Nonfiction Series
How A Drug Addict Saved My Life
Part Eleven: How Old Am I, Really?
Taking the stairs like a toddler limited my ability to hold my pee for more than a minute or two. Hand on the railing, lead with the left foot, bring up the right foot. Left foot, right foot. Pause and breathe. Begin again. An accident would send me back to being childlike again. So, no tripping. And no wet underwear either, not on my watch! You just don’t imagine this being your reality when you’re barely forty years old.
Because of my limitations, I avoided stairs. When I first arrived home, I didn’t dare take the stairs to the main floor of my house. Luckily, years before, I had converted my basement into a bedroom, full bathroom, and large storage room. The back door at the end of the laundry room accesses my driveway. So, I didn’t have to worry about taking the long trek up the flight of thirteen stairs for a while. This was good because, for me, it might as well have been a miles hike.
On my arrival home, my sister Mona bought me a mini-fridge and I bought myself a microwave. Although, it wasn’t like I could do much with my cold drinks once I retrieved them from the little refrigerator. I was physically incapable of opening a water bottle. Do you know how weak your hands have to be to be unable to twist a plastic cap? It’s incredibly frustrating. I’d also developed paper-thin skin from the steroids, so when I attempted to crack open the tab on a can of Coke, my skin would split open on my fingers. I needed help with the littlest things.
With low bone density, also thanks to the steroids, the compression fracture along my spine wasn’t the only break I had to be concerned about. I was also at risk of breaking a hip if I fell. I felt like an old lady, and not in a good way. Living to old age is a blessing, but there’s something inherently wrong with being so physically old before your time.
The crazy thing is that I’m not new to falling or tripping. Before my hospitalization, I was known for getting a four-inch heel stuck in the crack of a sidewalk, or twisting my ankle while watching where other people were walking instead of minding my own path. I slipped regularly on icy patches and tripped up the stairs. The difference between then and now was that my body was no longer strong enough to allow me to afford to be clumsy.
Bathroom experiences were challenging. Before I was approved for a home aide, Nina came by on her days off to help me bathe. It wasn’t daily, so I was a little ripe each time. My Dad got me a shower bench for my bathtub. Gayle had a contractor come by to install textured metal grab bars along the shower walls. At this stage, if I fell, I really wouldn’t have been able to get back up on my own. Heck, if I squatted too low, I needed help getting back up. So, I required special equipment and a babysitter.
My over-the-toilet commode had handles for me to lower myself without flopping down or tipping over. The last commode I sat on was set too high at rehab. When I leaned forward, I took a nosedive and ended up with a bloody face and a bruised knee. The one at my house had to be set up just right for me.
Once mastering my toilet balancing, I had to relearn the proper wiping technique. For the life of me, I don’t know if it was the tremors from the meds or underestimation when it came to the amount of toilet paper versus coverage area — or maybe a bit of both — I just couldn’t get the job done like I used to. Butt-wiping had become one of my biggest challenges.
Then, I remembered the spray they used on me in the rehab hospital. I brought a couple of bottles home with me. This perineal solution literally dissolves fecal matter. You simply wipe until clean and there’s no rinsing necessary. Essential for me.
Every new day is another opportunity to tackle these challenges that prevent me from fully being myself. If the road to recovery is long, I look forward to facing it if it means I’m still here fighting.
Dr. Mayer told me that everyone experiences some chronic rejection after a lung transplant. Sometimes, within months; other times within years. It’s inevitable. In fact, it’s one of the least effective transplants performed. I had to wonder why it’s an option?
No, I’m not saying death is preferable to a lung transplant. I am glad the option existed. I just think it would just suck to go through all the trauma, the pain, and recovery effort of a double lung transplant just to stick around long enough to hopefully tie up some loose ends. I want more. I want a full life of second chances, not simply a “P.S.” at the end of a letter.
The time eventually came for me to receive home visits from a Nurse, Physical Therapist, and Occupational Therapist. This little old lady needed all the help she could get to make it back to being a strong woman of her own age.
