When I think back now, I realize that I had no idea how significant this trip to Toronto for surgery would be in my life. Obviously, the surgery was important, but this experience shifted my entire life in a way that no one could have foreseen – other than God, of course!
Susan, Dr. Gross’s social worker, had sent me a copy of an article detailing the surgery Dr. Gross would perform on me that had been published in an orthopedic medical journal a few years before. I studied this article intensely, going over every detail multiple times. The plan was to cut the head off my femur, use that bone to carve out an acetabular shelf, attach that to my pelvic girdle with screws and a metal plate, line it, then replace the femoral head with a metal one. This would give me a ‘proper’ working hip joint. Basically, I was a puzzle that simply needed to be reorganized.
I was to be admitted to Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto the day before the surgery so that all the pre-surgery blood work could be done.
Mom and Dad arrived at the house the morning we were to fly to Toronto. Dad had arranged to leave his truck at the house rather than leave it at the airport. Originally, he had planned to leave a set of keys at the house in case Rob needed to move the truck, but on travel day, he was so stressed out, he forgot to bring an extra set of keys.
I never realized before this day that my dad suffered from anxiety. I don’t know if I just never paid attention, or if I was dismissive of it before, but it was glaringly obvious this day. He couldn’t remember things, or organize his thoughts properly and he was short-tempered. Despite the immense stress I was under, I had to set that all aside and be the adult in the room who kept everyone calm and on track.
We took a cab to the airport. I don’t recall why Rob didn’t drive us there, but I suspect my dad insisted he went to work.
After checking in, dealing with the luggage, and obtaining our boarding passes, we made our way upstairs, passed through security, and found our gate. Regina had four gates at that time, so finding the right gate was easy. Shortly after, the call came to board the plane. I got the window seat, mom sat in the middle and dad was in the aisle seat. Three hours later, we arrived at Pearson Airport in Toronto.
Pearson was massive compared to the piddly little Regina airport. There were moving sidewalks, stores, and hundreds of people milling about. Dad’s stress level rose as soon as we entered the main hallway. Mom couldn’t walk fast after her stroke, and I was on crutches, so his panic was not received well by me. Mom was trying to keep up with him as he frantically tried to figure out where to go, but she was starting to stumble. I got angry and yelled at him to slow down! I told Mom to take her time. If he wanted to run through the airport, all the more power to him.
Eventually, we made our way to the baggage claim, picked up our bags, and found a cab. Cabs in Toronto were flat rate and five times as much as our cab ride to the airport in Regina.
Mount Sinai was downtown which was a thirty-minute cab ride. Mom and Dad had booked a room in the Delta Hotel, two blocks away from the hospital. The cab driver stopped at the hotel so that Dad could drop off their baggage. Mom and I chatted with the cab driver while we waited in the car. Several minutes later, Dad got into the car, and we drove the two blocks down the street to the hospital.
I checked in and was shown to my room on the third floor. There were four beds in this room, and I was lucky enough to get the bed closest to the window.
Shortly after, Susan arrived in the room. One of her roles as Dr. Gross’s social worker was to be the bridge between him and the patient. I had spoken to Susan on the telephone many times and was happy to finally put a face to the voice. She introduced herself and did her best to reassure us that I was in good hands.
Dr. Gross performed specialized hip procedures, so he had patients come from all over the world to get his help. He was also associated with the University of Toronto and was the team doctor for the Toronto Blue Jays. He was a busy guy, to say the least!
Susan explained that Mount Sinai utilized medical teams for each patient. The team consisted of an RN, a physiotherapist, a fourth-year resident, an occupational therapist, a pain specialist, and her. The idea behind this strategy was to cover all the bases and provide a higher level of care to the patient by bypassing the usual miscommunication or no communication between the various treatment personnel. At that moment, I clarified that I was also part of that team and confirmed with Susan that my wishes would be adhered to.
Dad had several questions for Susan, and she did her best to provide him with as much information as she could. I had already answered most of these questions, but for some reason, he needed to hear it from someone official. He wanted guarantees that this surgery would work, which no one could give him and this was my last patience straw. I snapped, “No one knows the answer to that! It’s always a roll of the dice.”
At the time, I didn’t have the patience or the capacity to understand that Dad’s biggest fear was that I might undergo yet another failed surgery, and what would that mean for me? I was just grateful that someone was doing something and I just wanted to get on with it.
Susan said she knew there was a patient having a follow-up appointment in the hospital who had just undergone the same surgery. She said she would ask her if she would be willing to come and speak with us.
As soon as Susan left the room, Dad let me know not to embarrass him again by cutting him off. I told him he was being unreasonable and embarrassing me, so we were even.
A few minutes later, a nurse came in to take my history. Mom and Dad went downstairs to find some coffee and a snack. The only thing we ate was on the plane and Mom was getting hungry.
The previous surgeries taught me a lot about hospital procedures, so rather than try to answer questions in a drug-induced state, I wanted to make sure that this hospital knew what I wanted as far as care. For instance, I told this nurse that I do not want a blood transfusion unless my CBC (complete blood count) goes under 75. Everyone loses a lot of blood during hip surgeries because it’s impossible to clamp every vessel. Anemia is a common side effect and I knew that the lowest blood count they would allow before administering blood was 75. I told her that I would rather take iron supplements to build my blood naturally.
She asked me what my wishes were should something go drastically wrong in the OR. I already knew what she meant, but she had to read the entire page, so I listened patiently, then I signed a DNR – do not resuscitate. Under no circumstances do I want to be kept alive by stupid machines I told her. I also gave permission to donate extra bone should there be any and signed to give permission for the surgery. The whole thing took about an hour, which was perfect timing for Mom and Dad.
Shortly after they arrived back in the room, the physiotherapist on my team stopped by to say hello and chat. We were chatting when the lady that had had the same surgery appeared in the room. She was short like I was, extremely thin, and walking using two arm canes. Her gait was horrible and it was clear that walking was a struggle for her. She came over to the bed and introduced herself. She told me that the hospital was fantastic, that all the nurses were great, and that Dr. Gross was amazing. She reassured me that I would get the best of care, wished me luck, and left.
My Dad turned to the physiotherapist and blurted out, “My God! Is that as good as she will be?”
The physiotherapist was taken aback by Dad’s panic. Calmly she answered, “She’s still got a long way to go and I’m sure she will continue to improve.”
Dad responded, “I was hoping that this surgery would give Penny proper mobility and that she would be normal afterward.”
That was it. I had heard enough. I turned to him and let him have it. “What is wrong with you? You don’t know what that girl has been through, and you don’t know what her situation was before the surgery. What the hell is normal anyway? All I’m concerned about is getting rid of the pain. I’ve walked after every other surgery, and I don’t anticipate this one being any different from all of the others. No one knows for sure how this will turn out for me but I’m going to try to be optimistic.”
Dad was immediately angry and after a brief retort, told Mom they were leaving and stomped out of the room. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, shook my head, and turned to speak to the physiotherapist who was standing beside the bed, eyes wide and mouth open in astonishment. “You handled that really well,” she said. “I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you again after the surgery.”
I knew that the entire exchange would be documented in my chart, and I was embarrassed. I sat in the room for quite a while before venturing downstairs and outside for a cigarette or three. I needed to calm down.
The hospital is situated on University Ave. Beside it was Princess Margaret, a cancer hospital, and across the street kitty-corner was Toronto General. Children’s Hospital was on the other side of the street facing Gerrard Street. One of the University campuses was further down on University Ave and there was a large park on the other side of the street. There was also a train station at the end of the block. Being here was a massive culture shock! Regina didn’t have trains, and the entire population of Saskatchewan could have fit in downtown Toronto alone! There were homeless folks milling about because there was a shelter a little way down Gerrard Street. Regina had its problems, but there weren’t any homeless folks there. Winters were far too cold.
Mom and Dad had to walk by the shelter every day to get to the hospital and that didn’t go over well with Dad.
Later that evening, Dr. Gross stopped by to introduce himself and his fourth-year resident, who would be assisting and learning in the OR. He asked if I had any questions and I told him I was good to go. He assured me that he would take good care of me and left saying, “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” I’m lucky that my surgeries are complicated because I always get the first OR slot!
The next morning, the nurse came into the room to start an IV. I wasn’t given any sedatives prior to surgery as everyone on my team felt I had been through so many that I didn’t need any. Not too long after, a porter came to the room, asked me to slide over to the gurney, covered me with a sheet, and wheeled me down to the nursing station where my ID was checked, then took me down to a staging area outside of the OR. It felt as though I lay there for a long time without seeing anyone, when suddenly, Dr. Gross appeared and said, “There you are! Sorry for the wait, It took me a while to find you!” He pulled the gurney out and started down the hallway to the OR. He saw my feet peeking out from under the sheet and said, “What the hell did they do to your feet?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “they cut bones out and moved some around to drop my arch.”
“What the hell did they do that for?” he asked.
“Beats me,” I said out loud but inside my head, thoughts were swirling.
We arrived at the OR and Dr. Gross hit the button to open the door. Immediately, cold air hit us. My heart began racing and I started to shiver.
“The nurse will get you a warm blanket,” Dr. Gross said. “It is cold in here, but you’re shivering because you’re going into shock.”
No doctor had ever said that before but before I could ponder that idea, the OR team began working. I was moved onto the cold, stainless steel operating table. A warm blanket was placed over me, then my arms were strapped to boards extending 90 degrees out from the table. The anesthesiologist checked to make sure the IV was adequate, then returned to his seat behind my head and began getting the drugs ready to put me into a deep sleep.
Thanks for taking the time to read this post! Please feel free to leave comments :)
There it is again, quote:
FOOT SURGERY [The First Surgery Part II]
I had barely calmed down from the sawing when I saw blood. I thought he had cut me open and immediately became hysterical. The orderly remained calm and tried his best to reassure me by saying, “It’s ok! It’s old blood – from your surgery – you’re not bleeding now! You’re ok!” My dad was getting angrier by the second. “Quit crying! Stop behaving like a baby! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?” he said.
Chapter 18
My Dad turned to the physiotherapist and blurted out, “My God! Is that as good as she will be?” The physiotherapist was taken aback by Dad’s panic. Calmly she answered, “She’s still got a long way to go and I’m sure she will continue to improve.”
Dad responded, “I was hoping that this surgery would give Penny proper mobility and that she would be normal afterward.”
That was it. I had heard enough. I turned to him and let him have it. “WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? You don’t know what that girl has been through, and you don’t know what her situation was before the surgery. What the hell is normal anyway? All I’m concerned about is getting rid of the pain. I’ve walked after every other surgery, and I don’t anticipate this one being any different from all of the others. No one knows for sure how this will turn out for me but I’m going to try to be optimistic.”
Dad was immediately angry and after a brief retort, told Mom they were leaving and stomped out of the room. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, shook my head, and turned to speak to the physiotherapist who was standing beside the bed, eyes wide and mouth open in astonishment. “You handled that really well,” she said. “I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you again after the surgery.”
COMMENT: On the Contrary (to the physiotherapist), you actually handled that exchange in adulthood the same way that your father handled a similar exchange with you in childhood --- even with the same words that I capitalized above so many years apart. The child became father to the man. But not a very empathetic "father". The phenomenon is called learned patterns of dealing with stress.
But we can unlearn patterns, as long as we "examine them and ourselves", which is why Socrates said that: "The unexamined life is not worth living." It's good to see someone taking Socrates' advice. Keep writing and examining. But don't forget that tendency to gravitate toward weaker males than your father.
Unfortunately that Malis woman came on stronger in criticizing you after my posts about her becoming your friend and you reading the full medical blurb as to the number of months of a study. That was disappointing. People should be friends.
Kevin