Tag Archives: mental-health

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Well, I have taken the plunge, so to speak, and had my left knee replaced. Now, this was a difficult choice for me, but one that I am assured–by everyone who knows–that I will be glad I did…after a while. I’m glad to be on the backside of the surgery, but it has had one unexpected consequence. I have acquired a new shadow.

One of the things you must have (other than a whole lot of ice) when you do knee surgery, is a walker. Now, I have no objection to a walker; I have indeed on rare occasion used one for a sore leg in the past and have been glad of it. However, this surgery has required that I take on a walker as my constant companion, for at least a few weeks.

This really doesn’t sound like that big a deal, I know, but it has required some adjustments. I have to remember each time I get up that I must bring along my four-legged friend. And usually, I am carrying something with me when I move, and this does not make my shadow happy.

“If you are going to carry that glass of tea, who is going to push me?” The walker will demand. “When you are operating me, I want all hands on the walker!”

I have learned the fine art of holding onto the walker and the coffee mug in the morning, both at the same time. Of course, I won’t say all the coffee makes it the whole way in the mug, but as long as I don’t splash the walker, it doesn’t complain!

I have discovered that the walker comes with a long list of demands. If I find a spot to sit in the house, the walker snaps, “That’s fine for you, but where is my spot? And don’t put me in the corner, like you did the last time, it’s so demeaning!”

Leaving the house is even more of a trial. Once I am in the car, what do I do with the walker? Should I put it in the back seat, like a second-class citizen or should I confine it to the trunk like so much luggage? By the time my shadow and I are loaded, it’s taken an extra half hour just to get started going anywhere.

In any public setting, the walker immediately becomes an issue. “Where am I going to sit?” it clearly demands, as it straddles the aisle, or blocks the seats behind it. Since folding it up and holding it in my lap is not an option, it means that wherever I go, my shadow makes it necessary for me to take up more room than usual. It makes staying home more and more appealing.

My walker definitely makes me feel bigger than I was before. By the time I have wiggled all six of our legs and the width of the walker, wrapped around my already considerable width, through a doorway, it makes me rethink that second doughnut I had for breakfast. I need twice the normal space to get around the living room, down the hall and into the bathroom.

While the walker may have problems with me, it has started an all-out war with the dog. She is not excited about my new companion and has attempted to play chicken with the walker on several occasions. So far, the score in that competition is Walker-10, Dog-0 and a well-stomped tail!

Possibly the greatest difficulty in my new shadow is that it does not automatically join me in my travels. Sometimes I forget that I need my mechanical companion and I take off on my own. Especially is this difficult when I wake up. I got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen for a drink. It was while I was reaching for a glass that I suddenly had that exposed feeling, like something was missing. That’s right, while I was having a drink in the kitchen, the walker was standing in the bedroom hollering, “Did we forget something…or someone?”

For anyone out there who is worried for me because of my knee replacement, you really shouldn’t be concerned about that. I am in very good hands. However, if you want to worry about the fact that I’m sitting at home having conversations with a walker, now that’s probably something you should worry about…

Jackie Wells-Fauth

The medical world and its workers have always fascinated me. Imagine having that much knowledge of the workings of the human body! And it seems they discover something new every day. For an old hypochondriac like me, knowing that much about my body would be mentally unhealthy. I still remember being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and having my doctor say, “Ask the questions here…don’t Google it.” She had no worries: if I had Googled it, I would have just updated my will and lit candles to wait for the end because I have no clue how to interpret medical data and generally come up with the wrong diagnosis! I will leave it to the professionals.

And now back to these medical professionals. It just so happens that I have made a few observations about those in the medical world myself. A recent stay in the hospital caused me to note a number of phenomena which prove to me that I will never be in the medical profession, because I couldn’t make it.

For instance, in order to be a nurse, I would have to keep an orderly watch on any number of people, made excessively crabby by their infirmities. And I would have to do this with empathy and no slapping the whiners around.

For an example of duties, as a nurse or other medical professional, I would have to touch urine containers, feces containers and highly aromatic bags of vomit, and anything else which might emit from the human body. I can barely force myself to handle a coffee filter filled with used coffee grounds and these people are handling much worse with calm assurance.

Were I to go into the medical field and someone were to hand me bags full of vomit (as I did to nurses this week) my reaction would be immediate. “You’ve got to be kidding! What do I look like, waste disposal???? Empty that yourself!”

They also have to be the kings and queens of optimism. While I am melting down over having to walk or not being able to salt my food, they are following along behind me and my walker declaring, “You’re doing great; you’re looking just beautiful.”

I find this a particularly endearing and brave comment for them to make considering that they are making a statement like that and sounding sincere, while what they are most likely looking at is my bare behind sticking out of the back of my gown as I go limping along. That is positivity!

Medical professionals are required to look at you with a straight face as they inquire about your poop output, and the quality of your urine—and they must look as though the answers are not going to gross them out. They are required to check out our mouths, our ears, our eyes and other orifices less pleasant so they can draw their conclusions on our health. I am never more aware of things like bad breath and the otherwise unwashed condition of my body than I am when someone has to check me out. They must explain to a horrified patient where they are going to check for body temperature and then proceed to do it—quickly—before the patient has time to consider!

One of the things I find most amazing is their dealings with drugs (nothing illegal implied). They can look through my list and discuss medications with me that follow no writing or speaking pattern. They pronounce the names with skill, overlooking the fact that the words defy any phonics or any alphabetical rule out there. What’s more, they know what these drugs do and whether or not they play nice with other drugs. Unbelievable. “Ma’am, do you take ****** (word unpronounceable)?

“I don’t know,” I stumble over a reply. “Is that the one that controls my blood pressure or handles my indigestion?” They keep good records of that and it’s a good thing, because the medicines confuse me considerably—even if I could pronounce the names.

I think the thing I most admire—especially in the nursing staff—is their ability to maintain an emotional balance. They must operate somewhere between too much sympathy (Oh, is that making you upset?) and the attitude of a prison guard in the 18^th century (Suck it up, buttercup, it’s only going to get worse.) The fact that they can be both practical and encouraging says a lot about them.

Knowing as well as I do that I am not going to make a good nurse, it only remains for me to thank the nurses, nursing assistants, doctors, ect., for being willing to take on the job for me. Without them, there would be no one concerned about the state of my bodily functions and certainly not a soul who would want to help me with that vomit bag!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I would like to state in no uncertain terms that I am grateful beyond words for the fine medical care available in Miller. Not only the doctors, but the long-suffering hospital nurses and aides who have to put up with me the most—especially when I am in pain! Thank you all!

And my pain is the topic of my column this week. Not that there’s anything funny about that, but sometimes my adventures with it bring their own comic relief. Without that, it would really be…well, a pain!

My medical woes come from an unpredictable, incapacitating pain in the joints. It’s never brought on by any trigger; just a random, happy notion that can hit anywhere from my jaw to my toes. Its favorite target, however, seems to be a knee or a hip—either one on either side will do. Just so my leg is immovable without a considerable amount of bad language and pain.

Now, these attacks appear to be random, but I don’t think it’s such a happy accident that they like to hit late—after medical office hours and especially long after Roy has gone to sleep.

I’ll wager some of his least enjoyable moments in married life are when I pull him from a sound sleep with the loving words, “Roy, wake up; I’m in terrible pain!”

“What shall I do?” comes the sleepy voice from the dark.

“Take me to the emergency room or shoot me; right now, I don’t really care which you choose!” I lied. I do care, but I always like to make sure he has options.

Then comes the whole procedure of getting me to the car…down the front steps and into a vehicle…hopefully without bending my leg too much. He has learned that there is no possible way to do this gently, so he assists the best he can and when necessary, bends the leg for me. I’m always glad when he does that. “Oh! My Lord! D**m it! Thank you so much, dear!”

Now one of the first things I ever noticed about Roy was that he is always very dapper in his appearance. He’s always dressed appropriately and neatly for whatever errand he is on. That’s why it has to be so hard for him to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night, because my nightwear is not exactly designer and I am not inclined at those moments to get changed.

Mind you, at that point, I don’t care if I walk in dressed like Lady Godiva; I just want to get there. But Roy does care and he knows I will care later, so he tries to drape my pajama rags around me as best he can and away we go.

Once we get to the emergency room, his job kind of slows down. He knows from vast experience that the medical people are going to take good care of me and that once I stop screaming that “somebody please for the love of heaven do something about the pain or hit me in the head,” (I wonder how often that appeals to them) he can relax.

The problem, of course, is now, he’s up in the middle of the night, with a day’s work ahead tomorrow and he has to sit around and wait for me to finally decide that I’m going to live yet another day because the aforementioned fine medical care takes care of the problems.

A lot of times he’s a little out of what has happened. This last time, they asked if I had vomited. At the same time, I said, “Yes,” and he said, “No.”

I turned to him showing him my gown and its suspicious stains and said, “Stay away from the small wastebasket in the living room. You won’t like it.”

He cares so much. He is so diligent about getting me there, but he is also in need of his sleep. However, I don’t worry about him so much anymore. The first time I was in, he sat in a very comfortable chair near me and just as I was really freaking out about the pain and keeping him up, I distinctly heard a snore come from directly behind me! I was getting what I needed, and he was getting what he needed. That’s fair.

Every time I have one of these midnight adventures, I pray it’s the last one. I’ve learned enough about the problem, though, to know it might not be; and that’s okay, I guess. After all, I have the best ambulance driver in the world and the best care for the problem. I think I’ll live to fight another day!