Remembering Groundhog Day

If you've been reading my blog, your probably wondering if it hurts when I go hiking with a backpack. That's a good question. There's a lot of background to cover before I answer that question. I think I should tell you everything I went through with my back.

Pain is a way of life for me. I've been through hell and back. My back surgery was a major operation back in 2001 at Jefferson Neuroscience and Neurosurgery in Philly. My spine was broken and slipping from a combination of degenerative problems and physical trauma. The biggest trauma to my spine was when I rescued Tasha and her friend from the raging rapids. It was also pinching and cutting off my nerves. The symptoms were my body going completely numb from the waist down and collapsing, with lots of pain. The muscles going into spasms and the unbearable nerve pain was scaring the hell out of me. They had no choice but to operate.

I had spinal fusion surgery with instrumentation at the L5-S1, the largest part of the spine. Most fusions are done in the L4-L5 region of the spine. The instrumentation is a titanium cage around my spine. My surgeon called me the six-million dollar man. I also had a bone graft of my hip for the fusion, and a laminectomy to free my nerves. The pain I endured was unbelievable, and words will never be able to fully describe the pain and suffering I went through.

After my first surgery, I was too weak to even open a greeting card my Daughter gave me. This shocked her. I was in a bad way. I had to learn how to walk again, and at the time it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. The pain was unbearable and intense. I just wanted to give up. Nothing should ever hurt that bad. It was surreal. What I didn't know at the time was that pain can hurt more than that. A lot more.

My white blood count started getting high from a possible infection. They gave me steroidal IV's and killer antibiotics. It made me speed my ass off and I couldn't stop talking. I'm normally a very laid back person with low blood pressure of 110/60. The steroids brought my blood pressure up to 130/80. One male nurse told me that I have an anxiety disorder. I told him it's from the steroids and I'm not normally like this. I just couldn't handle those steroids. They started reducing the morphine doses like they always do. I complained that it wasn't helping the pain, so they switched me to demerol shots. That helped a little more than the weakened morphine shots. They finally sent me home up to Kutztown after a week's stay in the hospital, the white blood cell count having subsided.

After the third day of being home, I passed out and felt like I was fading, or even possibly dying. My fever skyrocketed. My ex looked at my incisions, and they were full of a whitish puss and smelled horrible. She called the surgeon's office and they told her to rush me to the hospital in Philly. This was late Friday afternoon.

When we reached the surgeon's office across the street from the hospital, I could barely stay awake. I was hallucinating. The infection was spreading through my body like wildfire. I said something to the nurse about the morphine not working and I wanted demerol. I didn't even know where I was or what I was saying. They wheeled me across Walnut Street to the hospital in a wheelchair. I was looking at Philadelphia in the 19th century, being wheeled over cobbled streets, and the buildings were animated and leaning inward like a Batman cartoon. People's heads were inflating into bubbleheads. I was losing consciousness. I remember the nurse talking to me to keep me awake.

They performed emergency surgery on me Friday night around midnight. They opened me up completely at both incisions and thoroughly rinsed me out with a really strong solution. I was told they actually opened me up more than they did for the first surgery. The infection was really bad.

That male nurse that previously said I had an anxiety disorder apparently wrote that on a post-it note and put it on the cover of my folder the week before. "Anxiety Disorder". Just two words. Also, the nurse who saw me Friday when I was rushed back to the hospital, wrote down "no morphine" on my chart. The intern who was responsible for me after the emergency midnight surgery looked at my chart, and saw that I had an anxiety disorder with orders not to give me morphine. Oops. Just a little misunderstanding... He told the nurses not to give me any morphine.

I started coming awake at 3:46 am. This is when the fun really started. The first thing I remembered as the clock came into focus, was that my back was on fire. I started screaming and moaning in agony. I then noticed the head anesthesiologist was standing at the bed. At 3:46 in the morning. He asked me in an angry tone "How's your back feel?" I screamed "It buuurns!!!" as loud as I can, which wasn't very loud due to how weak I was. He stormed out of the room, mumbling and shaking his head. I then became fully awake in a burning hell of consciousness. I literally felt like I was opened up from the inside out and on fire. I actually tried to look for flames. The anesthesiologist knew nobody should ever have to go through this, anxiety disorder or not. If only he called the surgeon instead of fighting with the intern.

The next six hours I will never forget. Ever. No one can even imagine pain like this unless they experience it themselves. I cried and screamed and moaned and pleaded all night and all morning long. I watched the old fashioned hand clock on the wall tick away, second by second, amazed at how much pain I can feel in just one second, only to have the second-hand move again to the next second, the seconds ticking by ever so slowly into minutes, the minutes totaling up into hours after an unfathomable eternity. I laid there crying and moaning and screaming, wanting to die, anything to stop the pain. At one point I heard a nurse and the intern screaming at each other, saying "we can't do this to him!" "There's nothing I can do!" "Oh my God!" "I can't take it anymore!" and stuff like that. I watched the seconds go by forever, thinking this can't be happening, this isn't real, this is a twilight zone episode. How can they do this to me? I had no idea why I was in so much pain, or why nobody would help me.

At 5:45, a female nurse came in and I cried to her to please help me. I had to pee and I couldn't move. She inserted a catheter into my penis to pee, gave me a shot of demerol, and then she held me in her arms for the next 30 minutes, crying with me and calming me the whole time like you would for your own child. I will never forget the kindness she gave to me as she held me and cried with me. I will always love her. I never saw her again.

A little after 8 am, I realized there's a phone on the desk next to my bed and I can call someone to come rescue me, if only I can get to the phone. I was so weak and in so much pain I couldn't move. I tried crawling on the hospital bed to reach the phone on the desk next to me, inch by inch, trying to rock and shift and crawl to move to the end of the bed. I ended up wedging myself in between the bars on the side of the bed and the mattress. I was stuck. The guy who hands out food came in with my tray. He was somewhat mentally challenged. I pleaded for him to help me, to get the doctor. He told me he's not allowed, then practically ran out of the room, spilling my tray on the floor. Still, no one came, not even to clean up the mess on the floor.

I forced myself to get to the phone. I was going to get to the phone or die trying. After over two hours of trying, I was finally able to reach the phone. I called my Mom, because my ex lived about 80 miles away, and was most likely so stoned on oxycontin, she would probably have gotten there about 8:00 at night.

Shortly after I called my Mom, a nurse came in. I pleaded with her about the pain, crying and screaming and moaning. My screams weren't super loud like a normal scream. I was too weak. My screams were probably best described as crying moans with words. She asked me "What do you take for your disorder?" I moaned, "What disorder?" She said "Your anxiety disorder. Do you take Xanax?" I told her "I don't have an anxiety disorder! Call Barb!" Barb. The head nurse who was in charge. I should have yelled for them to call Barb all along. Barb was off. It was Saturday. Less than five minutes later, the nurse came in and gave me a strong shot of morphine, apologized and said there was a mistake in my chart. She then cleaned up the food. My Mom and cousin Pat walked in about ten minutes later, had a private conversation with the nurse about me, and confirmed to her I didn't have an anxiety disorder. After that episode, they kept me really stoned on a lot of morphine for the entire next month during my hospital stay.

That experience was so traumatizing, I rarely ever talk about it. I bury it in my head. Remembering that awful morning makes me cry. It was like a nightmare of pain. Time to bury it again.

I had two more major operations where they had to open me up completely and wash me out. Every time I had to endure going through the same agony that I suffered through during the first surgery, learning how to walk again, too weak to open greeting a greeting card, wondering if life is worth going through so much pain. I felt like I was in the movie "Groundhog Day" with Bill Murray. I kept reliving the same thing over and over again.

After one of the operations, I forget which one, I was recovering in a hospital bed at night. The overhead light for my bed didn't work. I needed to pee, so the nurse came to put a catheter into my penis. If you don't already know, a catheter is a long flexible tube with a needle tip to insert into the penis to reach the bladder and release the urine. After this type of surgery, a person is in too much pain and too weak to pee. The nurse turned on the light over the bed next to mine to see, but it was still dark. The next thing I know, it felt like I was attacked inside my penis with a razor blade! I screamed bloody murder as blood started gushing from my penis. The nurse breached my penis wall and hit the vein. The pain was so intense, on top of all the pain I was already in. I think the entire hospital heard my screams. Luckily they were able to stop the bleeding, and there was no permanent damage. Just a temporary inconvenience...

After the second surgery, I still wasn't getting any better from the internal infection, so they inserted a 15" IV pick line into my main artery, from my arm to just outside my heart for the antibiotics and steroids. Besides, my veins were collapsing from all of the IV's. It was a really bad time. They couldn't stop the infection and they didn't think I was going to live. Finally, after a month of multiple back operations and nonstop steroids and antibiotics, the infection subsided. I was able to go home. They didn't want me going up to Kutztown, though. It was too far away. They wanted to keep me close just in case, and wanted their own home nursing staff to attend me. I stayed at my Aunt's house. I still had the IV pick line in my main artery for my steroids and antibiotics for another eight weeks. I think the antibiotics were vancomycin fluids and cipro pills. I don't remember the steroid names. Two months later, I was allowed to go home, infection free.

I rehabbed myself to where I could function pretty good. After a year I was able to do short hikes of 2-3 miles. I had lower back pain and nerve pain and some numbness, but I could walk. More importantly, I could hike. I used to say if I couldn't go hiking, you might as well kill me. Nothing was going to keep me down. Hiking is my passion. Most people probably would've just gained a bunch of weight, claimed permanent disability, and used a walker or wheelchair for the rest of their lives. Not me. I went back to work and went hiking.

In April of 2003, I was driving home in my Subaru Forester on the Northeast Extension after a night shift. It was about 4 am and I was exhausted. I had cruise control set at 67 mph. As I was approaching the little mountain pass between Quakertown and Allentown, another car was passing me, so I turned off my bright lights. I was so tired, I forgot to turn them back on. About two miles later as I was coming over the mountain half dozing, I suddenly realized there was a huge deer right in front of me! He was just standing there looking at me, and I had no time to miss him. I turned the wheel as the deer slipped trying to flee, and I ended up running over him as the Forester swerved to the right and the left side lifted off the ground. I don't even remember hitting the brakes, it all happened so fast. I started spinning in a 360, but when I spun around the opposite way, the Forester started rolling. I was probably still doing about 60 mph. I rolled so many times I lost count. I remember after about the fifth roll thinking I'm going to die. I just continued rolling and rolling. The windows were all exploding, the noise was unbelievable! I think my huge flashlight hit me in the head. Things were flying all around me. Then, after an eternity, I hit the guardrail upside down. The Forester slid along the guard rail upside down for almost a tenth of a mile with sparks flying all around me.

The next thing I remember is hearing a lady screaming, "Oh my God! Oh my God! Are you alive?" I came too sitting upside down, buckled in my seat. I was dazed and didn't know where I was. It all came back to me as she dragged my out of the Subaru and helped me crawl to the side of the highway. I collapsed to the ground with my back muscles going into spasms, and I realized I couldn't feel my lower body. As I lay there dazed from hitting my head and numb from the trauma, I asked the lady, fearing the worst, "Is it Groundhog Day? 'Cause I remember Groundhog Day."

If it wasn't for the reinforced moonroof on the Subaru, I would have died. The accident knocked a bunch of scar tissue up against my already damaged nerves, and I could barely walk. I was in a wheelchair and in lots of pain. I rehabbed myself to a walker, then a walking cane. The nerve damage was so painful.

They wanted to give me steroidal injections into my spine where the damage was, but they couldn't see my spine with the voroscope because of the titanium cage. They decided to give me steroids though a spinal tap above where the trauma was. They couldn't penetrate my spine with the huge needle. They tried and tried, my spine bending more than it should have, the pain unbearable. I was sweating so bad from the pain, the two nurses who were holding me down kept slipping because of all the sweat. They had to get towels to hold me down. One time, it took over three hours and three different doctors to penetrate my spine with the spinal tap needle.

All in all, I had three spinal taps with steroidal injections, and enough physical therapy to make even Arnold Schwarzenegger proud. The pain and numbness slowly subsided until I ended up back where I started before the accident, with maybe a little more nerve pain and numbness than before.

The nerve is permanently damaged, but it's not crippling or anything. It's chronic. I feel numbness and tingling sometimes with really bad pain, but I can handle it. I can handle anything, especially after everything I've been through. You would never know by looking at me, though. I can function like a normal person, walking, whatever. I'm in better shape than most guys my age. It's just some pain I have to deal with. I can now hike several miles with a 20 pound pack.

So if you're wondering if hiking and backpacking hurts now, all I can say is, "Pain, what pain?" I can go hiking and backpacking. It does hurt some, but it's nothing compared to what I've been through. When people see me hiking, they see a healthy guy who's into hiking. The pain is tolerable, and I love it out there. I really enjoy myself when I go hiking. I'll be hiking until I'm an old man. If I can't hike, you might as well kill me. Besides, I will always remember Groundhog Day.