Physical Therapy: Getting back on my feet....literally
I have only four sessions (possibly) left, and some previous conversations brought some insight to my journey.
Iāve had some wonderfully great and wonderfully awful therapists in my 18 weeks or so of therapy. The only PT I have ever really had was when I sprained my ankle after tennis my sophomore year, then the SHAPE clinic at OU during 110 season. So I had a pretty good idea going in, which made it less scaryā¦.think Saw 2 instead of Saw. I knew it was going to be scary, but I was still diving into the unknown.
The Good:
- The therapists (both OT and PT) were wonderful at OSU, what little I could do. They understood the pain, but they pushed me like no other. I knew if I could do it a day after post-op and still make it through, each day would get better. Every day is better than the last. Itās hard when you donāt see results immediately, but every little bit helped. (I even met a therapist at OSU who went to Mohawk, a high school in my county! *cue āIts a Small World After Allā*)
- How my therapists at Nursing Home #1 could work with one good leg and one leg in a fixator, plus one good arm and one bad arm, is beyond me. They were simple, but helpful. Nothing was scarier than actually standing up for the first time, but it also gave me hope. Even though I had one leg that still needed work, and a multitude of things could have happened, I knew that someday I would be back on my feet again.
- My PT at Nursing Home #2 became my personal ally. He got me back on my feet. He got me to be mobile again. He was able to confront my fear of getting back into a car, instead of being strapped down on a stretcher. He found my inner strength and was able to push me to my limits. Within the month of December, I went from being immobile in my bed with my hospital gown to being dressed in a cute skirt and carrying gifts down to the room on Christmas Day. And I canāt leave the one OT I actually got along with out of this. Itās hard when you have only 1 Ā½ arms to work with, and she did it. I left with a good foundation for my left arm to start healing.
- My therapy at the local hospital here has been so great. My doctor said it would be helpful to do maybe a month more of therapy. My main goal was to get on a cane - from there, normalcy and life would be able to transition me to walking on my own. My therapist was able to meet my goal with such an ease. I was able to go from a walker to a cane with no difficulty. (She even had a cat cane!)
The Bad:
- At one point in the hospital, I remember the therapists screaming at me because no one had cleaned my neck brace. I started choking up, feeling helpless because these women were interrogating me, asking why my care hadnāt been better, why my brace wasnāt cleaner, why no one took care of it. I felt so low; I know it wasnāt my fault, but I felt responsible. There is no worse feeling than when you are rendered helpless but you ask yourself why you canāt do more.
- I once was told I had to transfer from bed to wheelchair and vice versa using a transfer board. I originally had the therapists assisting me, but then they wanted the aids to do it. (God bless STNAs, btw.) Only half of them had been trained properly and one day I got the two that werenāt. Also didnāt help that they were both weak and one barely spoke English. They both were nice ladies, which made this process feel even worse. We were unable to get me out of the wheelchair - I was so weak, and Iām not tiny. Nothing ruins your already destroyed self-esteem than being stuck in a wheelchair. We had to get a therapist to assist - and since I was already at a bad angle, I slid and landed head-first into my bed. Sometimes we over or underestimate our bodyās abilities, but throughout all of this, I have had a pretty keen sense of my bodyās worth. I knew what I could and couldnāt do. Having to tell professionals brings a whole ādo we push them or do we let it goā argument, and some of them push because they think thatās the best answer. I canāt blame them too much; Iāve been in enough classrooms to know that sometimes you have to. But on the patient side, pushing isnāt always the answer in my case.
- Second example: In Nursing Home #2, my OT was in charge of bringing me back to my room. She thought we could transfer back into bed with me, her and a board. I said multiple times: just one more person. Please, grab an aid. She was headstrong and remained positive that we could do this!
Boy was she wrong.
Mid-transfer, the board started flipping up and I ended up falling. Fortunately, I reached out for the bed and landed safely. However, this could have ended in a worse way. The lady offered a half-hearted apology (āit was the bedās fault, it started movingā) and I never trusted her throughout my stay! š
- At least she would work with me. After a long argument of a lift vs a transfer board that I wanted to lay to rest after I made my point, but was brought up multiple times, I had an OT come into my room to work. She starts stretching my arm in a way that was hurting my wrist - all I could think of was āyouāre twisting/pulling/bopping itā (okay maybe not bopping). She snapped, saying she wasnāt twisting and I was just sore. Let me just state this - after all Iāve been through, I would THINK I have an idea of what āsoreā feels like. Trust me when I say this: itās not sore. I tried to communicate the best I could, which is what a patient/therapist relationship should be all about.
Instead, she stood up and walked out. āYou do better with the other therapist, so weāre done here. I canāt deal with this.ā
I know I look young, but Iām 25. I have a decent idea of what professionalism is. That was not it.
- Another case of non-professionalism, we tried not having a raised toilet. (āWe only have one bed commode and we have a new patient who needs it so weāre taking yoursā) My therapist asked me to sit on it and I did - it hurt and I had to use all my might to get back up, but I did it. To him, that means A-OK! I cried, and explained to my mother that if I have to use it more than twice a day, itās going to be rough. I asked her to try it, since I said it was unusually low for a normal seat. So she went in and sat, then got back up.
āAw hell no!ā
She fought and they ālookedā for a raised seat. The solution? My wonderful boyfriend - who works for a completely different medical company - had to bring one in.
Then, the therapist barged in asking what the problem was - āYou were doing it just fine! You donāt want to go backwards! You donāt need it!ā Mind you, he was screaming these āfactsā of his, confused by why someone who has weak arms and legs wouldnāt want to use such a low seat multiple times a day! How bizarre! That was the last straw. My mother and I had to tell him to leave multiple times. I appreciate trying to be a cheerleader, but a cheerleader doesnāt come in uninvited to scream at the subject. Yelling isnāt going to make me magically believe, āOh yeah! I can do it!ā But no, his bruised ego couldnāt take that maybe I didnāt trust his judgement - which wasnāt the case, but he made it the case. By the way, I still use a slightly raised toilet seat. Weāre in the process of getting rid of it, but there are more important things in life like walking with a cane or being able to put my own socks on.
The Ugly:
I only left one story for the ugly. I know some of the previous stories were ugly, however I saw them as ābadā because of the people involved. All of those stories could have ended quite differently had some people had different attitudes (even myself, I can admit that.)
But this oneā¦thereās no getting around it:
The day after I had my second leg surgery, my therapists came in. They wanted to at least get me to the side of the bed, if not standing. My doctor promised me, āWeāll have you trying to stand the next day!ā Well, she wasnāt wrong. See, the difference between my first leg surgery and my second is that during my first surgery, I was so out of it. Whether it was strong drugs or being on the brink of possible death, I was unaware for the most part. However, the second surgery came with full awareness. The pain meds were even making me nauseous, which didnāt help that we took out the feeding tube. So the therapists come in, ready to work. My boyfriend was there for moral support and I have to be honest, I am torn between whether I really wanted him there or not. Because what he saw, I wouldnāt have wanted to see happen to him. I was screaming in agony, I had never felt such a pain. I was already in a ton of pain, every joint was on fire. We had to do it, I know, but it was awful. I couldnāt stop crying, I just wanted it all to end.
The one therapist told me then, Every day is better than the last.
If life is troubling you, just remember that. If I can go from screaming any time they tried to sit me up on the edge of the bed, to walking everywhere on my own, then so can you.