had to agree.
The next day, she did not return. She did stop in once before I left, last minute tests I believe. Again she apologized, and again I tried to tell her that it was not her fault. But this time she struck gold, straight into the vein of her choice. No problems.
It was a sort of closure, which I am thankful is not the typical everyday closure. My veins have a "strike-ready" stance. Waiting for that next moment they are called upon by the union leader, the Aorta, to rise up against sticking oppression.
So anyway, anecdotes are all I have left for these last few days. Well, except for the fact that we are not quite done with Dilantin just yet.
So the 14th passes with my making leaps and bounds improvements, being up and moving around - being ravenously hungry. Making my phone calls for the first time in days, answering tons of questions for the docs. STILL getting bloodwork at 5am.
Which leads to this tragic passage in the story. How to make a Phlebotomy tech cry unintentionally.
I had achieved a level of sleep which is precise, and dangerous. Military snipers sleep like this. Ever watchful while resting. I was programmed with the 4:45am wakeup call for the 5am-ish blood check. And the 6am doc visit. And the 7:30am breakfast call.
Well, I had some of the nicest blood-suckers one could ask for. Including this girl. She really could not have been more than 20, and she had been in a few times. We yapped casually as she sucked another few ounces of blood out of me.
Well, on the morning of either the 14th or 15th (that early its nearly impossible to remember), she had come in as usual. Started locking in her target vein for the day, began to slide the needle in, and the vein quickly ran the other way. She tried to coax it back, but it was not having any of it.
No, not in the least. And apparently it had joined a rebellion amogst my veins. She tried 3 times to tap in, and 3 times they just scooted out of the way at the last minute.
She started apologizing, like it was her fault I had union veins.
She was very upset, thinking that she was hurting me. As much as I tried to tell her she was not, she kept on with that thought. She left the room, fighting back tears, saying she would get her supervisor to come in.
About a half hour later, in comes the Head Vampire. A shortish, swarthy, no-nonsense looking fellow. We shall call him Vlad.
He walks up to me, takes a look at my arm, swabs it, preps the needle and bottles, and with nary a word - he pops me.
My veins, rigid with fear, don't move. Vlad has what he came for, and again - no words. He packs up and leaves, taking with him a deep shadow, and my veins relax.
Even the walls seemed to sigh in relief. I had to agree.
The next day, she did not return. She did stop in once before I left, last minute tests I believe. Again she apologized, and again I tried to tell her that it was not her fault. But this time she struck gold, straight into the vein of her choice. No problems.
It was a sort of closure, which I am thankful is not the typical everyday closure. My veins have a "strike-ready" stance. Waiting for that next moment they are called upon by the union leader, the Aorta, to rise up against sticking oppression.
So anyway, anecdotes are all I have left for these last few days. Well, except for the fact that we are not quite done with Dilantin just yet.
BST21: Whaddaya mean I gotta get outa bed??
the 13th/14th of August, 3 years ago. Marked by one thing - the light at the end of the tunnel.
We could see the end of the road ahead, just had to get there. Through the occupational therapists, the physical therapists. The Neuro-psychs - who wanted to make sure I was not going to drool out of my left side and kill people with my right. The doctors had stated on several occasions that they had never seen a recovery quite like this one. Such a fast recovery, such a clean recovery. Such a nice boy....
Plans for my escape began. After all this time, my mother - father - and I really just wanted to get the hell out of there. I was eating like a pig, and sucking down grapes like there was no tomorrow. The shunt surgery had left me with gas pains like you would not believe, and for some reason - the grapes helped. Maybe something I could patent?
I was beginning to see more of the outside world. I had been to the mirror in the room a few times to get a good look at myself. Boy, was I a mess. And rather upset that I did not get the nice mohawk I wanted. I still was not sleeping much - and I still had not been to the bathroom for more than 2 minutes. But as I told them, its not easy to go on a bowl thats a good foot higher than the one you are used to. And it had handles like an easy chair. That was weird.
One of the therapists, don't remember which one, actually took me downstairs to the cafeteria. Now my parents had told me about the cafeteria, how big it was and how busy. I truly had no idea though exactly how insane the place was.
I took 2 bucks, and went down. Instantly I was inundated with the scenes and sounds of life. Lines snaking this way and that - but I saw my target. A cinnamon-rasin bagel with cream cheese, and a cup of coffee. Got it, paid for it, then I learned of the real task at hand. Not could I handle the cafeteria - Hell, I'd been on subways more crowded than that. Nope - getting back to the room with no help from the therapist.
Good one. In retrospect, it was a great idea. At the time, I was not happy. As I said - I probably could not tell you today where my room was, much less at the time. But he told me, 6th floor, and gave me the room number - then stood back as I went for the elevators. UVA only had about 5 different elevator banks, so I had to backtrack through the cafeteria to find the right ones, then up - then I got lost on the 6th floor.
Boy was I red when I found out that my room was basically right across from the elevators, around the corner.
Sheesh.
Otherwise, it was mainly monitoring - making sure everything was going well.
Tomorrow: BST22: Return of the Overly-Warm Boy.
PS - the updated Forgotten-Roanoke.com is nearly complete. I'm putting pages up as I have time, which is not much. But bear with me. It's all coming together.
We could see the end of the road ahead, just had to get there. Through the occupational therapists, the physical therapists. The Neuro-psychs - who wanted to make sure I was not going to drool out of my left side and kill people with my right. The doctors had stated on several occasions that they had never seen a recovery quite like this one. Such a fast recovery, such a clean recovery. Such a nice boy....
Plans for my escape began. After all this time, my mother - father - and I really just wanted to get the hell out of there. I was eating like a pig, and sucking down grapes like there was no tomorrow. The shunt surgery had left me with gas pains like you would not believe, and for some reason - the grapes helped. Maybe something I could patent?
I was beginning to see more of the outside world. I had been to the mirror in the room a few times to get a good look at myself. Boy, was I a mess. And rather upset that I did not get the nice mohawk I wanted. I still was not sleeping much - and I still had not been to the bathroom for more than 2 minutes. But as I told them, its not easy to go on a bowl thats a good foot higher than the one you are used to. And it had handles like an easy chair. That was weird.
One of the therapists, don't remember which one, actually took me downstairs to the cafeteria. Now my parents had told me about the cafeteria, how big it was and how busy. I truly had no idea though exactly how insane the place was.
I took 2 bucks, and went down. Instantly I was inundated with the scenes and sounds of life. Lines snaking this way and that - but I saw my target. A cinnamon-rasin bagel with cream cheese, and a cup of coffee. Got it, paid for it, then I learned of the real task at hand. Not could I handle the cafeteria - Hell, I'd been on subways more crowded than that. Nope - getting back to the room with no help from the therapist.
Good one. In retrospect, it was a great idea. At the time, I was not happy. As I said - I probably could not tell you today where my room was, much less at the time. But he told me, 6th floor, and gave me the room number - then stood back as I went for the elevators. UVA only had about 5 different elevator banks, so I had to backtrack through the cafeteria to find the right ones, then up - then I got lost on the 6th floor.
Boy was I red when I found out that my room was basically right across from the elevators, around the corner.
Sheesh.
Otherwise, it was mainly monitoring - making sure everything was going well.
Tomorrow: BST22: Return of the Overly-Warm Boy.
PS - the updated Forgotten-Roanoke.com is nearly complete. I'm putting pages up as I have time, which is not much. But bear with me. It's all coming together.
8/13/05
BST20: Wow, I did not know it could multiply that fast.
Hi.
I've got a problem. Now no one knew I had this problem before the shunt surgery. They all figured that the fevers and whatnot were because of the pressure on my brain. Ask my mother, she will tell you like she told the doctors, "His brain can't handle any pressure."
S'true too.
The shunt valve was wide open. The widest setting they have for maximum flow. And yet the fevers did not end.
At this point I was on my 11th day in the hospital, and I had no infection.
Bloodwork, bloodwork, poking and prodding by the In.Fectio.us disease team. More on them in a few days, fun group. Hey, guess what - I was not discharging the Dilantin. It had just continued to build in my body till the levels were off the charts. And as if that was not enough, I was having an allergic-type reaction to it. Apparently my body had decided to go storing it for the winter. It was as if the first dose was all that was needed to keep my body going for the time I was there, and the rest was just being stored for later. But in quantity, I was having a problem with the stuff. One pill I probably would have been fine, its when its one pill a day for 11 days you get worry.
Oh - and my left side was still shot beyond belief. Like a whale missing one fin, I felt like I was constantly rolling over.
But wait - it would not last long, could not last long. The therapists were due any day now.
Although I did have one guilty pleasure. I had a massage therapist.
more later....
I've got a problem. Now no one knew I had this problem before the shunt surgery. They all figured that the fevers and whatnot were because of the pressure on my brain. Ask my mother, she will tell you like she told the doctors, "His brain can't handle any pressure."
S'true too.
The shunt valve was wide open. The widest setting they have for maximum flow. And yet the fevers did not end.
At this point I was on my 11th day in the hospital, and I had no infection.
Bloodwork, bloodwork, poking and prodding by the In.Fectio.us disease team. More on them in a few days, fun group. Hey, guess what - I was not discharging the Dilantin. It had just continued to build in my body till the levels were off the charts. And as if that was not enough, I was having an allergic-type reaction to it. Apparently my body had decided to go storing it for the winter. It was as if the first dose was all that was needed to keep my body going for the time I was there, and the rest was just being stored for later. But in quantity, I was having a problem with the stuff. One pill I probably would have been fine, its when its one pill a day for 11 days you get worry.
Oh - and my left side was still shot beyond belief. Like a whale missing one fin, I felt like I was constantly rolling over.
But wait - it would not last long, could not last long. The therapists were due any day now.
Although I did have one guilty pleasure. I had a massage therapist.
more later....
8/11/05
BST19: Whose room is this anyway?
Allright, sorry about that folks - just needed some more coffee.
To catch the story up, here are some plot points that will be condensed for the sake of brevity:
To catch the story up, here are some plot points that will be condensed for the sake of brevity:
- The drain in my brain was making me insane: Well no not technically, the drain had to be kept level with my ears to work properly. Easy to do with me being in bed all the time, but then there comes those ineveitible times when I have to actually get out of the bed to use the restroom. Yep, my strength came back in my left side with a vengance, mostly. The feeling of the whole side was still of near non-existence, but the strength was there. Anyway, when I had to use the facilities - a nurse would come in, clamp off the valve on the drain, help me out with the whole getting in the bathroom thing, then unclamp the drain when I was back in bed. One nurse did not do this last crucial part. I remember sitting there listening to my parents talk and watching the tv, when suddenly - I felt like I was sinking backwards into my body. I was barely able to actually talk, but managed to tell my mother what I was feeling. She went and got a nurse, who checked the valve and opened it. That nurse went and found my neurosurgeon who was doing his rounds, and the next thing I know - I hear his voice booming out over the halls. I dont remember what he said (which is probably a good thing), but I do remember the sound of his doom-filled footsteps as he made his way to the nurses station, and found the nurse responsible. What followed was not pretty, but showed that the man gave a damn, loudly. He then came in an apologized, checked me out, and noted the event in his records. When the valve had been reopened, quite a bit of brainjuice came out. This was to be an important fact.
- I had began taking nightly walks. Well, once or twice anyway. Ripping out my IV's and wandering the halls with the brain drain in tow, knowing it had to be kept high. Like walking with a helium baloon. I remember the nurses finding me, and gently shoving me back into bed. Of course, it stopped when the words "one more time and they will have to restrain you to the bed" were heard.
- the room I was in, was not the room I was in. I woke up one night swearing and angry about being moved into the basement. Another night, another room entirely. Something was affecting me, but no one knew what yet.
- I was getting fevers. To the point where I had to be iced down a bit to cool off. Showing no signs of infection, but fevers none the less. This launched a Spanish Inquisition. Shaffrey had decided that I needed a shunt. The docs did not want to install said shunt due to fevers. Shunt being issue #1, fevers #2.
- Issue #1 won out. I had the shunt installed. Although not as nicely as I would have liked to remember it. When it comes to the surgery for the tumor, I do not remember even leaving the room. For the shunt - I was wide awake the whole ride down. I remember lying outside the OR, on my bed talking with the nurse who was accompanying me. I remember telling her that I once heard that shunts can gurgle. Yeah, you heard me. I was doing just fine. I can still sort of remember the conversation the docs were having as they were waiting for me to drop out in the OR itself. I was not happy, I wanted to be gone before I saw an elevator.
- SPVP Magnetically Programmable Shunt installed. $5k worth of titanium stuck into my skull, for my own well being. The brain started improving instantly. The Fevers? Well that was another story. Oh, and by the by - as a quick fix to get the fevers down enough so they could operate, I had a Motrin IB, suppository style. What fun.
BST20: Attack of the Infectious Disease Team
BST update
will take place eventually tonight. Possibly early tomorrow morning. Im too tired and worn down to type much now.
But I'll finish this, I swear.
But I'll finish this, I swear.
8/10/05
BST18a: Not Eddie Murphy in The Golden Child
Allright, yes I am tired.
I just wanted to add one more thing tonight.
Sometimes people get a brain drain. Theyre tired, can't think straight, basically braindead - and admitting it.
I literally had a brain drain. A long piece of tubing, which now leads to a kind of reverse iv bag. Capturing the wonderful thought fluid in my head. So it could be measured.
Now I really hope none of you have to go through this, but incase you do - after they have taken the measurements of how much fluid your kicking out - they dump it.
In the toilet.
Thus the sum total of your lifes thoughts, dreams, and spinal lubricants - it all equates to toilet water.
I found it amusing - but I find many things amusing.
I read somewhere the market value of a human body is roughly $80 bucks if broken down into its base parts. Well, for the next two days we are going to deal with my personal significant increase in bodily value.
And my best efforts to find the nurses station in a hospital built as a test to patients. I think there are still patients wandering around the floors, trying to find the elevators. Well, the right elevators anyway.
Tomorrow: Zen and the art of wandering hospital corridors with your brain drain in tow.
I just wanted to add one more thing tonight.
Sometimes people get a brain drain. Theyre tired, can't think straight, basically braindead - and admitting it.
I literally had a brain drain. A long piece of tubing, which now leads to a kind of reverse iv bag. Capturing the wonderful thought fluid in my head. So it could be measured.
Now I really hope none of you have to go through this, but incase you do - after they have taken the measurements of how much fluid your kicking out - they dump it.
In the toilet.
Thus the sum total of your lifes thoughts, dreams, and spinal lubricants - it all equates to toilet water.
I found it amusing - but I find many things amusing.
I read somewhere the market value of a human body is roughly $80 bucks if broken down into its base parts. Well, for the next two days we are going to deal with my personal significant increase in bodily value.
And my best efforts to find the nurses station in a hospital built as a test to patients. I think there are still patients wandering around the floors, trying to find the elevators. Well, the right elevators anyway.
Tomorrow: Zen and the art of wandering hospital corridors with your brain drain in tow.
BST18: Why can't I wear my glasses properly?
What? It's an honest question.
I was just happy to have my damn glasses at this point. I could see with clarity again! What junk on TV.. sad.
Ok, lets see where I stand at this point. Having had the surgery, having spent 18-20 hours in NeuroICU (yeah, that really threw me for a loop.), having a pretty speedy time so far, at least the docs said so.
So round about this time is when I noticed I had no use for my left arm. Well, I should not put it that way, what I should say is my left arm was about 75% less effective than it was before the surgery. Come to think of it, my entire left side was pretty odd.
I slept funny, I had to hold onto the railing on the hospital bed while I slept. Right hand gripping left rail as Im sleeping. To try and keep from feeling like, boy - this one is a hard one to describe.
Ok - so they retracted the right side of my brain during surgery. And as we all know, the right and left sides of the brain cross paths in the body. Right controls the left, and vice versa.
Well it seemed as if my right side of the brain was taking a few days off, to recover from the trauma. Which left my left-side nearly useless.
Plus I'm a side-sleeper. Now they had come in the first morning in my room to check up on me, and remove something. Well, I could not see it as it was out my view, but I could feel it as the doctor cut it off of me.
Apparently I had a plastic tube running out of my head on the left side. And on the right. And no, I was not flossing my brain again.
These were to allow for overflow in the brain fluid as it equalized itself again.
So I had to let my glasses perch on my head, no where near the tubes. If I was not careful about which way I leaned in bed, I could feel the remaining tube on my right side pulling. Ever feel something being pulled from your head?
Eww.
Anyway, time for me to go get ready for work. I will finish this days story off later.
I was just happy to have my damn glasses at this point. I could see with clarity again! What junk on TV.. sad.
Ok, lets see where I stand at this point. Having had the surgery, having spent 18-20 hours in NeuroICU (yeah, that really threw me for a loop.), having a pretty speedy time so far, at least the docs said so.
So round about this time is when I noticed I had no use for my left arm. Well, I should not put it that way, what I should say is my left arm was about 75% less effective than it was before the surgery. Come to think of it, my entire left side was pretty odd.
I slept funny, I had to hold onto the railing on the hospital bed while I slept. Right hand gripping left rail as Im sleeping. To try and keep from feeling like, boy - this one is a hard one to describe.
Ok - so they retracted the right side of my brain during surgery. And as we all know, the right and left sides of the brain cross paths in the body. Right controls the left, and vice versa.
Well it seemed as if my right side of the brain was taking a few days off, to recover from the trauma. Which left my left-side nearly useless.
Plus I'm a side-sleeper. Now they had come in the first morning in my room to check up on me, and remove something. Well, I could not see it as it was out my view, but I could feel it as the doctor cut it off of me.
Apparently I had a plastic tube running out of my head on the left side. And on the right. And no, I was not flossing my brain again.
These were to allow for overflow in the brain fluid as it equalized itself again.
So I had to let my glasses perch on my head, no where near the tubes. If I was not careful about which way I leaned in bed, I could feel the remaining tube on my right side pulling. Ever feel something being pulled from your head?
Eww.
Anyway, time for me to go get ready for work. I will finish this days story off later.
8/8/05
BST17c: Boy did I wrecktify that last title.
Yes, I admit it - I was shot tired when I wrote the last entry. And Im even worse now, so Im going to attempt to be clear and concise when I finish the story of my 3 days/ 24 hours in NeuroICU. Well, again - less than 24 hours.
I have to stress that point, because it leads to one of the most important facts about this whole journey. But that comes in a little while.
So where was I? Ahh yes, the catheter. Boy was that fun. Let me fade back a few days in history to set this whole thing up.
I was, ahem, backed up. The plumbing had stopped working. Had been out of service for at least a week if not longer. That had the docs worried. I can't blame them.
Aside from the fact that the toilet I had in the room was higher, thicker, wider, and more uncomfortable than any toilet I had ever seen, I had no idea why I could not go.
My nurse at the time found this very troubling, echoing what the doctors said.
But she had a solution. I was not for taking any kind of laxative when I was essentially bound to this hospital bed. I told her, a strong cup of coffee will get me going - as it had about twice a month in the past.
Well, she had other designs, unbeknownst to me. Now before I tell you this, understand that this was my favorite nurse. She was the nicest person, kindest soul. You could not want a better nurse than this one. Sad though, I do not remember her name. But I hope she recognizes herself, or at least her cup of "coffee."
Ok - so heres the recipie for (pardon) Whistling Intestines:
1 part apple juice
1 part prune juice
1 part milk of magnesia
Warm in microwave, mix thoroughly.
Well, she handed me a warm cup, full of mostly dark liquid. So what was I supposed to think? Coffee, here it comes! I chugged that cup and asked for another.
I never said I was in my right mind.
Well, you would have thought that would have worked or something, but no. 1 hour later, all I got was a whistle.
Well, more like a screetching howl, but you get the idea.
So I was still backed up. Amazing no?
So when I was in NeuroICU, yes I was confined to my bed. But they were still expecting some movement of some sort.
I fell asleep again, and woke up to bright lights, a new day. They told me I was being sent to my own room again! WOO HOO.. or something like it. My voice was shot, I could not speak. They brought me food. Well, something approximating food.
Apparently, according to the little menu sheet I was able to read, I was on a soft-warm diet. Warm jello, lukewarm tea, stuff like that. No solids. Well, a fascinating meal to say the least.
A large man came into view. He was a nurse, charged with removing the catheter. Poor guy, what a job to have. He jostled me out of bed, somehow had me standing. Did a little thing, talking to me the whole time. Then he says, "Hold on..."
In my memory, it was quick and painless, but odd. Somehow he stomped on the tube, and it popped out.
Enough detail - I know I know.
So back into bed to wait. Then these 2 pixies in nurses assitants clothing sparkled into view. They were going to transport me back to my room. WOO HOO..
They were chatty little sprites, yapping my ears off. Nice to hear after 3 days in the long dark.
They gave me a roll of toilet paper.
Interesting gift for one just out of surgery. Apparently every patient has certain items assigned them. A cup for water, box of tissues, roll of Tp. And what is not used goes with the patient to the next room.
So off with my roll of Tp. Back to the room, where they got me out of bed (again!) so they could change the sheets and all that stuff. I asked to be sat on the edge of the bed so I could look out the window. The pixies left, happily chattering as they went. It would be a few minutes before my mother got to the room to join me. I remember rising up just enough to see out the window and down those 6 stories. I could faintly make out the train tracks below.
I still did not have my glasses, and I was still pissed about it. But I could see, I was still alive. I survived major brain surgery. I cried a little, happy kind of tears. Glad to be alive.
Then my mother came in the room and I was laid back down in the bed. I was not totally sure why I needed all this assistance, as I did not feel much different. Aside from having almost no voice, and extremely clear sinus', there was no major change I could see, aside from the string of christmas lights attached to my arm. Well, that was what I called all the IV lines and monitor lines attached to me.
Little did I know what I looked like. Or what had been done to me.
Tomorrow: BST19: What spaghetti this way comes...
(yes, Im skipping 18, due to the size and complexity of 17. Deal with it - if its important, it will show up later.)
I have to stress that point, because it leads to one of the most important facts about this whole journey. But that comes in a little while.
So where was I? Ahh yes, the catheter. Boy was that fun. Let me fade back a few days in history to set this whole thing up.
I was, ahem, backed up. The plumbing had stopped working. Had been out of service for at least a week if not longer. That had the docs worried. I can't blame them.
Aside from the fact that the toilet I had in the room was higher, thicker, wider, and more uncomfortable than any toilet I had ever seen, I had no idea why I could not go.
My nurse at the time found this very troubling, echoing what the doctors said.
But she had a solution. I was not for taking any kind of laxative when I was essentially bound to this hospital bed. I told her, a strong cup of coffee will get me going - as it had about twice a month in the past.
Well, she had other designs, unbeknownst to me. Now before I tell you this, understand that this was my favorite nurse. She was the nicest person, kindest soul. You could not want a better nurse than this one. Sad though, I do not remember her name. But I hope she recognizes herself, or at least her cup of "coffee."
Ok - so heres the recipie for (pardon) Whistling Intestines:
1 part apple juice
1 part prune juice
1 part milk of magnesia
Warm in microwave, mix thoroughly.
Well, she handed me a warm cup, full of mostly dark liquid. So what was I supposed to think? Coffee, here it comes! I chugged that cup and asked for another.
I never said I was in my right mind.
Well, you would have thought that would have worked or something, but no. 1 hour later, all I got was a whistle.
Well, more like a screetching howl, but you get the idea.
So I was still backed up. Amazing no?
So when I was in NeuroICU, yes I was confined to my bed. But they were still expecting some movement of some sort.
I fell asleep again, and woke up to bright lights, a new day. They told me I was being sent to my own room again! WOO HOO.. or something like it. My voice was shot, I could not speak. They brought me food. Well, something approximating food.
Apparently, according to the little menu sheet I was able to read, I was on a soft-warm diet. Warm jello, lukewarm tea, stuff like that. No solids. Well, a fascinating meal to say the least.
A large man came into view. He was a nurse, charged with removing the catheter. Poor guy, what a job to have. He jostled me out of bed, somehow had me standing. Did a little thing, talking to me the whole time. Then he says, "Hold on..."
In my memory, it was quick and painless, but odd. Somehow he stomped on the tube, and it popped out.
Enough detail - I know I know.
So back into bed to wait. Then these 2 pixies in nurses assitants clothing sparkled into view. They were going to transport me back to my room. WOO HOO..
They were chatty little sprites, yapping my ears off. Nice to hear after 3 days in the long dark.
They gave me a roll of toilet paper.
Interesting gift for one just out of surgery. Apparently every patient has certain items assigned them. A cup for water, box of tissues, roll of Tp. And what is not used goes with the patient to the next room.
So off with my roll of Tp. Back to the room, where they got me out of bed (again!) so they could change the sheets and all that stuff. I asked to be sat on the edge of the bed so I could look out the window. The pixies left, happily chattering as they went. It would be a few minutes before my mother got to the room to join me. I remember rising up just enough to see out the window and down those 6 stories. I could faintly make out the train tracks below.
I still did not have my glasses, and I was still pissed about it. But I could see, I was still alive. I survived major brain surgery. I cried a little, happy kind of tears. Glad to be alive.
Then my mother came in the room and I was laid back down in the bed. I was not totally sure why I needed all this assistance, as I did not feel much different. Aside from having almost no voice, and extremely clear sinus', there was no major change I could see, aside from the string of christmas lights attached to my arm. Well, that was what I called all the IV lines and monitor lines attached to me.
Little did I know what I looked like. Or what had been done to me.
Tomorrow: BST19: What spaghetti this way comes...
(yes, Im skipping 18, due to the size and complexity of 17. Deal with it - if its important, it will show up later.)
BST17b: Due to the graphic nature of this program, listener discretions has been advised.
Meanwhile... back in NeuroICU... things were beginning to get really strange.
Now I partially recognized the fact that I was in the middle of a full on fantasy. I figured this out when I saw members of my extended family line up out in the hallway, just past the room, and go in through a back door.
About 200 members of my extended family.
I knew something was afoot when I saw my aunt and uncle wave at me, and my grandmother admonish them for being seen. Then, for some reason I noticed for the first time the large curtain-covered wall about 20 feet from the end of my bed. I could hear feet shuffling and whispering from behind the curtain.
Then, suddenly the lights dimmed. The curtain rose. And the music started. A production number, my family was giving me a production number. One that wasn't all that different from the opening to the Muppet Show, a nice touch considering my love for all things Muppet.
Then there were 2 simple tableau, sort of one act plays with a core theme of "Congradulations, you made it through!"
Then there was yet another song - after which I thanked them profusely.
The next thing I knew I was awake, staring off into blurry space. Nothing new or different surrounding me, no vaudevillian routines. Apparently I had nodded off during the last act, and everyone had left. But now I can recall the room was dark again, dramatically lit. And I finally could see where my catheter led. Down across the floor, up a curtained wall, back down the other side and into a toilet.
Like Chutes and Ladders.
It was at this point I assumed I was in night 2 of my stay in NeuroICU.
Because this story spans 3 days in my head, and 1 day in reality - Im going to continue BST17 through tonight.
There will be one more update to it, and then we will move on.
Still so much left to talk about.
Now I partially recognized the fact that I was in the middle of a full on fantasy. I figured this out when I saw members of my extended family line up out in the hallway, just past the room, and go in through a back door.
About 200 members of my extended family.
I knew something was afoot when I saw my aunt and uncle wave at me, and my grandmother admonish them for being seen. Then, for some reason I noticed for the first time the large curtain-covered wall about 20 feet from the end of my bed. I could hear feet shuffling and whispering from behind the curtain.
Then, suddenly the lights dimmed. The curtain rose. And the music started. A production number, my family was giving me a production number. One that wasn't all that different from the opening to the Muppet Show, a nice touch considering my love for all things Muppet.
Then there were 2 simple tableau, sort of one act plays with a core theme of "Congradulations, you made it through!"
Then there was yet another song - after which I thanked them profusely.
The next thing I knew I was awake, staring off into blurry space. Nothing new or different surrounding me, no vaudevillian routines. Apparently I had nodded off during the last act, and everyone had left. But now I can recall the room was dark again, dramatically lit. And I finally could see where my catheter led. Down across the floor, up a curtained wall, back down the other side and into a toilet.
Like Chutes and Ladders.
It was at this point I assumed I was in night 2 of my stay in NeuroICU.
Because this story spans 3 days in my head, and 1 day in reality - Im going to continue BST17 through tonight.
There will be one more update to it, and then we will move on.
Still so much left to talk about.
8/7/05
BST17a: The long dark night/day/night/day/night of the soul.
So as I was saying, I was not quite right. 1968? Yeah, and I had just found the best way to dodge the draft.
So I partially come to in NeuroICU, when I come to the sudden realization that Im not wearing my glasses. And not only am I not wearing them, they are no where to be found. I was nearly in a panic. Then I found out that my mother had my glasses, and I would not be getting them back till I was out of NeuroICU. Hey, guess what? I was not happy.
What good is it to be in a new place, with all this high tech equipment, a TV, and I can't see a thing? Besides the fact that I could not see too straight as it was, the blur was really annoying.
Then I passed back out again.
/begin weirdness
There was a nurse (of course there was) in the NeuroICU, charged with monitoring and caring for me. She was nice, from what I remember. I hold no grudge against her. But my mind devised a little special insanity for her, well - not directed at her, but she played a key role in it.
Heres what I thought happened: My bed had a little computer attached (it did), which she would occasionally come and check something on. I thought nothing of it. At one point, she came over and told me she was going to be doing something.. I have no idea what, but something. I think I mumbled, or grunted. Whatever. Then the bed began moving. And not as in "I was being taken somewhere" moving, I mean Craftmatic Adjustable bed moving. Then my legs started vibrating, churning. Like the magic moving bed was sucking them in and rolling them around in its mouth.
And the nurse was no where to be found, as far as my horrible vision could see.
This seemed to last roughly 2 hours, and I laid there in a strange kind of horror. Trying to make sense of all this. At some point it occured to me that I must have those leg-massaging sock thingys on, to keep the blood circulating properly. And the bed itself might move slightly to make sure the blood is moving around properly. This calmed me a bit, but then I got angry. Angry because what was happening to me had not been explained in the slightest. And because I could not see.
Fast forward a few hours, and I woke up - the room was dark with the exception of the monitoring equipment. The nurse was in there, or one of the nurses anyway. In my blurred vision I could see the computer they were working on, and to me - it looked like a mock-up of the LCARS system from Star Trek. Yes, you heard me - it looked like the computer screens on the Next Generation Enterprise.
Yes, I have always liked Star Trek, why do you ask?
I remember asking who had designed that system, and was it infact based on the LCARS.
Lets see, I think around this time I had also been told I was catheterized. As my mind searched for a meaning to such a word, it suddenly dawned on me that there was a reason why I did not need to get out of the bed to go to the bathroom. Umm, yeah - never again I tell you.
So the night continued, and I noticed there was a stack of what looked like DVD cases next to the computer, which lit in sequences. Each seemed to have a title. Which I could not read, of course - due to not having my glasses. (my anger has faded over the years, but not the memory)
It seemed at some point that the nurse on duty began playing some video game on the system, through those lit colored boxes. Yeah, I was sane...
So I must have passed out again, because when I woke up - it was the next day. The room was well lit, everyone seemed fairly perky. Must be morning right?
So in scanning my memory, I came to determine that it had been approximately 2 days since the surgery.
Remember now, my surgery only took 6 hours, and I was only in NeuroICU for about 18 hours.
But 2 days had passed, and I still had time to go.
So I partially come to in NeuroICU, when I come to the sudden realization that Im not wearing my glasses. And not only am I not wearing them, they are no where to be found. I was nearly in a panic. Then I found out that my mother had my glasses, and I would not be getting them back till I was out of NeuroICU. Hey, guess what? I was not happy.
What good is it to be in a new place, with all this high tech equipment, a TV, and I can't see a thing? Besides the fact that I could not see too straight as it was, the blur was really annoying.
Then I passed back out again.
/begin weirdness
There was a nurse (of course there was) in the NeuroICU, charged with monitoring and caring for me. She was nice, from what I remember. I hold no grudge against her. But my mind devised a little special insanity for her, well - not directed at her, but she played a key role in it.
Heres what I thought happened: My bed had a little computer attached (it did), which she would occasionally come and check something on. I thought nothing of it. At one point, she came over and told me she was going to be doing something.. I have no idea what, but something. I think I mumbled, or grunted. Whatever. Then the bed began moving. And not as in "I was being taken somewhere" moving, I mean Craftmatic Adjustable bed moving. Then my legs started vibrating, churning. Like the magic moving bed was sucking them in and rolling them around in its mouth.
And the nurse was no where to be found, as far as my horrible vision could see.
This seemed to last roughly 2 hours, and I laid there in a strange kind of horror. Trying to make sense of all this. At some point it occured to me that I must have those leg-massaging sock thingys on, to keep the blood circulating properly. And the bed itself might move slightly to make sure the blood is moving around properly. This calmed me a bit, but then I got angry. Angry because what was happening to me had not been explained in the slightest. And because I could not see.
Fast forward a few hours, and I woke up - the room was dark with the exception of the monitoring equipment. The nurse was in there, or one of the nurses anyway. In my blurred vision I could see the computer they were working on, and to me - it looked like a mock-up of the LCARS system from Star Trek. Yes, you heard me - it looked like the computer screens on the Next Generation Enterprise.
Yes, I have always liked Star Trek, why do you ask?
I remember asking who had designed that system, and was it infact based on the LCARS.
Lets see, I think around this time I had also been told I was catheterized. As my mind searched for a meaning to such a word, it suddenly dawned on me that there was a reason why I did not need to get out of the bed to go to the bathroom. Umm, yeah - never again I tell you.
So the night continued, and I noticed there was a stack of what looked like DVD cases next to the computer, which lit in sequences. Each seemed to have a title. Which I could not read, of course - due to not having my glasses. (my anger has faded over the years, but not the memory)
It seemed at some point that the nurse on duty began playing some video game on the system, through those lit colored boxes. Yeah, I was sane...
So I must have passed out again, because when I woke up - it was the next day. The room was well lit, everyone seemed fairly perky. Must be morning right?
So in scanning my memory, I came to determine that it had been approximately 2 days since the surgery.
Remember now, my surgery only took 6 hours, and I was only in NeuroICU for about 18 hours.
But 2 days had passed, and I still had time to go.
BST17: A misguided attempt to convey the entirety of 24 hours in 3-4 parts.
Yes, that is possibly the most obtuse title I could come up with. And confusing!
What I was basically trying to say is that this is not going to be a one post story.
This is a multiple. One of several posts I will make in the next 24 hours to attempt to tell the story of my 20+ hours in NICU (Neuro-ICU for those playing along at home).
Yes, I know I said I would add more to the previous post, and I will - theres a repetitive theme to that days story which will reappear later.
So lets start from the beginning.
Today is August 7th. It is just past midnight. 3 years ago I was in a hospital room at the University of Virginia Medical Center waiting on my surgery, scheduled for 8am (I think). It is now 17 days post-birthday seizure blowout. In that time I had fallen, threw up, fallen again, went to a hospital where I had an x-ray taken of the space between my chin and my chest.
Pause.
Got on a train, rode 398 miles from NYC to LYH, got in a car, went to WalMart, fell down, went home to my parents, had a haircut, ate chinese, threw up.
Pause.
Went to the Good Doctor, went for a CT, went home, went to UVA, went to admissions, went to my room. Blur.....
And now this moment. The waiting, the watching the clock. It all boiled down to this moment. And I don't remember any of it.
For a moment here the dates will seem skewed. Understand please, I had massive surgery, 6 hours worth. They retracted the right lobe of my brain so they could get at the tumor. Which as we came to find out - was stuck right down the middle. Septum Pellucidum if I recall correctly. It was big, about the size of a bab's fist. And we are not talking newborn either. Combine that with the massive amounts of anesthetics I must have been under, and the dilantin effect - and you have one massive time warp.
They used a Dremel on my head!
Easily one of my favorite tools, and they used it on my head! Gave me whats known in the industry as a "burr hole," or as we commoners call it - a dent.
From what I've been told, it was a high-tech affair. Computers, 3D models, lazer sighting line ups with the lifesavers they had previously stuck to my head.
There was me, on the table. Above me was a MRI image on a screen that aligned with my head. That image was 3D, which enabled them to figure out where they needed to be to eradicate the damned thing.
There was very little drama. Just the Good Surgeons careful manuvering around these tiny filaments that connect the left and right side of the brain, for to sever one could lead to something unwanted. What or how bad I do not know, but not good from what I understand.
There is a breif glimmer of rememberance from the time when I left the OR, when the doctors all crowded around me to stir me back to life. They meant well, they really did - but you don't ask a wiseass like me "Do you know where you are?"
I responded, "I should hope so, you have UVA written on EVERYTHING!"
According to my mother, I was not so lucid when they asked me the year. I was born in 1975, in July. For some reason - I told them it was 1968.
Peace, love and brain surgery I guess.
Anyway - theres a ton more to come. Most of it complete fantasy, all of it real.
At least it seemed to be.
More to come, stay tuned...
What I was basically trying to say is that this is not going to be a one post story.
This is a multiple. One of several posts I will make in the next 24 hours to attempt to tell the story of my 20+ hours in NICU (Neuro-ICU for those playing along at home).
Yes, I know I said I would add more to the previous post, and I will - theres a repetitive theme to that days story which will reappear later.
So lets start from the beginning.
Today is August 7th. It is just past midnight. 3 years ago I was in a hospital room at the University of Virginia Medical Center waiting on my surgery, scheduled for 8am (I think). It is now 17 days post-birthday seizure blowout. In that time I had fallen, threw up, fallen again, went to a hospital where I had an x-ray taken of the space between my chin and my chest.
Pause.
Got on a train, rode 398 miles from NYC to LYH, got in a car, went to WalMart, fell down, went home to my parents, had a haircut, ate chinese, threw up.
Pause.
Went to the Good Doctor, went for a CT, went home, went to UVA, went to admissions, went to my room. Blur.....
And now this moment. The waiting, the watching the clock. It all boiled down to this moment. And I don't remember any of it.
For a moment here the dates will seem skewed. Understand please, I had massive surgery, 6 hours worth. They retracted the right lobe of my brain so they could get at the tumor. Which as we came to find out - was stuck right down the middle. Septum Pellucidum if I recall correctly. It was big, about the size of a bab's fist. And we are not talking newborn either. Combine that with the massive amounts of anesthetics I must have been under, and the dilantin effect - and you have one massive time warp.
They used a Dremel on my head!
Easily one of my favorite tools, and they used it on my head! Gave me whats known in the industry as a "burr hole," or as we commoners call it - a dent.
From what I've been told, it was a high-tech affair. Computers, 3D models, lazer sighting line ups with the lifesavers they had previously stuck to my head.
There was me, on the table. Above me was a MRI image on a screen that aligned with my head. That image was 3D, which enabled them to figure out where they needed to be to eradicate the damned thing.
There was very little drama. Just the Good Surgeons careful manuvering around these tiny filaments that connect the left and right side of the brain, for to sever one could lead to something unwanted. What or how bad I do not know, but not good from what I understand.
There is a breif glimmer of rememberance from the time when I left the OR, when the doctors all crowded around me to stir me back to life. They meant well, they really did - but you don't ask a wiseass like me "Do you know where you are?"
I responded, "I should hope so, you have UVA written on EVERYTHING!"
According to my mother, I was not so lucid when they asked me the year. I was born in 1975, in July. For some reason - I told them it was 1968.
Peace, love and brain surgery I guess.
Anyway - theres a ton more to come. Most of it complete fantasy, all of it real.
At least it seemed to be.
More to come, stay tuned...
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