Aging, Part 1

As we said so many times before when somebody complains about old age, it beats the hell out of the alterative. But just when you think it’s enough to point that out, life throws you a little chin music.

We went with friends rafting on the Kennebec River 2 weeks ago on a beautiful August morning. The water was what they call “big” and we entered a series of class III and IV rapids pretty early on. I thought I was doing okay up in the front of the raft when I looked up and saw a wave over my head. Well, it picked me up and deposited me under it, in a raft/Jeff/river bottom sandwich for all of 10 or 15 seconds. Note that the rapids don’t stop and take a break when you fall out of the boat. Struggling to get to the edge of the bottom of the boat was surreal, in a dark boiling blender with that looming black roof of inflated vinyl. I finally reached the edge, and got pulled by the intrepid guide into the boat and preceded to gasp for breath for a good 15 minutes. Finally getting back to my front row position, I curled up on the floor for at least a half hour.

So a day or two later, the various pains had sorted themselves out between bruises, lacerations, bumps and the like, along with a new fiend. It was a sort of burning pain from upper left butt to back of the calf, which faded into a generally numb left foot and ankle. Like with most back pain, I figured it would just go away on its own, but it didn’t. By Sunday, a week after the incident, I was in the ER. The Doc did some poking and prodding, and after failing to walk on my heels I was diagnosed with Sciatica, and given pain meds and muscle relaxants. “If it isn’t any better mid-week, see your primary doctor.”

Well, meds are always nice, but mid-week wasn’t seeing improvement. I went to Ron, my primary doc here in the north woods, and he too poked and prodded. But he noticed something the ER doc hadn’t, and I learned a new term, “foot drop”. My left (numb) foot was unable to pull itself up with anywhere near the strength of the right one. I not only couldn’t point my toes on the left foot to my nose, I could only get them slightly off the ground at all.

Ron got that serious look you don’t ever want to see on the doc’s face, especially when you are the patient in question. “I’m going to consult with a Neurosurgeon and get you into an MRI.” Oh, those are comforting words. My lovely wife Liz speaks “Medical” while I have an easier time with Phoenician than docspeak. I’m pretty sure consulting with a neurosurgeon and getting an MRI fall short of a weekend at Disney World, or even in county lockup.

Rapidly, things happen behind my back with cryptic updates, like “Open MRI Scarborough 7:45 half-open Topsham 3:30 out back now” and “…with enough pressure from the disk on the nerve, the losses in the foot could be permanent and lead to loss of bladder control and incontinence…” As the Onion noted on September 12, 2001, “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

So now that they’ve got me all relaxed (NOT!) they bring in the wheelchair and plop me into it. My wife, brother and sister-in-law watch me wheeled away through a series of hallways and turns and finally out the door into the parking lot and onto a hydraulic lift attached to the side of a semi trailer. Up we go in the wheelchair on the lift, the door opens, and I’m instructed to rise and enter. You think it might have been easier to just use the stairs?

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a slight tremor that can turn downright Hepburnesqe under sufficient anxiety. This qualified. Two nice clinicians tried to divert me from looking at the tiny opening into which I would be shoved, after cleverly placing a washcloth over my eyes. I asked about IV Valium, and they laughed, but I was not kidding at all, no way, no how, no siree.

They hand me a bulb and said to squeeze it in an emergency. I cross my arms and slide backwards into this hellishly tiny torpedo tube. NOW they tell this is going to take 20 minutes. (I assumed, what? 30 seconds?) NOW I realize, being larger that the average human at 6’2” and 220 that this was a tight fit and my always-lurking claustrophobia
comes to the surface. After less than a minute of enclosed darkness and banging noises, I squeezed that bulb several hundred times rapidly, and slowly left the chamber. Once I could move my arms I pulled myself out and I do believe the aides feared for their lives.

Back to the wheelchair, the tremor closer to a seizure, I roll through the hospital looking for my family, who, assuming I’d be back in 20 minutes where nowhere to be found. I confessed to Ron that I couldn’t hack the MRI thing and what else could we do? Champ that he is he called around and found an “open MRI” 40 minutes away in Topsham that could see me in 45 minutes. “Ron, something for the nerves, Please?” Five minutes later we pick up an Ativan from Rite Aid and it’s off to Topsham.

Next, the open MRI