part 23

   18

The idea of nurses coming by every day for 5 weeks weighs heavily on me. I prepare my parents for this.

"Well I was wondering what kind of inconvenience they would come up with next. You should have just stayed in rehab longer like you initially had to. But no, you hated it so much you wanted to come home. Now look. We struggled just to get you all the way to Toronto. If you were in rehab, St. Frances’ would have taken all of 5 minutes to get to. And now we’ll have strangers coming into our home every day for 5 weeks. This should have been done in rehab." I can tell my mother is disappointed in me again. I say this as if another option besides disappointment exists in my case.

I did want to leave rehab very badly, but my release date was not based on how I felt. They changed my release date because they felt there was no need for me to stay. After all, there is a very long waiting list. They definitely wouldn’t have kept me for 5 extra weeks just so they could inject antibiotics into my arm.

Even if it isn’t my fault that I couldn’t stay in rehab longer, if you think about it, technically it is my fault. If I hadn’t gone out that one night, none of us would be faced with any of these problems. But we all have to suffer them because of me. If only I didn’t go out on the balcony to give the killer a perfect opportunity to try to kill me. If only I hadn’t decided to go out that day. If only... If only I had avoided these things, this end result would have never happened.

But I didn’t. I did nothing to avoid it. And now I am paying an unbelievably high price for it. The thing is, I now have a strong feeling that it is not even close to being over.

I adjust myself back into my room. I have a fewpain relief pills left from the hospital, and I intend to use them very sparingly. I also have a few sleeping pills, which I will break in half, and make them last as long as possible. I take a shower, and feel extremely relieved that the stupid cast has been removed, and I can shower without having to worry about the blasted thing getting wet. Knowing me, I would have taken it off. I would have probably injured myself in the process, but I would have sawed the damn thing off. I know I will never understand why I had it in the first place.

My body itches. Especially my legs. In the hospital I wasn’t able to reach the parts that itched. I would use the plastic utensils that were given to me with food. The cast covered most of my leg, and a lot of the time it would be an impossible task. But I was high and would just fall asleep most of the time, so it was bearable. At least now I can scratch with nothing getting in my way.

I know that I still have one surgery left, and I know that nothing good will come from it. I know I’ll probably be feddrugs that will make me high, and as much as I’d actually like that, they will not be worth the surgery. I have no intention to put myself through another operation. I imagine I will wake up with a cast over my entire right leg, and probably not be lucky enough to have it removed within the week, like I did with this one. I take a shower, and scrub away all of the hospital germs. I have been warned against taking baths considering it may cause complications because of the picc line I now have inserted into my right arm. I wash up and head to bed. The narcotics are starting to wear off, and I want to save the other ones for when I really need them.

I have a letter from disability support waiting for me. My appointment is on February 16th. I have about a week to wait.

I’m not high anymore, so I decide to keep reading the "Dark Light." In the week that I was in the hospital, I managed to get through an entire 30 pages.

I can read now because I’m alert. I read well into the night. It’s late, and I know I’ll have trouble sleeping, so I take a half of a sleeping pill. I read. I start to remember the story. The main character develops leprosy, and both of her feet have to be amputated. I cringe. I hope this is a coincidence, and that it is not God’s way of foreshadowing what I have to look forward to. Sleeping pill begins to work, and I sleep.

 

 

19

I wake up in the morning to the phone ringing. It is the nurse who has been assigned to me, to administer the antibiotics. She asks me if I have received all of my supplies. I tell her that I haven’t gotten anything yet, and she tells me they should arrive today, and she will visit tomorrow at 10am. I’m happy that I will have a break from the antibiotics for the day.

As promised, a man delivers all of the supplies I will need (and some that I will not need). There are 4 boxes all together. One of the boxes contains 500 ml bags of antibiotics, and has to be refrigerated. I open the other boxes. There is a large fanny pack, with what looks to be a digital device inside. There are many wipes. Different types. Some soaked in rubbing alcohol. Some not. I remember the clicking man told me a nurse would clean my wound every day. I am not sure what ‘wound’ he was referring to, considering the scar on my foot must have healed before my cast was removed. So I have no idea what needs to be cleaned, but all of the supplies to do it are here. And there are a lot of them.

There are many syringes filled with what looks like water. I just decide to enjoy my first day back, without thinking about this. I watch TV, and after staying awake looking up at my ceiling, well into the night, I fall asleep.

In the morning a nurse comes by. I don’t get out of bed, and she asks my mother to bring a bag of antibiotics. She programs the digital device and puts it in the silly looking fanny pack. She tells me it will go off everyday, twice a day. First at 10:30 am for an hour, and then at 10:30 pm for an hour. A long tube is now attached to the small piece of picc line poking out of my arm. I am told to never detach this. If I need to go anywhere I have to take the unfashionable fanny pack with the mechanism in it, with me. Everywhere. I ask what I’m supposed to do when I shower. I am told the picc line tube is long enough, so I can leave the fanny pack on the bathtub ledge. I realize I will be attached to this device for 5 weeks, but I feel strong. I will do whatever it takes to kill this infection. The thought of losing my foot terrifies me. I will do anything, as unpleasant as it may be. I do have a follow up appointment with Dr. Hill in three weeks, so I hope by then I will be well on my way to recovery.

The days that follow all blend into one day. In the morning I wake up, a nurse comes by to see me, and after some time the machine begins to work. It produces a fair amount of noise. In the evening it does the same, and I cover it with a pillow, to avoid having to hear how load it is. Aside from that, I find that I do not feel well. Every day is the same day. An extremely long day. I begin to feel dizzy and nauseated. I find that I am not able to eat very much. At night when I am trying to fall asleep, I can feel everything spinning. I close my eyes, and feel like I have a severe hangover and I am on that tea cup ride in Disney World, all at the same time. I pull out the plastic bag I have near my bed for this particular moment. I puke in it. It is 3am and I throw up. There is nothing in my stomach but acid, and I feel like all of my insides have been turned inside out. Throwing up becomes part of my regular routine. I have a good idea of what’s causing this, but I’ll pretend my brain injury is acting up. It’s easier to deal with.

I count down the days until I get to see Dr. Hill. I know he said I would have to stay on this medication for 5 more weeks, but I’m hoping he will see that there is a vast improvement, and discontinues this slow torture. On top of feeling sick, I itch constantly. Sometimes my legs itch so badly, if offered, I would gladly have them both amputated. I scratch at them day after day after day. I scratch until I bleed. My legs are covered in scabs, and I scratch those off and bleed more. My mother tells me to stop scratching. I am making a huge mess of myself. I cannot explain the severity of my itching. It is the most intense itching I have ever felt. And this is coming from me. I have suffered from hives and eczema before. The itching I experience now is a thousand times worse. It is always present.

 

 

20

The day comes when I have my appointment to be assessed in order to receive disability payments. My father takes the day off of work to take me there. My mother feels that if she comes along she would only make things more difficult. I know if she does, I'll end up constantly translating.

It is an appointment early in the morning, and I have called WheelsHelp to send over a taxi that I will not have to pay too much for. It is meant for disabled people. It arrives right on time. I make it to the Ontario Disability appointment 14 minutes early. I have been extremely worried about missing it because money in our family, or the lack of it, is a huge issue. We would all be starving if credit cards did not exist.

I am told that the person who will be dealing with my case can see me now.

My father rolls me into the cubicle. She begins by introducing herself and asks me what happened. I tell her that I was thrown off a balcony. She asks me who did this. I feel very uncomfortable telling her it was a police officer. You see, I no longer trust anyone working for the government. The two investigators working on my case were the last ones I was able to trust, and we all know how well they fabricated events and closed my case. This woman gets a say in how much money I will receive, and if I will receive any money at all. I am afraid that she will think I might save up my disability income, to pay for a good lawyer, to put the police officer behind bars. I have a very strong feeling that anyone who works for the government will never take my side. One hand washes the other. It’s better to keep quite or else I will pay for it.

She looks at me with some anticipation, and waits. I can’t think of a lie so I decide to make it very brief.

"It was a police officer. I asked to go out on the balcony to have a cigarette. He came out after me, punched me in the face, and threw me over the railing."

"Oh wow," she raises her eyebrows. "Well... I hope you learned your lesson." She turns to her computer, "Okay, I have some questions,"

She hopes I’ve ‘learned my lesson.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? If she meant that my lesson was to never trust a man in a cop uniform ever again, then yes, I have learned that lesson for as long as God decides to keep me breathing. I doubt that’s what she meant. I didn’t actually go out on the balcony because I had a craving for smoking. I never do. I went to get away from his intense verbal diarrhea. It is later when my father and I talk about what she said, that we find we are both left feeling very uneasyabout her choice of words.

She begins with the questions.

"Have you completed high school?"

"Yes"

"She went to university." My father adds. She stops and looks at me.

"You’re a university student?"

"No. I’m a graduate. I completed university."

"Oh, okay. Are you currently employed?"

"No... I’m not currently employed." What the hell do you think I’m here for?

"What is your job history? Where were you employed?"

"Fitness Now"

"Until when?"

"April 2010"

"Why did you stop working there?"

"I got fired"

"Laid off," My dad steps in. "She got laid off. The store closed."

"Yes, that was a poor choice of words. I was laid off. The company was doing poorly. Our store closed down."

"Oh. How much did you earn a month?"

"It was different every month."

"She received commission."

"Well roughly?"

"$2, 000 to $3,000 a month, when I first started"

"Just wondering... does your dad work as well?"

"Yes he does. He is missing work today, so he can bring me here. I am unable to get around on my own."

"Oh," she looks very sympathetically at me and my father. "I’m sorry about that."

She asks me a few more simple questions and pulls out a package.

"Okay. You are finished the first part of the application process, now I’m going to give you these two booklets. You can take them to your family Doctor and have them filled out." This is where I begin to feel confused. I remember Franky in rehab telling me that I will just need to go through with this interview to apply for disability support, and she would take care of the rest.

"But I thought you had all of the information. It was sent from the Toronto rehabilitation I was staying in."

"Well they sent the application for disability support. After this interview, we give you this package that a Doctor or registered nurse has to fill out."

I take the package. I remember Franky had told me she would take care of everything, but I’m guessing this was something she was not aware of. This could be a new procedure. My mind is very foggy about the discussion I had with Franky, as it is with many other things now. I know I was expected to be a complete imbecile after the amount of brain damage I have sustained, but I am not. I just forget things very quickly, and this annoys me greatly.

We are finished the interview earlier than I had anticipated. My father and I wait half an hour for a taxi to arrive to take me home. All the while I stress over all of the necessary paperwork I will need to have completed. I will have to get my mother to take me to my family Doctor, since I am unable to transport myself. I haven’t known my family Doctor for too long, and from what I can remember, she has always been absent minded. I already know this will not be a very pleasant experience.

When we return home, the first thing I do is call the clinic my family Doctor works at. I make an appointment and the first one available is for next week. I would hope it would be sooner. I desperately need money. I needed it yesterday. Now I need to wait for the appointment, then mail everything, then wait for it to be processed.

I remember Franky had requested that I call her as soon as I complete this interview. She left enough notes in the binder that was given to me in rehab, to remind me to do this. I actually don’t know what the point would be. I no longer remember the details of the conversation we had. It was weeks ago.

I call Franky and I get her answering machine, so I leave a message telling her I am calling to let her know I have completed the disability appointment like she has asked me to. Within the hour Franky calls me back.

"Hi Franky. I just wanted to let you know that I had that disability appointment. You asked me to let you know. Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you. Okay, that’s good that you had the interview. I have all of the paperwork here, ready to be mailed."

"What do you mean Franky? I was given two booklets I need to get my Doctor to fill out and send in..."

"Yes, that’s what they give you after the initial interview. I understand that you do not remember. I had copies of these two booklets. I couldn’t send them in before your interview, because you are supposed to receive them after the interview. So if I had sent them in before, that would look very suspicious."

"Oh! Now I remember! Yes. I was stressing so much about having my mother take me to a family Doctor to fill them out."

"You don’t need to worry about that Karina. I have filled everything out for you. I just needed you to call me and let me know that you completed your interview, so I could mail them in."

This process is a lot easier then I had anticipated, so I will be cautious.

"It’s two booklets Franky. I don’t know if they are the same ones you have."

"I doubt they would have changed. Both booklets are filled out."

"What about the address? Is it the same one."

She reads me the address.

"Oh. It’s exactly the same. Okay... looks like that’s actually taken care of."

"Don’t worry Karina. A person in your position does not need these things to worry about. You did the interview, and I will take care of the rest. Now, by the time I finish work today, mail will not be running, but I will get everything ready, and mail it for you tomorrow on my way to work in the morning."

I am speechless. I did not expect this kind of kindness.

"Thank you Franky. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this."

It is only later when I reflect back on how much trouble she has saved me, do I realize, I simply cannot thank her enough. She saved me the trip to my Doctor, the explanation to my Doctor I would need to give. Judging by the length of the two booklets, I was in for a very tedious process if Franky hadn’t bothered to help me out. I would also have to go through my piggy bank searching for money to pay postage to mail these booklets. Money I would not feel comfortable asking my parents for even though it would only be a couple of dollars. A ‘couple’ of dollars did not exist and could not be spared. The thing that I am most grateful for when I think about Franky, is that she actually did not have to do this. I was no longer a patient, so she owed me nothing. I was no longer her responsibility. She did this because she is kind, not because she had to. She troubled herself to make things easier for me. I find that this is a very rare quality in the people I’ve met. It makes me realize that some good still exists in this world. I am beside myself for the entire day, and for the rest of the week.

I later write her an e-mail to tell her how thankful I am, but I know I can not come close to conveying the amount of gratitude I feel in an e-mail.

 

 

"Poverty a good neighbour to misery"

-Victor Hugo-

 

 

21

All together there are 3 different nurses who come to see me. One comes every day to hook up a 500ml bag of antibiotics to my arm.

One evening, the blasted device I am hooked up to begins to beep. I have no idea what is going on with the thing. I cover it with as many pillows as I can get my hands on to keep it as silent as possible, so that I can get some sleep.

The next morning a nurse comes by and begins to replace the old bag of antibiotics with a new one. The old bag is still half full.

"Oh... it didn’t empty. Looks like the battery is dead."

"So that’s what the beeping sound was last night?"

"Here. I’ll show you where the batteries are and how to replace them if you are ever faced with this problem. We change the batteries once every three days, but sometimes they die sooner. I’ll show you what to do if this happens again. Okay. I’ll come back this evening, just before 10pm to change the bag."

"Can you please do it now?"

"But there is still half a bag left."

"So, I’ll throw it out."

"That is going to be an incredible waste of this medication!"

"So it makes more sense for you to visit me two times today? 10pm is too late. Everyone is in bed by then"

She stops and thinks.

"Well you can’t just throw this out in the garbage."

"Okay. I’ll empty it in the toilet."

"No! You have to take this to a pharmacy or a clinic and have them dispose of it. It cannot be thrown out. This stuff is highly dangerous. Especially if it gets into the water system... just have a Doctor or pharmacist dispose of this properly."

"Okay. I have to have a blood test done every week while I am on this antibiotic, so next time I am at the clinic, I’ll give them the bag, so they can get rid of it."

She nods, but that day, and every day after, I am left with a very uncomfortable feeling. This antibiotic is so strong that it cannot be thrown out, or flushed down the toilet because it is so ‘dangerous.’ This dangerous substance is injected into my body, twice a day. Every day. 500ml every day for 6 weeks in total, when you count the week I was in the hospital. No wonder I never feel well anymore. I always feel nauseated, and a few times a week, I stay up until 3am throwing up. I almost always feel like I have a migraine or a hangover of some sort. I realize that I can no longer blame this on my head injury. I was lying to myself when I did. Now I understand what kind of poison this medication is. But I’m scared to lose my foot. So I will suffer through it. The five weeks since I’ve been home will be over soon. That is my light at the end of the tunnel. Less than a month to go.

 

 

22

The day finally arrives when I am supposed to have the follow-up appointment. I do not feel well of course, and I dread the bus ride there and back. I already feel like I want to throw up, and I haven’t yet experienced the motion sickness on top of it. I call to let the nurses who are taking care of me know that I will not be home. So no antibiotics today. My father takes the day off work, and the three of us; my mother, my father, and me, head to Toronto. It is cold, and I am bundled up. I also take a strong pain pill I have been saving to numb myself a little. I do not eat anything because I am afraid I will end up vomiting on the bus, and have a crowd watch me. After all I already feel like I can hurl, so I dread this trip immensely. At least if I’m a little high on this medication, I won’t die of embarrassment if I barf in front of everyone. I take a plastic bag along with me. Just in case.

Thankfully, I do not feel too pukeish during my trip to Toronto. The remainder of last night’s antibiotic is pumping away into my body, although I’m sure there is none left since today the bag hasn’t been replaced, but the machine faithfully operates. It’ll stop around 12pm when I reach Toronto. I am really hoping that Dr. Hill will look over everything, pronounce that my infection is now gone. The antibiotic, after all, is very strong and killed everything already, and he removes the long tube from my arm. I hope and pray for this. I have faith that God may be willing to give me a break. After all, I have suffered so much. I hope he shows me a little mercy.

It is cold and we arrive in St. Frances’ Hospital. It is Wednesday. I check in and my father rolls me to the waiting area. As always, I am the youngest person in this waiting room.

I am first taken to a room where my left ankle is scanned. I am then returned back to the waiting area. I wait for a very long time, and then am told that the Doctor will see me now. All three of us follow a nurse into a small room with a bed. I lie on the bed, and wait. There is a computer with images, and I assume they are the scanned pictures of my ankle. But I cannot really tell.

A Doctor comes in. It is not Dr. Hill. He sits by the computer and studies the scans.

"Oh wow." That doesn’t sound good. He turns to me and asks,

"Has it always looked like this?"

"I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you are looking at." For all I know he could be looking at a picture of a scanned tail. I am not sitting close enough to the image to know, nor do I have any medical background to be able to analyze this.

"I’m looking at your left ankle. Has it always looked like this?"

"Has it always looked like what? I am sorry, but I do not know what you are talking about or what it should look like."

He frowns. "Well I see that there has been a lot of damage to your ankle. There is no cartilage between the bones. There is no cushioning. Has it always been like this?"

"Do you mean was I born like this?" I try to keep my voice in check and be as polite as possible. "I would have to venture a guess, and say no, it wasn’t always like this. I suffered a dislocation a few months ago... am I going to see Dr. Hill today?"

"I promise you, you will. He is just finishing up with another patient. Now, are you planning to return to work soon?"

"No..."

He turns to look at me. He looks very displeased, as if I am mooching money off of him.

"I’m going to move out of your way, I can tell you are getting annoyed."

"I’m sorry. It’s just that I have been waiting for a very long time." So you could ask me very idiotic questions.

"We are having a very busy day today. Everyone has been waiting." Today is a busy day. As opposed to other days? He leaves.

My mother say, "You didn’t seem annoyed at all. I rolled my eyes at him. I think he got the hint. What was his purpose anyway?"

We wait, and Dr. Hill finally comes in. As always, I can tell he works hard to be charismatic and likable. I can see how he is trying, and I find it a little aggravating. He sits down by the computer. He throws a glance at me.

"Well, it sure looks better!"

I guess he can tell this from the scan, because my ankle is covered by my sock. I haven’t removed it yet because I feel chilly. I take off my sock and pull up my pant leg. He now walks over to examine my ankle. "Oh wow, it looks a lot better!"

This is the moment I realize he is full of s**t. He hasn’t seen me in three weeks, and had probably seen many other patients, yet he seems to claim he has a photographic memory and can remember exactly what it looked like almost a month ago. I, on the other hand, see my ankle everyday. It is exactly the way it has been since I had the cast taken off months ago. It looks exactly the same. It is still swollen, and has been so for about 5 months. I look at Dr. Hill, and realize he is making up facts. From this moment on he begins to lose his credibility.

"Okay, so if it’s a lot better, will the antibiotics be stopped?" Please God. Have some mercy.

"Oh no! No... it has only been 4 weeks. Your infection may not be killed yet. If we stop the treatment now, it will come back."

"So... I’ll have to remain on this for the full 6 weeks?" He turns to me and looks a little confused.

"Well after 6 weeks we check back and see if the antibiotics are effective. We plan to keep you on this for at least 3 months."

I did not expect this. 3 months? At least? I don’t feel I can physically live through 3 months of this. I already feel sick all the time.

"Well, you had said in the beginning it was an unknown bug. How do we know that this antibiotic will kill it?"

"It is one of the strongest antibiotics we have. It will kill absolutely anything and everything."

In Russian my mother adds. "It will kill you." I have a strong feeling that this is where I am headed. I already live through, what I consider to be an incredible way to slowly torture someone. I do not see myself going through this for another two months. I have a feeling I will die from it. It would be a very slow and uncomfortable death, but I really don’t want to lose my foot. For me, losing my foot will be worse than death, so I will suffer through this because there really are no other options.

I ask Dr. Hill when the pain in my ankle will subside. It still hurts greatly. I feel no improvement. If anything I am still recovering from the surgery, that added more pain. Dr. Hill tells me the pain will stop when the infection is killed. It now needs to heal because it has sustained so much damage. When it heals it will no longer hurt. I will no longer be able to move my foot either. My ankle will simply become stiff and I will lose all movement in it. But it will no longer hurt.

I ask Dr. Hill when I should expect my other surgery for the right leg, even though I in no way have any intention of going through with it. Although it is not as stable as it used to be, my right leg gives me little trouble.

"Well, technically your right leg doesn’t need a surgery. If you really want to go through with the surgery, we can schedule it. It is a very complicated surgery..."

"No. I do not want to go through with the surgery. I never wanted to, to begin with."

I’m happy that is settled. No more surgeries for me, so at least one good thing came out of this appointment, even though it was such a huge hassle to get to, and it was a bit of a letdown.

We take a bus home, and by the time we return it is after 6pm. We had left a little before 9am. The whole day was dedicated to this one appointment in another city, only to be told I have to remain on this antibiotic for another 2 months. At least.

I now begin to wonder why there was no mention of ‘strep.’ He had put a name to this infection as a way to convince me to go into surgery. There was no mention of it now however. I brought up ‘unknown’ infection, and he did not correct me, but just went with it, telling me he prescribed one of the strongest antibiotics to make sure the ‘unknown bug’ is killed. Did he forget it was strep? And if it is, wouldn’t this strong antibiotic overkill it? I didn’t think to ask, my mind was focused on the torturous bus ride home. It is also interesting to note that I no longer have the need for the other surgery. He had told me in the beginning I would ‘absolutely’ need it, my leg will never improve on it’s own. My leg is still the same, but now he’s not pushing the surgery. It’s almost like he was looking for a reason to perform a surgery. Any surgery. This meeting in general leaves me with a very empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I see no end to this. Every time I hope things will get better, I find out there is yet another trial to live through. Dr. Hill’s words keep playing over and over in my mind. I will no longer have movement in my left foot. The realization that I will never be able to run again overwhelms me with sadness. I will not be able to walk like I used to. I realize I will now always walk with a limp. Until this moment, I had been convinced that one day I would run again... as soon as the pain stops. That day will never come, and I feel stupid for filling my stupid head with hopes and dreams. For what? So that I can experience this kind of realization?

I blame myself for letting the infection spread to the point of destroying my ankle further. Maybe if I had the operation a month sooner like I was supposed to, I would not be in this position. For three nights following this moment, I literally cry myself to sleep. I do not want my parents to witness how miserable I have become. They don’t.

The next day an assigned nurse comes by to see me.

"So you saw Dr. Hill yesterday?"

"Yes."

"It doesn’t look like he wants to change anything. The antibiotic will still be the same."

"Why would it be different?"

"Well you have blood work done every week. They check for a certain chemical, and the test results have come back showing that it is very high. It’s been like this for a while"

"Can I do anything about it?"

"Well... no. I thought that that’s why Dr. Hill wanted to see you. To change the antibiotic."

"Does he know about it?"

"Yes, he is sent your blood work results every week. He doesn’t seem to want to change it."

"Is it dangerous that the levels are high? What’s gonna happen to me?"

"Oh, don’t worry. It’s just that it looks like you are becoming immune to this antibiotic. It won’t kill the infection if you’ve developed a tolerance for it. I’m a little surprised that Dr. Hill doesn’t want to change it."

Welcome to Shitville

Population: Me