All Cracked Up
By: Cynthia Meyers-Hanson
This nonfiction short story, about my life changing event, is a modification using ideas derived from some chapters in my book My ArmOr (my life). About four years ago, I faced near amputation of my left arm; therefore, in some ways, as a kindred spirit, I feel your pain, Boston victims.
In spite of previous accidents, spills, falls, and trips- up until that day; I never rode in an ambulance. Something threw me for a loop at the local spring and swimming hole; that incident changed my life forever. Right after that accident, as I flew to that crash landing on my shoulder, the first words out of my mouth were, “I don’t believe this!”
Quickly, after my stumble, an off duty fireman arrived from another direction. He told me his name taking my injured arm’s hand in his as he kneeled beside me. “Can you move your fingers?”
“Yes,” I showed him that they worked.
“How about your elbow?” My lower arm went up and down. “How about your shoulder?”
“Ouch!” In agony, I attempted unsuccessfully to move my upper arm.
“The Humerus!” He decided not to push me any further, “It’s a good sign that your lower arm still works.” Then, he triaged for potential spine issues, “Are you able to move your legs?”
“Yep, that’s good right?”
Smiling, he answered, “I doubt your spine broke. But, for precautionary measure, let them transport you on a backboard when the ambulance arrives.” Before fully understanding the extent of my injuries, I thanked The Lord it wasn’t worse.
Soon, my mind chuckled while teasing me, ‘Walk much?’
As I stayed physically still, my brain raced all over the place including calculating the number of hours before potentially going home. Last time I broke that arm, in the car accident just before my marriage, it took a few hours at the ER and a few weeks before I felt good as new. Thus, my mind failed to wrap around any idea that this could be a worst case scenario. After all, walking speed verses auto collision, there’s no comparison. The crash of metal, upholstery, engines, and other vehicle parts surely was worse than this moment. Right?
My daughter ran to fetch a ranger as the fireman triaged my situation. Without interfering much, that park staff sat on the edge of a wooden, country style, natural fence taking notes. Meanwhile, my husband blurted out his thoughts believing that this was a simple break. “If you can stand up, we can save the cost of an ambulance ride,”
“Do we need an ambulance?” The ranger interrupted his accident report notes. As I shook my head yes, the fireman suggested placing that call. As we waited, the other man got my name, rank, and serial number for his paperwork.
When the paramedics arrived, they asked me a series of questions, too. My memory is still vivid about everything that day from the huge Reese’s candy bar the male paramedic showed off once we were inside that vehicle to what I told them about my condition, “I’m not sure what broke- maybe, my neck!” As we tumbled over the rocky terrain ‘en route’ to the parking lot and the first hospital, due to my lack of painkillers and condition, my mumbling included various forms of, “Ouch- that hurt a bit!” I had no pain relief due to my allergic reactions to many medications.
While still conscious, I said to the ER doctor, “I’ve lost my sense of Humerus. It broke! I can’t feel it anymore!” In reality, that bone gave me enduring pain except when they medicated me as needed! That day and for weeks to come, I kept jesting as a coping mechanism including to my medical staff. “I’m so glad my funny bone is still intact!”
That physician read my chart hardly smiling; so, I turned to my daughter adding; “Tough crowd in the ER, today!” The X-Ray tech got the joke smirking while relaying my silliness to her colleague! As decisions were made about transporting me to a trauma center, I prayed and meditated knowing my only course was through this ordeal and suffering to get the healing started. In those traumatic moments, I failed to wrap my head around just how bad that bone broke and why a trauma doctor took over my case. If I’d totally understood the magnitude of my issues, my mind might have snapped. My psyche turned fear into intermittent jokes to alleviate the tension allowing for my small emotional eruptions to defuse my emotional pain. That day, I crushed my Humerus in at least two locations requiring a trauma, orthopedic surgeon. Little did I know it at the time but I’d need tenacity to overcome my arm’s damage. The next step included non-emergency surgery.
In the middle of the night, before my actual operation, an orderly with a wheelchair came to get me. I thought it was strange that he arrived with a chair instead of a gurney. However, being able to walk, I exited my bed with his help and sat down; there wasn’t even a splint on my left arm, yet. Once in the MRI waiting room, the staff commented on my erect position then gingerly two of them moved me to the scanner for my procedure.
My mind kept thinking, no matter what there is no turning back. I have to go forward and get through this so my recovery can begin. Silly thoughts sprinkled in as well. For example, I worried, ‘What if the bone fractured in two places started to mend before surgery? Being flopped around like this, would it heal twisted?’
Before I could digest that thought, my surgery staff arrived, “We will put you in a chair and strap you down.” A nurse explained. “Even though you are under when we do your surgery, I tell patients the full procedure in case they wake up; so, they won’t panic. It’s procedure not punishment,” She giggled, “The thing we strap you down on does resemble an electric or Hannibal Lector’s chair.”
As they began wheeling me to the next step of this operation, one nurse faced my husband stating, “We have her scheduled for two hours; we do this daily. You can go wait in the family waiting room; the doctor will find you when he finishes her procedure.” Then, she asked, “Before you leave will you mark yes on the arm the physician is scheduled to work on. It’s hospital policy that a family member does this part of the preparation for any operation.”
My husband grabbed the pen, wrote, and then kissed me goodbye. The operating room felt bright and full of light. I sensed transitions to Heaven all around me but never woke up during the operation. Hours later, six hours to be exact, I opened my eyes while turning to look for a nurse or clock. I’d been through anesthesia four times in my lifetime- for unrelated medical conditions. I remembered recovery rooms from most of those incidents. Thus, I looked for the clock they use to mark your charts with time of consciousness or time of death. Immediately realizing that I slept too long or the procedure ran late, my heart hoped it was fatigue that caused my tardy wakeup.
As I became less confused, my soul already knew the truth; therefore, my mouth bellowed, “Oh, Shit!” Later, I learned that my physician made that same observation several times during and after my operation.
Seeing my left arm, I calmed down. Another rude awakening came later as an orderly wheeled me back to my room and husband. My hubby immediately started showing me the rod turned into a partial shoulder replacement because the upper bone or ball shattered as the doctor tapped the metal in. It looked like a sword welded from my left shoulder towards the next joint; the cutting edge tip was stuck in the remaining bone near my elbow. Hopelessly, I tried to see bone where there wasn’t any; the gap jumped out at me taunting my psyche. As my eyes stared in disbelief of my simple procedure changing so drastically, my mind quietly jested. ‘If I ever need a blade, breaking my arm to release that rod might do!’ My weird thought failed to bring a smile because I instantly realized that if the metal didn’t stick or my body rejected that surgical steel, my left limb would be gone. That X-Ray made me wonder about the rest of my armor and what the change in events signaled about my future life.
“Don’t worry! With physical therapy, your arm will be good as new in four to six months.” Many people on staff tried to soothe me. However, my bone would never return to that gapping spot. Straightaway, I worried about losing my limb if the bionic part or the rest of that bone failed. It produced anxiety and still does.
My epiphany, about following ‘God’s Will’ unconditionally, occurred in the moments after my fall. Some peace came from understanding that I could not control even the most mundane things in life such as walking on a sidewalk near an embankment, which started my current medical journey. However, trusting God- to bring me through this terrible ordeal from a benign boating day actually brought acceptance of His Will and the beginning of more trust in my life. I felt His Presence taking care of me. During my silence and meditation, HE showed me the possible outcome of my situation with my arm before, during and after that arm’s operation. Each time my eyes viewed the X-Ray, my spirit heard a warning from My Maker. ‘I can take your limb at any point!’ HE hasn’t! The plaguing question was, “Would I regain the arm’s full use?” Even before being told my prognosis from my doctor, I sensed that there might be a failure to attach all my muscles as God originally placed them in my body. Even though my psyche and spirit sensed bad news, only time would tell.
Once I got home, when family, friends, and neighbors came to my rescue with meals and help; my husband showed off my X-Rays. Each time, I worried about the ‘what ifs’. If this surgery had any problems or my body failed to heal, would I lose my arm? In those moments of doubt, my mouth never mentioned my concerns but my soul spoke volumes in private prayer. Outwardly, my humor never failed; it broke my tension. Trying desperately to find the rhyme or reason to my life changing experience, I wrote and said things such as, “I can't take the weight of the world on my shoulders anymore- at least not the left one.” I don’t care what anyone says that last statement is funny!
As I started the long road of physical therapy to recover my arm’s usage, I made observations. “What I call exercise and physical therapy- what I think is tons of work to do six or more times a day in order to get my arm usage back, most people call every day or every minute movements. Humans take our biological complexity for granted. I have to say before my fall, ‘me include!’”
Speaking of my recovery, if the occupational therapist, a shoulder to hand specialist, told me to do a routine ten times, I did it thirty repetitions. My goal to get back to normal prompted my actions. Plus, I quickly discovered that the pain diminished the more I worked the shoulder joint, arm muscles, and surrounding body parts. I told my pals, “I'm still not out of the woods but hope I am soon because I am allergic to oak, pine, mold, mildew, birds, and some other animals.” Part of my comment was no joke! I really do have allergies, which is why I was denied painkiller in that first ambulance. The silly parts of my comments reflected my coping style. After my fall, I had the proverbial ‘why me’ attitude. In spite of my overwhelming nervousness, I joked as often as I cried. “Now, that I have a new top Humerus, due to it shattering at the ball top, I need to say that I’m glad I got that chip off my shoulder.”
In reality, I clung to happiness with my humor and eventually found amusement from some kindred spirits at physical therapy. One day, at that facility, a guy talked about superman delusions that broke him. I interrupted, “You know Superman is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! But- it only happens a single time because he falls after that leap and ends up here! That's why it only happens once!”
A month or so into my physical recovery, my arm decided to fight back with its sword. My upper left arm turned reddish and hot; my Physical Therapist noticed two red splotches growing in size. She felt concerned and recommended I immediately call my orthopedic surgeon. In fact, every qualified, staff member to a look at my arm echoed the same sentiment. “You need to go to the doctor, now!”
That afternoon, my husband called the surgeon’s office saying we were coming; his nurse told us to go to the ER of the hospital because the trauma staff was on duty, there! Their ER physician scared me while talking about the possibilities of being admitted for another operation. This procedure would save the patient but not the apparatus; it appeared to be infected. I knew he meant my arm would be amputated; this procedure would preempt a fatal strike against my immune system. My doctor interrupted that man’s prognosis ordering tests to see if I was really fighting a major infection.
As I traipsed behind a nurse who pushed my IV pole, my humor continued, “I look like a puppy on a leashing being walked to the pound.” This joke helped my heart slow its nervous pounding. Connected to a wheeled IV, I walked behind the nurse pushing my lifeline. My Humerus might be waning, and my arm might disappear but my humor prevailed along with my faith. I joked, “Leashed to this thing, I look like a puppy following its master.” The lady smiled motioning me to a chair to await my turn. After that series of events to diagnose my situation, another staff member moved me to a waiting area where I sat praying. Instead of being angry, it was weird my mind kept singing God’s Praises.
My left arm was hot hot hot! While envisioning my possible outcomes, I felt a ‘coldness’ come over the area in question. My mind warned me repeatedly that the fired-up feeling might mean infection. Thus, the cool relief coming over that inflamed area spread to overall relief because I felt God’s presence. HIS message was that the second ER day was a short setback not the worst case scenario about to occur to my life or limb. That’s what I wanted to believe. However, call me a ‘Doubting Tom’ or a person that has misunderstood dreams and visions in the past because I would not be fully convinced I’d healed until my doctor agreed with God’s communication. Through prayer, I privately thanked The Presence for touching my shoulder while anticipating the best including hoping that what I sensed was not a delusion.
When the ‘on call’ staff changed, another PA from my surgeon's team arrived. He read my test results and stated that my temperature was normal, nothing bad appeared on the X-Rays, and my blood cultures were not really high in white blood count or other infection indicators. To reassure himself of his findings, he felt around finding no pain or abscessing in the area under scrutiny. My three scars felt and looked fine so the guy discharged me from the hospital’s ER.
I continued jesting about every little thing to relive the tension and pressure of that ER experience as well as my predicament as my husband and I walked to the car at 9:30PM that night, “What a roller coaster ride but I guess sometimes getting the cold shoulder is a good thing.” I decided that The Master of the Universe made their final decision. HE left my left arm. Was I out of the woods?
Even as I worked hard for normal movement, in a bit of self-pity, one day, my doubt came to light. “TV and movies lie! The bionic woman jumped right up to save the world; I can’t do that!” In spite of my fleeting bad attitude, my empathy for other patients grew. I could chose not to use my left arm but those with leg injuries had to find ways to walk and get around. Compared to others, I felt lucky. However, months into therapy, I still couldn’t get my left arm to my shoulder. I really started questioning the future of any upward movement. Even as I relied on one hand and its limb to do it all, all I wanted that Christmas was an uplifting experience from my two arms!
Fortunately, my humor always returned within days of any frustration. One day, my arm was so tired at PT; I commented to my therapist, “Next time, I’m falling on my boobs; there’s more padding there and less possibility of breaking something.”
Eight months after my trip of a life time, I didn’t hear what I wanted from my doctor. It appeared that one of my muscles did not attach right after surgery but the others were fine. I might never reach high, again, without more risky surgery. In spite of that news and without another operation, my resolve to get more out of my left arm showed. I went to the gym to work out. ‘I’ll get past my counter tops. I’ll make my way to my television cabinet top. My next goal will be to reach my microwave and level one of my upper cabinets. Someday, I’ll reach that appliance without spilling hot liquids when I do. I’ll make it to the higher levels to put away my dishes, there. Just you wait and see!’ I nearly spoke all these thoughts aloud. I kept trying because ‘what if the doctor and physical therapist were wrong?’ Was I wishful thinking?
Before reaching some of those goals, many glasses flew through the air as I jested like the Greeks, “Opa!”
Nothing stopped my strong survival instincts and will; not one thing curtailed my humor, either. Did I reach my goals? Some yes! I’m still working out on the others. Even today, I feel a little silly how this arm issue started in the first place. While boating, I crash landed about a thousand feet from our boat hitting the edge of a paved nature trail. I walked nine-hundred ninety-nine steps before my trip ended that excursion! My journey to recover is not over but to date I got higher than the surgeon expected based on my true grit- and the local gym. Even though the outcome of my bad trip means my left arm still malfunctions from time to time, I’m glad for the little miracles such as two arms still attached to my body.
During months of recovery and even today, I steadfastly believe that God doesn’t want humans to be harmed. HE hurts when other people injury HIS creations. However, insane individuals use their ‘free will’ to harm this world. If you are a victim of unexpected wounds, during your healing, I hope you’ll find hope, love, and faith while realizing that most people are aghast with the sad state of affairs that led to human’s wounded- physically as well as emotionally in Newtown- and now Boston. I hope you can hold on to the good feeling resulting from the rescue workers and bystanders that jumped in to help you in your time of great need. In short, I hope that during your recovery journey you- don’t stop believing- that overall life is good and most people are decent, moral, blameless, respectable, and noble souls.
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