My Paralyzed Face: Part 2

Last week I shared some of the story regarding my paralyzed face, or at least half of it. To clarify, only half my face was paralyzed and I only shared half the story. This week I will share what is left. By that, I mean that it is the left side of my face that is paralyzed and I will share the rest of the story with you. First, I must let you all know that having half your face broken is no fun. I have been thinking deeply about how to remedy this situation and I realized that if I simply removed, or cut off, the left side of my face, what would remain would be all right.

As I mentioned last week, shortly after I arrived in the Emergency Department, I was taken back to a triage room where a wonderful nurse took my vital signs. When I saw what my blood pressure was, I became quite nervous. It was in the very high range. This, however, did not seem to bother the nurse, since she sent me back to the waiting room. Nor did it bother the next nurse, who repeated the vital signs five hours later, at 4 o’clock in the morning. At that time, my blood pressure was down a very little tiny bit, but it was still extraordinarily high. I was perplexed at how I could be having symptoms of a stroke, dangerously high blood pressure, and be asked to wait in the waiting room, but then again, I am not a doctor, a nurse, or an EMT.

Finally, at 5:45 am, after six hours of waiting, watching the young woman with the broken thumb walking out with her brand new cast; the young lady whose  chief complaint seemed to be about the cold fries she received from the local burger joint walking out asking about a good place for breakfast; and the two homeless gentleman packing up their belongings and heading out to the bus-- I finally got a room. The doctor was the first person into the room. He explained the rest of the mornings activities. Just like the recreation director on a cruise ship. “At 7 you are scheduled for a Cat Scan. After that we will get a report, then we will discuss it with you around nine, unless circumstances change.”

After the kind recreational director Doctor left, a nurse came in. She was pleasant enough with a bunch of probing questions. My favorite was, “How are your words?” I knew exactly what she meant. “Can you take your thoughts, form words and weave them into complete sentences to communicate with other human beings?” The inability to do so would be an indication of having a stroke. I could have answered this question quickly, easily, and simply, by replying, “Fine, thank you.” But after sitting in the lobby for the entire evening, I was feeling a bit puckish, so I answered that with half my face falling off I found it hard to pronounce my words.

The nurse said she understood that, but she wanted to know about my words. “You know, how are your words?” she repeated a few times. Finally I replied, “I seem to have a good command of vocabulary and can use it to accurately express myself.”  That seemed to satisfy her and the computer screen that prompted her to ask such questions.

Very soon after that, I had my Cat Scan, which had nothing to do with cats, or dogs, or any other furry cuddly animal. As I was being wheeled back to my little cubby in the Emergency Room, I heard that lady in the ceiling announce a “Level two trauma”. For hospital employees, this means that something very bad has happened and everyone needs to run around urgently until the traumatic situation has passed. For the rest of us it means things are going to get busy so don’t expect anyone to see you in the near future. This is why those customers of the healthcare system are called patients, since we are always waiting.

My Paralyzed Face: Part 1

For a Tuesday, it was rather mundane, that is until I went to work. For me, work is at the home of ten wonderful and unique individuals, who by some disaster in DNA or catastrophe of chemistry, score lower on standardized tests than you or I. But a standardized test cannot begin to accurately describe these amazing men and women and their strong desire for human interaction, even though the ability to communicate is greatly diminished.

This particular Tuesday, I found myself at the frustrating intersection --where one of these awesome individuals, who desperately wanted and needed to interact, met his inability to do so. If you are like me and find it annoying when you can’t remember someone’s name or are frustrated when you can’t find the right word, you will understand this man’s deep irritation when he could not communicate to me he was in pain.  He finally elected to show me and begin to pound me violently with his hands around my head and face.

All was fine after that; until it was time for me to go home. It was then I realized that the left side of my face was beginning to sag. It felt like I had a monster shot of Novocain to the entire left side of my face. I have had Novocain a couple of times, but on general principle, I do not use it even for drilling fillings. I enjoy feeling my face, I enjoy smiling, I enjoy being able to feel my tongue move out of the way of my teeth before I clamp down.

Having held steady at twenty-five years old for the past few decades, I am aware of the red flags that should spring up when half a person’s face begins to go numb and sag. It could be a stroke. As I was driving home, I called my mother in law, who is a nurse, I explained my symptoms and said I thought I should go to the hospital. She agreed. This was scary. My mother in law hates hospitals and definitely does not like emergency rooms.  Most of her career as a nurse has been in hospitals, and I suppose that explains her dislike.

After I arrived home, Beloved, her father, and I went to the hospital. When I walked in, the wonderful key-tappers at the front desk asked why I was there. With sagging face, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth, I slurred the words, “The left side of my face is going numb.” I think it sounded like, “The leff shide of mu fashe ish gone numb.” There was that brief moment when I could see the shock in one of the key-tappers eyes just before she said that, yes, indeed it appeared to be numb.

Very soon, I was in a triage room, where a nurse asked some questions and took some vitals. When she took my blood pressure, I was amazed. It was dangerously high. She did not seem bothered by it and told me all the rooms in the Emergency Department were full and I could go wait in the waiting area.

I waited in the waiting area; for six and a half hours. That gave me a while to study the other inmates. There were a couple of homeless gentlemen, who thought it totally acceptable to speak to each other from opposite ends of the holding tank in loud booming voices. Their conversation consisted of one asking the other, “What time is the bus coming?” “Five-forty five” “Five forty five?” “Yep” This conversation occurred every few minutes, usually just as I was settling in for a little shut eye.

On my left hand side was a young woman who had a broken thumb. For her, I felt sorry. She waited, just slightly less time than I did, to be seen, and she was in pain. On my right was a delightful young lady whose chief complaint seemed to be the lousy service she was receiving. (She inserted a few cuss words). Twice during the night, a relative brought her food and beverages, which she consumed with great gusto and general complaints about sitting around the hospital. She also made numerous trips to the ladies room. It brought to mind the wise words of our pediatrician when we were concerned about our daughters being sick. “In general, if they are eating, drinking, peeing, and pooping, they are fine.”

The delightful young woman left shortly before I was called into a room. She complained, “This place makes me sick.” I think it may have been all the fried food she ate.

If it's broke, fix it.

My dad firmly believed that nobody drinks enough water. Headaches were the result of not drinking enough water. Stomach ache? The surest cure was a frosty glass of water. Scraped knee? Drink more water. Arm gnawed off by a great white shark while surfing? Surely you must be dehydrated and need to drink more water.

Just as Dad believed water could cure any biological ill, he was firmly convinced he could fix any household item. Dad grew up fixing cars and for a while, owned his own car repair station. Decades after he had gotten out of fixing cars, mine was in the shop. The owner of the shop called to tell me he couldn't find anything wrong with it. I asked if he had checked the starter. He replied he hadn't and in order to check it there would be a fee if it tested 'ok'.  I told him, “Dad said it was probably the starter.” “Oh” he replied, “In that case, we will pull the starter; your dad is usually right about those things.” Although he wasn't afraid of trying to fix anything, sometimes his usual choice of repair materials was a little off. I still remember him trying to fix a vacuum cleaner with Elmer’s glue and toothpicks. I believe my father thought that Rome wasn't built in a day, but could have been with the proper toothpicks.

Now I find myself imitating my father. I tell my daughters they need to drink more; I try and fix household appliances (although I tend to use super-glue, duct tape and it's cousin, electrical tape, and some fancy epoxy I picked up at Home Despot.) My family is quite aware of my penchant for these items. Every year at Christmas, I receive new tubes of super-glue. If I am fixing something, I often hear a daughter chime in, “Daddy, I am looking for your electrical tape.” Physicists are eagerly searching for how the nucleus of an atom is held together. I already know what holds it together – super-glue and duct tape.

I wrote all of the preceding to tell you reader a story. Saturday night at around 10 pm, I was at work going down a set of stairs. If stair descending were an Olympic sport, I would have scored a perfect ten on my form. But, when I reached the bottom landing, my ankle began to hurt rather horribly. I had not twisted it, I had not skipped any stairs, I scored a perfect ten and was expecting an Olympic Gold Medal. Anyway, I iced it for almost an hour and at 11 pm I went to ED/Urgent Care at Park Ridge Hospital.

The wait wasn't long as apparently it wasn't a big night for medical emergencies. In fact, I barely had time to send a quick tweet announcing, “I am in ED. Falling apart. Send super-glue and duct-tape.” when an X-ray technician, Kelly, came in and said, “Mr. Distaffen, I am here to take you for your chest X-ray.”

I replied, “That is nice, but it really is my ankle that hurts.”

Apparently, she had taken so many chest X-rays already she just blurted that out. After my X-ray the Assistant Physician came in and announced there were no broken bones and it was just a sprain. Within a few moments I had my ankle wrapped in an ace bandage and an aircast put on (fancy name for two foam padded plastic splints that are held on either side of the leg by velcro straps).

Things were moving so quickly in the ED/Urgent Care, that soon I found myself face to face with two people with stacks of papers. One stack was my admission paperwork that needed a few signatures. The second person held the stack of discharge paperwork, which also needed signatures. Just to be sure, I signed the discharge paperwork first, making this the world’s shortest ED visit, since I was technically discharged before I was admitted.

Now, I am sitting here, foot elevated, drinking ice water, since I am probably dehydrated and gazing at my fancy aircast. It is occurring to me that I could build a better one with toothpicks, duct-tape, and super-glue.