All posts by Bob Keller

Accchhhh-choooo!

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Last night, my pal Steve and I were drawn to the Jewish cemetery in the neighborhood, one of them that is, there are two right next to each other, with different names and entrances. We were drawn by what appeared to be the sun setting in the East. When we got up to the highest point which is probably the highest point in the Northwest Suburbs, we discovered it was the sunset reflecting off buildings downtown! But an even more interesting discovery was a gravestone with the name “Geshundheit” on it. I’ll bet that was good for some laughs.

We didn’t defile any graves or anything and tried to be respectful, so I don’t think I’ve been cursed. Maybe it was the uneven ground and the hill walking. I woke up this morning with a pain right in the middle of my knee cap that so far two vicoden and four Ibuprophen haven’t even dented. Nothing goes better with pain than a joke so…

A lion walks into a bar, sits down next to a hooker and orders a Martini for himself and one for the hooker. Soon they are in a deep conversation, but suddenly the lion jumps off his stool, knocks the hooker down and eats her. He calmly gets back on his stool and orders another Martini, which he knocks back in one gulp and then falls off the barstool and crashes to the floor unconscious, barely breathing. The bartender runs around the bar and gives the lion smelling salts and mouth to mouth and after some considerable effort revives the lion. The lion, extremely groggy asks the bartender what happened to him. When told he was unconscious for several minutes, he what the hell caused it. To which the bartender replied…

“Must have been the bar bitch you ate.”

And now for a movie recommendaton. Last night we watched The Proposition, a dark and violent “western” set in 1880’s Australia. A good story well acted, it’s one of those movies that you could take almost any frame and have a great photograph. A humerous detail is a stagecoach being pulled by a team of camels.

Roll me those tumblin’ dice

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Tomorrow I get my PICC line removed. You know the plastic tube that has had me tethered to an antibiotic pump 24/7 for the last six weeks. It’s going to be great to not haves to deal with my little mechanical belly bag everytime I want to take crap or go to bed or put on a shirt or almost anything. It will be great because I can take a shower without wrapping my arm in plastic wrap and tape.

But I will no longer be awash in oxicillan. Which means if there’s some little pocket of staph lurking in some cranny of my mechanical knee…. I’m fucked. It’s out with the knee for three months and then if I’m lucky they can put a new one in. Doctors are quoting 70-30 odds in my favor. My blood tests look good, the knee looks good. So if you’re the prayin’ kind, say a couple for me. If not wish me luck!

I hope I get to keep this knee cause I’m growing fond of it. It already works better than the old one, and I have to say that now it’s my good knee. I have more pain in the real one than the artificial one now and I’m walking without a limp on that side for the first time in about 20 years. I’m also taller, because I can straighten it out. And something about being able to straighten it out pushes my chest out and shoulders back so I have much better posture.

So Mr. Staph bug… stay away!

Let’s take a vote who wants to see a picture of my scar?

More Evidence that I’m Certifiably Nuts

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One thing I don’t think I’ve mentioned is that since coming home the second time, I’ve been suffering from what I call the heebie-jeebies. I’ve been just agitated as hell, shaking hands, twitching legs, I would go to bed at 11, feeling tired and then lay there unable to sleep. Just after I wrote the last entry, proudly proclaiming my progress, I was having lunch out on the deck in the hot weather. I suddenly started to breath much heavier than I should be, given the activity. I went inside and sat down, hoping it would pass. There was a strange pressure sensation in the middle of my chest, right where the pic line that delivers my antibiotics goes. I decided I was had a blood clot in the lungs. Becky rushed me to the emergency room.

Well we sat in the ER long enough so that if it had been a blood clot, I’d have died. But they finally got me in a room and hooked me up to monitors and put me in the care of Bob, a young male nurse with a West Indian accent. Bob was a good guy, brought Becky a warm blanket, since she was dressed for summer it was freezing in the ER. Then the Doc shows up. He looked like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, only younger. So he agreed that a blood clot was a possibility and I should have a CT scan to rule it out. Here’s something you might not know about a CT scan. When they shoot the contrast dye into you as your going through, you get this huge “hot flash” sensation and you will be absolutely certain you’re peeing your pants, even though you come out dry.

The CT eliminated the blood clot, and the symptoms had pretty much gone away, and I’d figured out that I was just having a panic attack. They needed to do one more test. They gave me nitro glycerin and then asked if the pain was gone. My answer was “yes.” Apparently they chose not to hear the part about the pain being gone before I took the nitro. So the Doc comes back and says he thinks I’m at risk for cardiac problems and they’re going to monitor me overnight in the hospital and do a stress test in the morning to check out my heart. At first I agreed. But then I got to thinking. Nothing showed up on the EKG when I came in. They ran the blood test twice that indicates heart damage. Negative both times. I’d already spent 8 days in the hospital in a month. I called in the nurse and told him I’ve changed my mind I’m leaving. After several folks came to talk me out of it, warning that one of the consequences could be death, I remained adamant and signed myself out against medical advice. Call me a rebel.

The next day I had an appointment with the guy whose treating the infection and told him about the heebie-jeebies and sleeplessness, he agreed that with all the shit going on that I was having an anxiety attack. He recommended that I get a “chill pill,” (his words) and wrote me a script for Atavan. I’m sleeping at night now and not fidgeting through the days. And yesterday I took the stress test, which was kind of odd because I couldn’t get my heartbeat up with exercise because of my knee, they had to stimulate my heart with chemicals. The results were good enough that they didn’t rush me off to emergency triple bypass surgery. The nurse said they’re letting me go home so there was nothing obviously wrong but they would call me if they found anything. No news is good news, I haven’t gotten the call yet. If I don’t have heart blockage, I must be immune to cholesterol, given my love for sausages, butter and ice cream!

Back to the knee bending, no pain, no gain, y’know.

House of Pain

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Visited Margaret’s house of pain this morning. That’s my physical therapist. She cranked my knee to 95 Degrees, the best so far. I can do steps in normal, well sort of normal, fashion, so she had me demonstrate that. I’m off the narcotics and suffering some withdrawal symptoms, like jitteryness and anxiety. I’m tired as hell at 10 o’clock and then when I go to bed I’m wide awake. Anyway, she seemed to be pleased with my progress.

Whimp

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It dawns on me that I’m a whimp. I’ve had two surgeries, spent eight days in the hospital, took some antibiotics that destroyed my appetite, i’m struggling through the pain of getting my knee working again and have the threat of a returning infection leaving me without a knee for three months. But it’s not going to kill me. I’ll eventually be fine, there is not just hope, but a fair amount of certainty. And yet I spend time in dispair. I wonder if I can stand another stay in the hospital, I induldge in self pity.
And there’s the local Marine sargent whose legs were blown off in Iraq. He’s had 30 operations. You can tell he’s a (cliche alert) shell of his former self. And he gets on TV and talks about how blessed he is, how great life is. There’s the 12 year old girl who was dragged under a van this winter by a hit and run driver. She has been in the hospital for months, she appears cheerful on the news as she struggles to regain the ability to walk. And what about those people who’s obituaries you read. “….courageous battle against cancer.” What if you had no hope. You knew the rest of your life was going to be pain and hospitalization on never getting better, only getting worse, with the likelyhood of death. What about them? I can’t imagine what I’d do, but I think I might opt for the easy way out. I’m surprised more people don’t.
So if I whine, if I tell you the rehab is too hard. If I tell you I’m afraid of the infection returning, kick me in the ass, tell me I’m a lucky bastard and to get back to work!

edit 3:15 So I’m walking up the stairs in the house and it suddenly dawns on me that something is different. I’m going up the stairs in normal fashion! Completely absent mindedly!

Lookin’ Up

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This recovery shit goes much better when the knee isn’t full of infection. I’m limbering up. I’m even doing some walking without a cane. And today I tied my own shoes! And perking up. Lot’s of work ahead though.
There will be a big celebration when I make my first complete rotation on the stationary bike. So far it’s about 260 degrees forward and 260 back.

Better

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Better attitude. Less pain. Working hard at getting range of motion back… ouch. Six hours a day in a leg bending machine, so getting lots of reading done.

My wife is truely an angel of mercy and I may be the luckiest man in the world that I found her and that she’s stuck by me for almost 30 years, some of it not so good. She is my true soul mate.

Set Back

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Big set back. Infection. Saturday back in hospital. Opened it back up and cleaned it out. I’m on a 6 week course of intervienous antibiotics. Hell.