Tales and Travel

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the King’s men
Could not put Humpty together again.

Like Humpty Dumpty, Leah (me) had a great fall. I was luckier than the egg. Dr. Chole, 32, an orthopedic surgeon in Nice, put me back together. 

After this whopper of a crash, she had multiple pieces to repair.  I suffered an open break of the femur.  The bone on my right leg broke in several places above a knee prothesis.  And, I broke and dislocated my left shoulder.  During my 72-day hospital stay, I fell again and fractured the sacrum and pelvis.  

It was challenging enough to cope with the damage and pain, but there was more grief to follow. About a month after my fall, my precious husband Bob died.  He had been suffering from Alzheimer and living in a care home following his great fall last December. (see previous post, “Christmas without the Merry”)

I visited daily until disaster hit.  He became very ill due to an infection.  I was bedridden, immobile in a hospital.  No way to visit.  I was devastated, heartbroken.  I needed, wanted to be with him. (More about Bob in my next post.)

Here’s the sorry story of my great fall:   On June 7, as usual I was stressed and in a rush. I unloaded grocery bags near the elevator in the building basement, parked the car, and came back to proceed to the apartment. My mind and eyes were somewhere else. I tripped and fell over the bags, flying into a wall.  I tried to get up. Impossible. I panicked, screamed, yelled for help.  Finally, a resident came and called an ambulance.

First step:  Give that woman drugs.  They did, and I don’t remember anything after that until Dr. Chole in the Pasteur hospital emergency room explained my injuries and said she would operate.

I was told by a neighbor that the ambulance crew spent more than an hour before moving me.  They called for a portable X-ray machine to make sure I had not broken my back.  Apparently there was a lot of blood from the open break.

All unbeknownst to me. I woke up in the recovery room.  What had I done? My leg, and arm and shoulder were enclosed in some type of heavy-duty armor. I could barely move.

For the next two- and one-half weeks I was bedridden at the hospital, but not without more trauma.    Three days after the orthopedic surgery I suffered an intestinal occlusion.  This meant another operation.  Fortunately a very skilled surgeon performed laparoscopy.   Unfortunately, during that surgery the repaired shoulder was moved which undid the repair work.  I would need another shoulder surgery. 

This can’t be real.  A tsunami of tragedy and bad luck. If I hadn’t been taking strong pain killers (opioids), I might have cracked.

A week later, surgery #3. This time Dr. Chole performed a reverse shoulder replacement.

.

I had tubes in my arms, one in my nose, another in my bladder—all very unpleasant.  As I lay there day after day, I thought about Bob who has suffered, and at that time was still suffering, tremendously.  I thought about soldiers, their bodies ripped apart by war.  How many surgeries did they endure?  Would they ever be normal?… I can do this. 

Comic relief lightened the load at times. Julie, a bright, bouncy young aide sang along with Tina Turner bellowing from her phone as she worked. She liked to practice her English.

One morning as she was giving me a sponge bath, she handed me a wash cloth with the command, “Please refresh your pussy.” Did she say what I think she said? Plenty of laughs instantly chased away the blues. I explained and gave a quick English lesson. 

The professor doctor, the intestinal surgeon who spoke good English, arrived most mornings with his entourage of diligent students. I had repeatedly asked him to remove the nasty tube in my nose.    “You need to poop and fart first,” he replied.  I laughed, not expecting a distinguished professor to use such terms. We then had a discussion on more acceptable terminology for these bodily functions.

I left Pasteur, the hospital in Nice about 50  minutes from my apartment, and moved to a rehabilitation hospital in Menton, not far from Cap Martin where I live.

There was not much rehab during the first few weeks. I was basically still immobile. With relief and joy, after too many weeks I shed those dreadful cast- like contraptions.

With my improvement came daily therapy sessions.  Therapy also included weekly meetings with a psychometrician, and an occasional session with a psychologist. 

The therapy room is spacious, bright and filled  with all sorts of equipment. A large staff of qualified therapists tend to patients who practice walking on tracks with parallel bars, work out on exercise bikes, follow sessions of chair exercises and more.  Eventually I was able to go to the therapy pool for water exercise, my favorite.

Many patients are old like me,  recovering from falls.  But there are also young, some learning to walk on artificial limbs. This puts it all in perspective. 

I enjoyed the therapy, but definitely suffered from cabin fever.  Thanks to my brother Steve and his wife Yoshie, I escaped the hospital on August 18.  They arrived from Boulder to help and take care of me for a month. 

I sent them on errands They were a team, Steve driving my 4 speed Suzuki and Yoshie navigating. Steve was not thrilled with the driving in these parts: lots of narrow, one way streets; a multitude of tourists, and even more motorcycles and scooters. Not for the faint of heart.

I never would have survived without them.  We ordered supplies from Amazon to create a handicap friendly environment in my apartment.  Steve was skilled in assembling all.  Yoshie was my nurse extraordinaire.

It’s wonderful to be back in my apartment. I enjoy the company of my two cats, a stupendous view of the sea and mountains — and freedom. I return to the rehab center three afternoons per week for several hours of different types of therapy. 

Recovery is slow, too slow for me. I need to drive.  I want to walk normally.  I can walk with my hiking poles, but only for very, very short distances.  Too painful after that.  My left arm only moves so far, not far enough to maneuver a steering wheel. 

In desperation I went to my general practitioner.  I complained about the lack of speedier progress.  He gave me a quizzical look.

“You need a year.”  

There is a moral to this sorry story.  Move slowly.  Be alert. Watch where you walk. Manage stress.. Don’t end up like me – or worse, Humpty Dumpty.

.(Most all of my care — surgeries, medications and x-rays, hospital stays, therapy, plus transportation  by ambulance to and from the rehab center three times per week, is paid for by the French social security system.  As a resident of France, I am entitled to these benefits.  I also have a supplemental insurance which covers the portion not covered by the state.

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