I need to write about this, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system. Don's hospital stay has by far been the most excruciating experience of my existence. I have never prayed so much, cried so much, hurt so much, or experienced so many emotions in such a short span of time.
It started Monday, February 11th. I was texting Don about my commute home, and that I should be home by 6 pm. He calls me as they begin boarding and tells me that he's in the hospital as of midnight the previous night. He will have his triple bypass surgery on Tuesday morning. A wave of nausea washes over me as an invisible fist punches me in the gut. I ask if he's in any pain, he says "not now." I tell him to get some rest, ask if he needs me to bring him anything, and that I'll see him tonight. I fire off a desperate email to the LOA office at work, and by the time I get to St. Louis, I'm granted the time I need.
Meanwhile, I spent the whole flight to St. Louis wiping the tears from my eyes and trying not to fall apart. I managed to make it to my car and let loose with loud, uncontrollable sobbing. It was a wonderful, much-needed release! There. That should get me through tomorrow, I thought.
I spent the night before his surgery next to his bedside, as the staff interrupted every few hours to scrub him (three times), give him medication, take his vital signs, take his blood, etc. The morning of his surgery, his son Aaron and daughter-in-law Roberta came to the hospital. We met the nurse who would be taking care of him post-op, and a few other people. Everyone who came into Don's room (with the exception of family and myself) seemed really excited for him to have his surgery, like it was a trip to an amusement park or something. His spirits were nervous, but optimistic.
The time came for him to be taken downstairs. Aaron and I left our stuff with Roberta and accompanied him in the holding room, where he would sign the consent forms and be prepped for surgery. The nurse gave him something to relax him and out came the electric clippers. I looked at his beautiful, flawless chest as they shaved his chest hair and legs. I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
The nurse liaison kicked us out and handed Aaron and I each a pack of Kleenex and her personal phone number. She said she'd come out during each phase of the 5 hour surgery and give us updates. Aaron's Pastor and a couple of his friends were waiting for us outside in the waiting room. We all held hands and prayed.
True to her word, the nurse liaison came out. "Surgery has begun." My nervous pacing began. An hour later, "He's on bypass" (where the heart is stopped and he's connected to the heart/lung machine that keeps him alive while the surgeon attaches the veins to the heart).
I was going through Kleenexes at a steady rate, but still holding up better than I thought I would. I looked at the pastor, the friends, Aaron and Roberta - very kind, Christian folks who don't drink, don't swear, and don't make tasteless jokes about farts and body parts. I was so glad to have the company and support, but it was a challenge to keep my company manners and not make an ass of myself while being under emotional stress for such an extended period of time. WHY THE HELL DOESN'T THIS PLACE HAVE A FREAKIN' BAR?!? A sweet friend's amazing mother came by and delivered home-made chocolate fudge to me in the nick of time!
"He's off bypass. He separated from the heart/lung machine very well!" My baby's heart is beating again!!! I felt a wave of relief. I thought the worst was over! "Surgery is complete. Expect to see him in the Intensive Care Unit in about an hour. The doctor will see you in 30 minutes." Everything went well. It was "as cherry of a case as they come." Still angry at having to face this day sober but in better spirits, I busied myself between the time we're told the surgery is complete until we're allowed to see him by concentrating on the idea that if this flying thing doesn't work out for me, I'm going to open a bar at the hospital. I'd make a killing. What shall I call it? I came up with a few names:
The Waiting Room
Stitches
Sutres
SutreSelf (I'm so clever!)
Scrubs and Suds
The Morphine Drip
The Medicine Cabinet
The nurse liaison interrupted my brainstorm, and let Aaron and I walk into ICU to see him. It was tough to see all those tubes in and around him, but conversations with friends who also had loved ones go through this surgery had prepared me for that. I found his face in what otherwise looked like a science fair project. He was sleeping, but I put my finger in his hand and said, "hi sweet baby."
Eventually, the ventilator tube came out, he was in and out of consciousness, and he was able to talk to us a little. When I was confident that the worst was over, I told him I was leaving for the night and that the staff would take excellent care of him. I kissed him and said, "I love you." He croaked out, "I love you, too."
This was big. In the 7 and a half years we've been together, not once has he told me he loved me. Before you get upset, just know that even though he doesn't tell me, he shows me. He just has a hard time saying the words, and so that I don't make him uncomfortable, I don't say them either. I know that I am loved, and he knows that he is loved. We just don't say it. It works for us.
I go to the grocery store, pick up a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine, with the intention of pigging out and getting drunk, because that is how I handle stress. No sooner had I put the pizza in the oven when Aaron calls me..... Don's blood pressure dropped significantly, his heart rate slowed to a crawl...... there's a team of people helping him....... I pull the pizza out of the oven, slam a glass of wine, and head back to the hospital.
My Donnie had "coded." I was in shock and denial. But, his surgery went well! He had surgery to prevent this from happening! How can it happen now?!? He has the best surgeon in the region!! Later, we would find out that it's because one of the bypasses failed. Luckily, he didn't have to go back into the operating room. They reintubated him with the ventilator, and inserted what's called an Intra-aortic balloon pump through his leg all the way up to where it rests against his heart - basically it's a balloon that inflates during a certain part of every heart beat to 1) help the heart rest and 2) help it deal with the cocktail of medications coarsing through his system. There is a nurse assigned to watch him and only him the rest of the night.
His surgeon, who had also gone home because everything was a-ok, came out to the waiting room to talk to Aaron and me. He asked and answered the questions we were thinking, because neither of us was capable of intelligent conversation ourselves:
"Was it a heart attack? We're pretty sure it was.
Why did it happen? We don't know.
How much did it damage his heart? We won't know until this is all over. Perhaps months.
Is there the possibility that he won't make it? Yes, a very real one."
Later, when we were allowed to see Don again, I walked into his room by myself. I looked at all the machines, displaying all kinds of numbers and waves, and heard the rhythmic clicking of the balloon pump. It was night time. As long as he was sleeping, he wasn't hurting. I gently closed my hand around his foot and softly told him that Aaron and I are just around the corner. "You're not alone, sweet baby. Just rest and get better." Over the speakers in the room, I heard the sweetest, saddest, most beautiful music..... classical.... strings.... is that? Brahms' Lullaby!? Giant tears flooded my eyes and streamed down my cheeks as I held my breath. I looked at his face.... all those machines keeping him alive..... him sleeping peacefully... and that music... that fucking music! The music was what set me over the edge. It was so sweet and so beautiful and so cruel. I quickly walked out of there and into the waiting room. My legs were unsteady, so I rested against a pillar. I squeezed my eyes shut and my mouth gaped open in a silent scream. Why God, WHY?!??!? I finally breathed again and managed to make it to the ladies' room before having a complete emotional breakdown.
I screamed at the walls, I screamed at God, I screamed at Don. Don, my world, my everything! The one I want to share every beautiful thing that life has to offer..... and there's a chance he won't be coming home!?? I left the restroom feeling no better, just beaten, exhausted, and utterly heartbroken.
Aaron and I spent the night in the cold waiting room of the ICU. Neither of us got any sleep. The following day, not much changed. He remained on the balloon pump and the ventilator. He was awake enough to let us know how much he hated the breathing tube. Aaron and I left the hospital long enough to shower and get a meal, only to return to the hospital again. We spent another night in the ICU waiting room. In between cries, we'd get coffee or hot chocolate.
The next day was Valentine's Day. I bought a small sequined heart to hang in his room. I showed it to him, and through all the tubes, he smiled. They gradually weaned him off the balloon pump. When he handled that well, they weaned him off the ventilator. They fed him ice chips. He no longer needs a nurse with him 24/7. It was a good day.
Followed by a bad night, of course. His heart went into Atrial Fibrillation, or Afib - or irregular heart beat. He has a history of it, and I hear that it's "normal" after heart surgery. His pulse was racing - 150+ beats per minute. Especially terrible because we were trying to rest his heart! I'm allowed to "sleep" in the recliner next to his bed, which makes him feel better. After several nights of this, I determine that there's no way that anyone gets any rest in the hospital. The endless parade of professionals begins around 4:30 - 5:00am and doesn't end until midnight. Once people start coming in to his room, you can kiss any sleep goodbye. Thank God the coffee was complimentary.
By day 7, doctors determine that he's well enough to get out of ICU and into a private room. Days are good, nights are full of anxiety. Finally, a week and a half after he entered the hospital, he was discharged!
I asked a nurse why I heard Brahms' lullaby. Evidently, they play it every time a baby is born. Isn't that sweet? They said that it's broadcast throughout the whole hospital, and that they'll often have elderly ladies (on lots of drugs) walk down the hallway as it's being played, convinced they're dying and headed into the light. I guess I'm not the only one who was touched by that music.
It is so good to have my Sweet Cheeks back home. I am forcing him to eat my healthy cooking. He even likes some of it! I am acting wife, mother, nurse, chef, cheerleader, and personal trainer. I am exhausted! But, I am ever so humbly thankful that he's back home with me. There will be doctor appointments to find out what his heart attack means to him - how much of the muscle was damaged, see if he can get a stent for the failed bypass, etc. The nights are still full of anxiety for him, and at times I feel so useless because I can't help him. He's not convinced he's going to recover sometimes. But, we know the recovery process is a slow one, and I do my best to remind him of how far he's come already. Every day, I see an improvement in him. Baby steps add up to great strides.
One thing I will never forget - how many of my friends and family prayed for us, sent us "good vibes," and otherwise gave their emotional support and encouragement. I am truly touched at how many of you helped me when I had trouble keeping it together emotionally.
Thank you. Please take care of yourselves.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Momma said there'd be days like this.
Most of the time, my job is rather dull and routine, sprinkled lightly with minor annoyances...... pretty much like every other job out there. However, last week I had a day that left me wondering which of the fates I had inadvertently angered. Did I step on a butterfly? Kick a puppy? Bitch-slap a cripple? I don't know. While I've cut down on the drinking, I've been taking melatonin at night, so there's really no telling what I do. As the monkeys of life kept lobbing one sticky handful of shit in my face after another, I thought of the reviews for Les Miz (the stage performance.... not the movie). It's true. I laughed. I cried. It was still better than Cats.
The day I left for work to begin two consecutive 2-day trips (a Friday), my boyfriend (after near continuous nagging from yours truly) went to a doctor to see about the increasing frequency and magnitude of chest pain and episodes where he just feels..... weird.... for months. MONTHS! Of course, the doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. This was a Friday, and the kind of test Don needed to determine what, if any, blockage is present couldn't be performed until Monday. The good and bad of it was that while my worries were heightened, in an odd way I felt more at ease than when I usually leave - knowing that he was being cared for and help, should he need it, was just outside his door.
I flew an uneventful Friday and Saturday, then reported Sunday with a new crew to fly the second two-day trip. The first day consisted of only one leg: Cleveland to Philadelphia. It was a sunny, beautiful, smooth, just downright gorgeous day to fly! A friend of mine was deadheading in the back. He was taking the plane back to Cleveland after we arrived in Philly - and it was going to be his first flight as a captain! Because we had a kickin' tailwind, we arrived 20 minutes early, leaving him plenty of time to get set up. I slapped him on the back, wished him good luck, and the 3 of us went to the hotel. I chuckled to myself and thought, that was awesome. We're probably gonna pay for this tomorrow.
All I meant by that thought was that we were scheduled for 5 legs the next day, with tight turn-arounds all day, in weather that was going to involve snow, ice pellets, freezing rain, and low ceilings. But it didn't matter.... I was going home!
Our easy day took a turn for the worse several hours later at the hotel. I was watching tv in bed and all of a sudden the power went out. And stayed out. My room cooled off quickly. I gave it about 30 minutes, then called the front desk. They don't know why the power went out or how long it will be, but someone's working on it. At the hour mark, I go downstairs and find out that a neighborhood close by just got their power back, so I was hopeful. I toyed with the idea of calling work and refusing the hotel, but I figured the power would be back on soon and I didn't want to bother the crew with gathering their shit in the dark and switching hotels, only to have the power come back on.
It didn't come back on. I drifted off to sleep, shivering under the covers until I heard my phone ring. Scheduling calling! They have a new hotel for us! The FO had the good sense to get us a different hotel.
Early morning comes. I realize I've left my aviation headset at the old hotel. They're not answering the phone. GREAT. Donnie has his cardiac catheterization test today (the test that will determine blood flow/blockage in the chambers of the heart), the results of which determine how long his current hospital stay is, and what happens to him in the future. So, I know I'm going to be a little distracted and forgetful.
The first leg, Philly to Cleveland is uneventful until the taxi in. The ramp is a solid sheet of ice. I taxi at what I thought was a snail's pace. When I moved the tiller to the left to make a left turn, my heart leaped into my throat as the aircraft kept going straight. I applied the brakes.... no good. SHIT! I got the result I wanted with differential thrust reverser. I figured it would be better to suck unwanted debris into the engine than to plow into the terminal building or any of the vehicles between us and it.
We board up and depart again, headed for Washington DC, where the freezing rain and ice pellets are reported to have ended, with good ole rain to take its place. It is my first time to fly a complicated arrival procedure into the DC area. It requires diligent planning and attention, so that you make all the crossing restrictions (altitudes and airspeeds). There is always a tailwind that adds to the challenge. I laugh to myself at the irony that the most restrictive arrival known to man is named the FREEDOM 1 arrival. We shoot the approach into DC..... We hear the aircraft ahead of us go around. I go through the go-around process mentally...... when we reach the point where we make the decision to land or fly, I look up and see ZILCH. I execute a go-around and missed approach. We begin to receive vectors for another attempt. I note the fuel with a frown. We could either 1) shoot the approach again and land or 2) go to our alternate airport of Baltimore.
But not both. The freight dawg in me implored me to try it again. The guy behind us made it!! The guy behind him made it!! It's go-home day!! The FO kindly and passive-aggressively also noted the fuel aloud. I sighed and said to the FO, "tell ATC we need vectors to Baltimore."
We get on the ground. Supposed to be a gas-n-go operation. Grab the paperwork, gas it up, pull the jetbridge, drop the brake, thank the ground crew, ask for clearance to push back...... GROUND STOP in DC. Update in an hour. Turns out, aircraft are holding and no one is getting in. I feel better about my decision to divert. I give the people the bad news and kick everyone off the plane where they will feel more comfortable so our flight attendant doesn't have to babysit them.
Hours go by. The flight cancels. Wait for more paperwork. In the meantime, I talk to Don. Bad news, significant blockage in not just 3 main arteries, but lots of little blockages that make him a bad candidate for stents. He's being treated with nitroglycerin and has to stay another night in the hospital. His cardiologist is going to try medicine first, but thinks ultimately he'll need a triple bypass. He has a case of bronchitis that makes the heart surgeon wary of operating anyway. I stay strong on the phone and tell him to get some rest and I'll see him tonight. I hang up as a few tears escape down my cheeks and see our paperwork has finally arrived. Dammit.... I have to keep my head. No time to freak out emotionally. Swallow the fear, doubt, the emotional panic welling up. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to get on the first plane home.
Instead, I put on my sunglasses and get back into the cockpit. I tell the FO I'm going through some shit at home and to please help me not to F--k up.
We fly empty back to Cleveland to pick up the rest of our trip. I run to get the paperwork and find the ops guy shouting a string of obscenities at the computer and cursing CHQ's system. It takes 20 minutes to print up the paperwork and I sprint athletically down the jetbridge to a plane full of disgruntled passengers. The jetbridge is slippery because of the melted snow. I slide ass-over-elbows and hit the ground so hard I see stars. Shake it off, jump in the plane, apologize to the passengers for our tardiness, and get to the process of leaving.
On pushback, the damned #2 engine won't start. We try it 3 times. No igniters, no fuel flow. We return to the gate, I again apologize to the passengers and call maintenance. They jiggle some wires, pull some circuit breakers, we're good to go. Round trip to Charlotte, while significantly delayed now, experiences no further problems.
Once safely back in Cleveland, go-home leg competed, the last passenger gets off. The crew and I sigh in relief that our day is over. Just then, some strange man with an ID boards the plane, sticks his head in the cockpit and says, "I'm looking for Captain Willes for her random drug test." I throw the checklist at the guy and say, "Are you ffffffffff----reaking kidding me?!?!?? Do you know the day I've just had?" I tell the flight attendant I'm being drug tested and the plane practically shakes itself apart from our laughter.
The walk to the restroom took a turn for the awkward when I smile and ask the man for a funnel, seeing as how I'm a female. He turned the loveliest shade of red when he handed me the cup and said, "just do the best you can."
An hour later, I sit in the gate area, waiting for the flight I will attempt to take home. The gate agent tells me there are several mis-connects, and that I will certainly get a seat in the back. Finally some good news! As I sit and wait for the boarding process to begin, I prop my feet on my bag, lay my head back, and feel all the energy leave my body. The simple act of breathing seems to require more energy than my body has to give. Only 6 more hours until I get home. Ugh.
We board. I force a smile and turn on what little charm I have left to kindly ask the pilots for a ride home. The most beautiful sound - the aircraft door closing on my commute home - is music to my ears. We taxi out....... we.... TURN AROUND?~!?~? We return to the gate.
I'm screaming the "F-word" so loud in my head, I almost believe the people around me can hear it. Why God, WHY?
Turns out, a woman was having an anxiety attack. She needed medical attention. Because of our return to the gate, all of the poor passengers who had missed this flight suddenly get a second chance to make their flight. GOOD FOR THEM. One of these passengers comes up to me and says, "You're in my seat." Of course I am. I see myself getting kicked off the plane and drowning myself in liquor at the crash pad while my Donnie spends another lonely night in the hospital. Fortunately..... there was one seat left in the front of the plane. Thank you, Baby Jesus, I am going home!!!!
Uneventful 2 hour drive home. I stop briefly at the house to check on the cat and get changed. I drive as fast as my 5L engine will take me to the hospital. I tried to sneak in without waking him, but he's such a light sleeper. When he sits up and hugs me, all the frustrations and cares of the day immediately dissolve. All that matters is that I made it to his arms.
22 hours after my day began, I'm holding his hand. He tells me to go home and get some sleep, but the only place I want to be is in the chair next to him. At that quiet hour, in the darkness, I say a prayer of thanksgiving. I let everything that happened during the day stay in the past, and fall asleep to the beautiful sound of his breathing. He is discharged from the hospital the next day. We go home and sleep for about 6 hours.
Currently, he is still being treated with nitroglycerin. He attends cardio rehab 3 times a week. His chest pain is better. He'll have a follow-up appointment at the end of the month to see how well the meds are working and how long he can put off bypass surgery. He is making an effort to cut way back on salt, fat, and calories. I am so proud of him!
I would have never made it through this day without the emotional support of all my friends and family, especially the stellar crew I was working with!! Thanks for letting me vent, and for laughing with me when life proved that you should never ask, "how can it get any worse?"
The day I left for work to begin two consecutive 2-day trips (a Friday), my boyfriend (after near continuous nagging from yours truly) went to a doctor to see about the increasing frequency and magnitude of chest pain and episodes where he just feels..... weird.... for months. MONTHS! Of course, the doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. This was a Friday, and the kind of test Don needed to determine what, if any, blockage is present couldn't be performed until Monday. The good and bad of it was that while my worries were heightened, in an odd way I felt more at ease than when I usually leave - knowing that he was being cared for and help, should he need it, was just outside his door.
I flew an uneventful Friday and Saturday, then reported Sunday with a new crew to fly the second two-day trip. The first day consisted of only one leg: Cleveland to Philadelphia. It was a sunny, beautiful, smooth, just downright gorgeous day to fly! A friend of mine was deadheading in the back. He was taking the plane back to Cleveland after we arrived in Philly - and it was going to be his first flight as a captain! Because we had a kickin' tailwind, we arrived 20 minutes early, leaving him plenty of time to get set up. I slapped him on the back, wished him good luck, and the 3 of us went to the hotel. I chuckled to myself and thought, that was awesome. We're probably gonna pay for this tomorrow.
All I meant by that thought was that we were scheduled for 5 legs the next day, with tight turn-arounds all day, in weather that was going to involve snow, ice pellets, freezing rain, and low ceilings. But it didn't matter.... I was going home!
Our easy day took a turn for the worse several hours later at the hotel. I was watching tv in bed and all of a sudden the power went out. And stayed out. My room cooled off quickly. I gave it about 30 minutes, then called the front desk. They don't know why the power went out or how long it will be, but someone's working on it. At the hour mark, I go downstairs and find out that a neighborhood close by just got their power back, so I was hopeful. I toyed with the idea of calling work and refusing the hotel, but I figured the power would be back on soon and I didn't want to bother the crew with gathering their shit in the dark and switching hotels, only to have the power come back on.
It didn't come back on. I drifted off to sleep, shivering under the covers until I heard my phone ring. Scheduling calling! They have a new hotel for us! The FO had the good sense to get us a different hotel.
Early morning comes. I realize I've left my aviation headset at the old hotel. They're not answering the phone. GREAT. Donnie has his cardiac catheterization test today (the test that will determine blood flow/blockage in the chambers of the heart), the results of which determine how long his current hospital stay is, and what happens to him in the future. So, I know I'm going to be a little distracted and forgetful.
The first leg, Philly to Cleveland is uneventful until the taxi in. The ramp is a solid sheet of ice. I taxi at what I thought was a snail's pace. When I moved the tiller to the left to make a left turn, my heart leaped into my throat as the aircraft kept going straight. I applied the brakes.... no good. SHIT! I got the result I wanted with differential thrust reverser. I figured it would be better to suck unwanted debris into the engine than to plow into the terminal building or any of the vehicles between us and it.
We board up and depart again, headed for Washington DC, where the freezing rain and ice pellets are reported to have ended, with good ole rain to take its place. It is my first time to fly a complicated arrival procedure into the DC area. It requires diligent planning and attention, so that you make all the crossing restrictions (altitudes and airspeeds). There is always a tailwind that adds to the challenge. I laugh to myself at the irony that the most restrictive arrival known to man is named the FREEDOM 1 arrival. We shoot the approach into DC..... We hear the aircraft ahead of us go around. I go through the go-around process mentally...... when we reach the point where we make the decision to land or fly, I look up and see ZILCH. I execute a go-around and missed approach. We begin to receive vectors for another attempt. I note the fuel with a frown. We could either 1) shoot the approach again and land or 2) go to our alternate airport of Baltimore.
But not both. The freight dawg in me implored me to try it again. The guy behind us made it!! The guy behind him made it!! It's go-home day!! The FO kindly and passive-aggressively also noted the fuel aloud. I sighed and said to the FO, "tell ATC we need vectors to Baltimore."
We get on the ground. Supposed to be a gas-n-go operation. Grab the paperwork, gas it up, pull the jetbridge, drop the brake, thank the ground crew, ask for clearance to push back...... GROUND STOP in DC. Update in an hour. Turns out, aircraft are holding and no one is getting in. I feel better about my decision to divert. I give the people the bad news and kick everyone off the plane where they will feel more comfortable so our flight attendant doesn't have to babysit them.
Hours go by. The flight cancels. Wait for more paperwork. In the meantime, I talk to Don. Bad news, significant blockage in not just 3 main arteries, but lots of little blockages that make him a bad candidate for stents. He's being treated with nitroglycerin and has to stay another night in the hospital. His cardiologist is going to try medicine first, but thinks ultimately he'll need a triple bypass. He has a case of bronchitis that makes the heart surgeon wary of operating anyway. I stay strong on the phone and tell him to get some rest and I'll see him tonight. I hang up as a few tears escape down my cheeks and see our paperwork has finally arrived. Dammit.... I have to keep my head. No time to freak out emotionally. Swallow the fear, doubt, the emotional panic welling up. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to get on the first plane home.
Instead, I put on my sunglasses and get back into the cockpit. I tell the FO I'm going through some shit at home and to please help me not to F--k up.
We fly empty back to Cleveland to pick up the rest of our trip. I run to get the paperwork and find the ops guy shouting a string of obscenities at the computer and cursing CHQ's system. It takes 20 minutes to print up the paperwork and I sprint athletically down the jetbridge to a plane full of disgruntled passengers. The jetbridge is slippery because of the melted snow. I slide ass-over-elbows and hit the ground so hard I see stars. Shake it off, jump in the plane, apologize to the passengers for our tardiness, and get to the process of leaving.
On pushback, the damned #2 engine won't start. We try it 3 times. No igniters, no fuel flow. We return to the gate, I again apologize to the passengers and call maintenance. They jiggle some wires, pull some circuit breakers, we're good to go. Round trip to Charlotte, while significantly delayed now, experiences no further problems.
Once safely back in Cleveland, go-home leg competed, the last passenger gets off. The crew and I sigh in relief that our day is over. Just then, some strange man with an ID boards the plane, sticks his head in the cockpit and says, "I'm looking for Captain Willes for her random drug test." I throw the checklist at the guy and say, "Are you ffffffffff----reaking kidding me?!?!?? Do you know the day I've just had?" I tell the flight attendant I'm being drug tested and the plane practically shakes itself apart from our laughter.
The walk to the restroom took a turn for the awkward when I smile and ask the man for a funnel, seeing as how I'm a female. He turned the loveliest shade of red when he handed me the cup and said, "just do the best you can."
An hour later, I sit in the gate area, waiting for the flight I will attempt to take home. The gate agent tells me there are several mis-connects, and that I will certainly get a seat in the back. Finally some good news! As I sit and wait for the boarding process to begin, I prop my feet on my bag, lay my head back, and feel all the energy leave my body. The simple act of breathing seems to require more energy than my body has to give. Only 6 more hours until I get home. Ugh.
We board. I force a smile and turn on what little charm I have left to kindly ask the pilots for a ride home. The most beautiful sound - the aircraft door closing on my commute home - is music to my ears. We taxi out....... we.... TURN AROUND?~!?~? We return to the gate.
I'm screaming the "F-word" so loud in my head, I almost believe the people around me can hear it. Why God, WHY?
Turns out, a woman was having an anxiety attack. She needed medical attention. Because of our return to the gate, all of the poor passengers who had missed this flight suddenly get a second chance to make their flight. GOOD FOR THEM. One of these passengers comes up to me and says, "You're in my seat." Of course I am. I see myself getting kicked off the plane and drowning myself in liquor at the crash pad while my Donnie spends another lonely night in the hospital. Fortunately..... there was one seat left in the front of the plane. Thank you, Baby Jesus, I am going home!!!!
Uneventful 2 hour drive home. I stop briefly at the house to check on the cat and get changed. I drive as fast as my 5L engine will take me to the hospital. I tried to sneak in without waking him, but he's such a light sleeper. When he sits up and hugs me, all the frustrations and cares of the day immediately dissolve. All that matters is that I made it to his arms.
22 hours after my day began, I'm holding his hand. He tells me to go home and get some sleep, but the only place I want to be is in the chair next to him. At that quiet hour, in the darkness, I say a prayer of thanksgiving. I let everything that happened during the day stay in the past, and fall asleep to the beautiful sound of his breathing. He is discharged from the hospital the next day. We go home and sleep for about 6 hours.
Currently, he is still being treated with nitroglycerin. He attends cardio rehab 3 times a week. His chest pain is better. He'll have a follow-up appointment at the end of the month to see how well the meds are working and how long he can put off bypass surgery. He is making an effort to cut way back on salt, fat, and calories. I am so proud of him!
I would have never made it through this day without the emotional support of all my friends and family, especially the stellar crew I was working with!! Thanks for letting me vent, and for laughing with me when life proved that you should never ask, "how can it get any worse?"
Monday, December 31, 2012
Christmas Magic
Christmas found me.
I talked to my Mom on Christmas Eve. She said my previous blog broke her heart! She did like, however, my resolve to be happy. She told me that when you make the effort to try and be in good spirits, it usually happens! She was right.
Christmas Eve there were 4 of us in the crash pad. Val, Chris, Fran, and myself. We decided to have a Christmas Eve Feast!! I defrosted salmon fillets, Val made herbed roasted potatoes, Chris made crescent rolls and asparagus, and Fran brought wine and dessert. We lit candles, got lit ourselves on the wine, and had a wonderful, civilized dinner. Afterwards, Val took pictures of me ... um.... interacting with the air-filled phallus next door. Seriously..... that thing looks like a red rocket. It is supposed to be Sponge Bob jumping out of a Christmas present and wearing a Santa Hat. To me, because of the awkward angle, flesh-coloring, and red tip.... it looks like a penis. I call it the "Christmas Cock."
Anyway.....
I woke up early Christmas Day, letting Val (my FO for the trip) sleep while I took my shower, got pretty, made coffee, and ate breakfast to the Christmas Carols of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I even plugged in the Christmas tree........ briefly checking underneath to see if Santa had made a stop. What can I say, I will always believe. By the time Val woke up, I had switched the tv to "A Christmas Story." I felt the sting of tears, a pang of sadness, and longing for my family as Ralphie was opening his Red Ryder BB Gun, but I thought, "NO... I am not going to cry today. Today, I will be happy!"
Val and I had a lot of fun on our day trip. It was 4 legs. Cleveland - New York (LGA) - Manchester NH, New York, then back to Cleveland. It is routine for airports to broadcast their weather conditions and special notices on a frequency, then dedicate a special alphanumeric letter that you are supposed to tell Air Traffic Control when you check in, so that they know you have the most up-to-date information for that airport. Normally, these alphanumerics are Alpha, Bravo, Delta.... blah blah blah. Well, we decided to use Christmasy alphanumerics like "Grinch, Jingle, Noel, Santa, etc", in an effort to add a little fun and to make ATC laugh. It was kind of hit and miss with ATC, but it made us laugh!! During the welcome aboard announcement, I would introduce the flight attendant as "Mrs. Claus," or "Santa's little helper, sent to us straight from the North Pole." I was feeling especially bold by the go-home leg, and heard myself say, "She sees you when you're sleeping, she knows when you're awake. She has important safety information for you, so pay attention for goodness sake!"
In each case, I concluded with, "Merry Christmas to all.... and to all a good FLIGHT!"
I even got applause on one occasion! I dare say..... we really had a lot of fun. Working with an awesome crew takes a great deal of sting out of being away on the holidays.
Remember how I said in my previous entry, "All I want for Christmas is to be home"? Well, Val and I each experienced our own Christmas miracles. We each had to 2-leg it. Me through Washington DC Dulles, and her through Chicago O'Hare. Both of our flights were delayed, which was great news for us because it would have been next to impossible to make our commutes home. Both of our commutes were full, but due to some miracle, we each got seats in the back. Even though both of my flights were delayed (actually, my connecting flight in Dulles returned to the gate because of an anti-ice system problem, and I thought my world was ending), I dragged myself in the door to my house at 4:00am. I figured it was still Christmas in Hawaii (where I was born).
Long story short, I got what I wanted for Christmas!!!!! We both made it home.
Now it's New Year's Eve. Once again, I am in the Crash Pad. I have a day trip tomorrow. Although I wish I was at home (another first for me to be away on this holiday), I am not nearly as blue as I was a week ago. The snow is really coming down outside! I have my New Year's Hoppin' John (a kind of Cajun black-eyed peas and ham) on the stove, and a proscuitto-wrapped pork loin roasting in the oven - the one I was going to make for Christmas. The crash pad smells like Heaven. I have my wine next to me as I write this blog. Later, I plan on tuning in to New Year's Rockin' Eve, and although Dick Clark isn't with us anymore, I can't imagine New Year's without watching the ball drop. Roommates Meaghan and a really nice ExpressJet Captain whose name totally, inexcusably escapes me now (thank you California, for your wine) are my company tonight. I will force them to eat black-eyed peas and ham for the sake of their 2013, because the damn yankees have never heard of that tradition and I care about their futures! It's not the wild New Year's Eves from my youth, but it'll do.
So, here's to the end of 2012, and to whatever 2013 brings! Happy New Year's to all, and to all a speedy hangover recovery!!
Cheers.
I talked to my Mom on Christmas Eve. She said my previous blog broke her heart! She did like, however, my resolve to be happy. She told me that when you make the effort to try and be in good spirits, it usually happens! She was right.
Christmas Eve there were 4 of us in the crash pad. Val, Chris, Fran, and myself. We decided to have a Christmas Eve Feast!! I defrosted salmon fillets, Val made herbed roasted potatoes, Chris made crescent rolls and asparagus, and Fran brought wine and dessert. We lit candles, got lit ourselves on the wine, and had a wonderful, civilized dinner. Afterwards, Val took pictures of me ... um.... interacting with the air-filled phallus next door. Seriously..... that thing looks like a red rocket. It is supposed to be Sponge Bob jumping out of a Christmas present and wearing a Santa Hat. To me, because of the awkward angle, flesh-coloring, and red tip.... it looks like a penis. I call it the "Christmas Cock."
 | |
| Is that lawn ornament happy to see me? |
Anyway.....
I woke up early Christmas Day, letting Val (my FO for the trip) sleep while I took my shower, got pretty, made coffee, and ate breakfast to the Christmas Carols of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I even plugged in the Christmas tree........ briefly checking underneath to see if Santa had made a stop. What can I say, I will always believe. By the time Val woke up, I had switched the tv to "A Christmas Story." I felt the sting of tears, a pang of sadness, and longing for my family as Ralphie was opening his Red Ryder BB Gun, but I thought, "NO... I am not going to cry today. Today, I will be happy!"
Val and I had a lot of fun on our day trip. It was 4 legs. Cleveland - New York (LGA) - Manchester NH, New York, then back to Cleveland. It is routine for airports to broadcast their weather conditions and special notices on a frequency, then dedicate a special alphanumeric letter that you are supposed to tell Air Traffic Control when you check in, so that they know you have the most up-to-date information for that airport. Normally, these alphanumerics are Alpha, Bravo, Delta.... blah blah blah. Well, we decided to use Christmasy alphanumerics like "Grinch, Jingle, Noel, Santa, etc", in an effort to add a little fun and to make ATC laugh. It was kind of hit and miss with ATC, but it made us laugh!! During the welcome aboard announcement, I would introduce the flight attendant as "Mrs. Claus," or "Santa's little helper, sent to us straight from the North Pole." I was feeling especially bold by the go-home leg, and heard myself say, "She sees you when you're sleeping, she knows when you're awake. She has important safety information for you, so pay attention for goodness sake!"
In each case, I concluded with, "Merry Christmas to all.... and to all a good FLIGHT!"
I even got applause on one occasion! I dare say..... we really had a lot of fun. Working with an awesome crew takes a great deal of sting out of being away on the holidays.
 | |
| We borrowed this ornament from our Christmas Tree |
Remember how I said in my previous entry, "All I want for Christmas is to be home"? Well, Val and I each experienced our own Christmas miracles. We each had to 2-leg it. Me through Washington DC Dulles, and her through Chicago O'Hare. Both of our flights were delayed, which was great news for us because it would have been next to impossible to make our commutes home. Both of our commutes were full, but due to some miracle, we each got seats in the back. Even though both of my flights were delayed (actually, my connecting flight in Dulles returned to the gate because of an anti-ice system problem, and I thought my world was ending), I dragged myself in the door to my house at 4:00am. I figured it was still Christmas in Hawaii (where I was born).
Long story short, I got what I wanted for Christmas!!!!! We both made it home.
Now it's New Year's Eve. Once again, I am in the Crash Pad. I have a day trip tomorrow. Although I wish I was at home (another first for me to be away on this holiday), I am not nearly as blue as I was a week ago. The snow is really coming down outside! I have my New Year's Hoppin' John (a kind of Cajun black-eyed peas and ham) on the stove, and a proscuitto-wrapped pork loin roasting in the oven - the one I was going to make for Christmas. The crash pad smells like Heaven. I have my wine next to me as I write this blog. Later, I plan on tuning in to New Year's Rockin' Eve, and although Dick Clark isn't with us anymore, I can't imagine New Year's without watching the ball drop. Roommates Meaghan and a really nice ExpressJet Captain whose name totally, inexcusably escapes me now (thank you California, for your wine) are my company tonight. I will force them to eat black-eyed peas and ham for the sake of their 2013, because the damn yankees have never heard of that tradition and I care about their futures! It's not the wild New Year's Eves from my youth, but it'll do.
So, here's to the end of 2012, and to whatever 2013 brings! Happy New Year's to all, and to all a speedy hangover recovery!!
Cheers.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Blue Christmas
It's December the 22nd. Most of us are still here today. While the Mayan calendar may have been wrong, the Gregorian calendar (the one we all currently use today) hit the nail on the head. Winter Storm Draco came and dumped a ton of snow across the Midwest and is still partying in the East as I write this. It's a dramatic "Welcome to Winter, Bitches!!" from mother nature. I am happy to not be flying today.
As one who suffers from seasonal sadness (I don't think the FAA will let me call it depression), I expected the blues to hit me sometime this winter. Usually, it waits until mid-January. However, since I was not able to make my pre-Christmas commute home, I found myself with 2 bonus days in the crash pad here in Cleveland. As the precip changed from rain to snow, the wind kicked up, the temperature dropped, and so did my spirits. There is no lonelier feeling than saying good-bye to your crew at the end of a trip, and heading for a place that is not your home.
Not that the crash pad is a bad place to be. I love my roommates! We laugh a lot. Yesterday, I busied myself by walking 3 miles in the snow, to the grocery store and back, for supplies. I started drinking wine and rum about 2 in the afternoon and watched the cooking channel with 2 of my roomies. I made baked ziti for those who wanted it, and watched the snow fly by the window. It was almost fun.
Today, I have the place to myself. I'm trying to busy myself by doing chores. I even shoveled the driveway. Partly because it was a nice thing to do for those few who have cars here, partly so I wouldn't pop another cork at 10:00am. I may go for a walk later. Or, I may just pop that cork.
I wrote to my dad yesterday, while in my drunk funk. I mentioned that I was disappointed in myself for being such a Grinch this year. I don't know what happened. I love Christmas. But, this year, I just can't wait for it to be over. I've been so busy with work and physical therapy for my injured shoulder, I haven't had time to shop for anyone. I am sick of the Christmas music that I love so much. I really don't want anything for Christmas but to be home. Poor Sweet Cheeks is sick and has no one to make him chicken soup and pump him full of drugs and hot toddies. And our darling sweet Clara Cat needs Mommy to pick up the ornaments she pulls down from our Christmas tree.
I told my father that I didn't think I would be so blue, that I am mad and disappointed in the way I am handling my Crash Pad Christmas. I am such a happy person! But I am still angry and sad that I have to be away. I know that spending the holidays away from home is part of my job. I know that I am lucky to be blessed with so much in this life, and I feel guilty about complaining and being sad. I know there are people out there who don't even have loved ones to miss on Christmas. I know that Christmas is a spirit, not a day, and that even if I can't get together with everyone until March, it will still be a celebration. I am thankful that I won't be alone on Christmas; my work family is still my family, and I'm lucky to fly with my roommate friend Val on Christmas Day. Neither of us can make our commutes home that night, so we'll be coming back to the pad for Christmas dinner (if I can pull it off, a prosciutto-wrapped roasted pork loin) and wine. There are no lectures anyone can give me that I haven't already given myself..... I just can't guilt myself out of my sadness.
When I woke up this morning, my father replied to my message:
"There have been times that I wished we were like bears and could hibernate through the holiday season. It can be frantic and maddening. It can be lonely and disappointing because what happens doesn't live up to what this season should be.... There are times, I believe, when we need to wallow in our grief and disappointments. We try to remind ourselves of how good we really have it, and that we should be grateful. We are, but we have to allow the sad to settle in for a little while.
And, you are right: you are a happy person! And, you make others around you smile, laugh and happy. I know: that's the effect you have on me. That's part of your charm and that soul that can feel shattered, but somehow mends itself."
When I read that, I put down my coffee, placed my head in my hands, and cried. It felt good.
I am so lucky to have such wise parents, who know the words I need to hear.
Tomorrow, I will return to work. I have a 2-day trip, followed by a day trip on Christmas. I will look for the Christmas spirit in the smiles on the faces of the people I'll bring together these next few days. I will find warmth in their reunions. I will tell children that I saw Santa streaking across the sky on Christmas Eve and hope their faces light up with wonder. I will be strong, charming, cheerful, and funny for those whose hearts are also aching for their families.
And when I finally get to my loved ones, I will hug them like there's no tomorrow! Just in case the Mayans were right after all. HA!
As one who suffers from seasonal sadness (I don't think the FAA will let me call it depression), I expected the blues to hit me sometime this winter. Usually, it waits until mid-January. However, since I was not able to make my pre-Christmas commute home, I found myself with 2 bonus days in the crash pad here in Cleveland. As the precip changed from rain to snow, the wind kicked up, the temperature dropped, and so did my spirits. There is no lonelier feeling than saying good-bye to your crew at the end of a trip, and heading for a place that is not your home.
Not that the crash pad is a bad place to be. I love my roommates! We laugh a lot. Yesterday, I busied myself by walking 3 miles in the snow, to the grocery store and back, for supplies. I started drinking wine and rum about 2 in the afternoon and watched the cooking channel with 2 of my roomies. I made baked ziti for those who wanted it, and watched the snow fly by the window. It was almost fun.
Today, I have the place to myself. I'm trying to busy myself by doing chores. I even shoveled the driveway. Partly because it was a nice thing to do for those few who have cars here, partly so I wouldn't pop another cork at 10:00am. I may go for a walk later. Or, I may just pop that cork.
I wrote to my dad yesterday, while in my drunk funk. I mentioned that I was disappointed in myself for being such a Grinch this year. I don't know what happened. I love Christmas. But, this year, I just can't wait for it to be over. I've been so busy with work and physical therapy for my injured shoulder, I haven't had time to shop for anyone. I am sick of the Christmas music that I love so much. I really don't want anything for Christmas but to be home. Poor Sweet Cheeks is sick and has no one to make him chicken soup and pump him full of drugs and hot toddies. And our darling sweet Clara Cat needs Mommy to pick up the ornaments she pulls down from our Christmas tree.
I told my father that I didn't think I would be so blue, that I am mad and disappointed in the way I am handling my Crash Pad Christmas. I am such a happy person! But I am still angry and sad that I have to be away. I know that spending the holidays away from home is part of my job. I know that I am lucky to be blessed with so much in this life, and I feel guilty about complaining and being sad. I know there are people out there who don't even have loved ones to miss on Christmas. I know that Christmas is a spirit, not a day, and that even if I can't get together with everyone until March, it will still be a celebration. I am thankful that I won't be alone on Christmas; my work family is still my family, and I'm lucky to fly with my roommate friend Val on Christmas Day. Neither of us can make our commutes home that night, so we'll be coming back to the pad for Christmas dinner (if I can pull it off, a prosciutto-wrapped roasted pork loin) and wine. There are no lectures anyone can give me that I haven't already given myself..... I just can't guilt myself out of my sadness.
When I woke up this morning, my father replied to my message:
"There have been times that I wished we were like bears and could hibernate through the holiday season. It can be frantic and maddening. It can be lonely and disappointing because what happens doesn't live up to what this season should be.... There are times, I believe, when we need to wallow in our grief and disappointments. We try to remind ourselves of how good we really have it, and that we should be grateful. We are, but we have to allow the sad to settle in for a little while.
And, you are right: you are a happy person! And, you make others around you smile, laugh and happy. I know: that's the effect you have on me. That's part of your charm and that soul that can feel shattered, but somehow mends itself."
When I read that, I put down my coffee, placed my head in my hands, and cried. It felt good.
I am so lucky to have such wise parents, who know the words I need to hear.
Tomorrow, I will return to work. I have a 2-day trip, followed by a day trip on Christmas. I will look for the Christmas spirit in the smiles on the faces of the people I'll bring together these next few days. I will find warmth in their reunions. I will tell children that I saw Santa streaking across the sky on Christmas Eve and hope their faces light up with wonder. I will be strong, charming, cheerful, and funny for those whose hearts are also aching for their families.
And when I finally get to my loved ones, I will hug them like there's no tomorrow! Just in case the Mayans were right after all. HA!
 | |
| "Livin' the Dream," indeed. |
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Back in the saddle again
Has it really been over 2 months since my last blog entry? Time flies when you're .... um... flying.
When I broke my foot, I had just gotten comfortable being captain. By the time I was ready to come back, I had been gone longer than I had been in the left seat. Needless to say, as one who is admittedly afraid of everything, I was full of anxiety about my return. What if I don't remember to sign something? What if I don't catch an error from dispatch? What if we're on fire, lose pressurization, or some other unthinkable emergency, and I draw a total blank on the memory items? What if I suck at being captain?? What if the months of sitting on the couch all day, playing x-box, eating pizza, and killing a bottle of wine a night made me blow up like the Goodyear Blimp, and my boobs, butt, and belly overcome the futile resistance of the cheap fabric that composes our M&H uniforms and I have no choice but to show up naked and jiggly to an airport full of terrified passengers?!?!?
Plus, the longer I stayed home, the more I got used to being around Don and the cat (in my mind, my husband and child, lol), the more I dreaded the thought of being gone. And though I hate to admit it to my work friends who read this, and especially my parents...... despite the obscene amount of money I and the ones I love sank into my career, as hard as I've worked to get here, as proud of me as everyone who ever believed in me is of how far I've come...... I almost didn't come back. The thought of quitting my job and going into nursing school was really tempting. I could even get in for the Fall semester! I just. Didn't. Want. to be away from home any more.
But the thought of putting a needle or a catheter in someone is nauseating...... so, off to work I went.
Luckily, the first flight they had me do was a repo flight from Raleigh to Cleveland. No passengers, and they paired me with the most awesome, patient, super-sweet FO I could have hoped for. It was a great way to ease myself back into the swing of things. She was on reserve, like me, and hooked me up with a great crash pad in Cleveland. After that flight, I felt a lot more confident that I was not a walking tragedy, and that yes.... I do belong in the air. Don't let our CEO know this, but I didn't realize how much I missed work until that flight. Dammit, flying is FUN!
I spent the rest of September and all of October on reserve. For those of you not in the airline industry, when you're on reserve, crew scheduling owns you for at least 12 hours a day. It begins from 0300 - 1500, and then is usually adjusted to suit their needs - most often so that your last day of being on reserve puts you dangerously close to missing the last flight home, or insures that you miss it altogether. Luckily, they used me almost every day, and more often than not, I knew what my schedule would hold at least a day ahead of time. Having a crash pad (a house shared by me and about 11 other airline folk, with a bed of my very own for a flat rate a month) is essential!! Val... I can't thank you enough!!!
As for the feet? Well..... the broken one doesn't hurt. Every now and then, it's a little achy, but most days I don't notice it at all (thanks, ice cream!!). The Neuroma foot still hurts quite a bit. The surgery site is still discolored and feels bruisy. The incision itches like mad sometimes. But the most pain comes from walking in shoes. The good news is, I no longer have electric shooting pain up the 3rd and 4th toes that make me shriek a blood-curdling scream when I set the parking break and scare the hell out of the FO, FA, and first 3 rows of passengers (which was common before my surgery). The bad news is, it feels like I'm stepping on a big rock with each step. Well, not even each step. Sometimes, inexplicably, it doesn't hurt when I walk. My podiatrist says this is due to scar tissue and it will go away eventually. He hasn't steered me wrong yet, so I have faith in him. When people ask how the foot is, I answer honestly - "good steps and bad steps."
In the meantime.... it doesn't hurt when I drink! I'm trying not to fall into the trap of drinking every night to kill the pain, like I did before. I long to return to my healthy lifestyle I had when I was running 4 - 5 days a week. But it just takes time. I truly believe I will get there again, I just don't know when. People tell me that it takes a great deal of time to overcome the trauma of what my foot went through - and looking at the picture of the hunk of meat my doc took out, I'll admit my foot was probably pretty traumatized.
So, luckily there is plenty of money in my uniform account to order bigger uniforms!! The Holiday Season is upon us, and there is plenty of Holiday Cheer to be had.
First round's on me!!
When I broke my foot, I had just gotten comfortable being captain. By the time I was ready to come back, I had been gone longer than I had been in the left seat. Needless to say, as one who is admittedly afraid of everything, I was full of anxiety about my return. What if I don't remember to sign something? What if I don't catch an error from dispatch? What if we're on fire, lose pressurization, or some other unthinkable emergency, and I draw a total blank on the memory items? What if I suck at being captain?? What if the months of sitting on the couch all day, playing x-box, eating pizza, and killing a bottle of wine a night made me blow up like the Goodyear Blimp, and my boobs, butt, and belly overcome the futile resistance of the cheap fabric that composes our M&H uniforms and I have no choice but to show up naked and jiggly to an airport full of terrified passengers?!?!?
Plus, the longer I stayed home, the more I got used to being around Don and the cat (in my mind, my husband and child, lol), the more I dreaded the thought of being gone. And though I hate to admit it to my work friends who read this, and especially my parents...... despite the obscene amount of money I and the ones I love sank into my career, as hard as I've worked to get here, as proud of me as everyone who ever believed in me is of how far I've come...... I almost didn't come back. The thought of quitting my job and going into nursing school was really tempting. I could even get in for the Fall semester! I just. Didn't. Want. to be away from home any more.
But the thought of putting a needle or a catheter in someone is nauseating...... so, off to work I went.
Luckily, the first flight they had me do was a repo flight from Raleigh to Cleveland. No passengers, and they paired me with the most awesome, patient, super-sweet FO I could have hoped for. It was a great way to ease myself back into the swing of things. She was on reserve, like me, and hooked me up with a great crash pad in Cleveland. After that flight, I felt a lot more confident that I was not a walking tragedy, and that yes.... I do belong in the air. Don't let our CEO know this, but I didn't realize how much I missed work until that flight. Dammit, flying is FUN!
I spent the rest of September and all of October on reserve. For those of you not in the airline industry, when you're on reserve, crew scheduling owns you for at least 12 hours a day. It begins from 0300 - 1500, and then is usually adjusted to suit their needs - most often so that your last day of being on reserve puts you dangerously close to missing the last flight home, or insures that you miss it altogether. Luckily, they used me almost every day, and more often than not, I knew what my schedule would hold at least a day ahead of time. Having a crash pad (a house shared by me and about 11 other airline folk, with a bed of my very own for a flat rate a month) is essential!! Val... I can't thank you enough!!!
As for the feet? Well..... the broken one doesn't hurt. Every now and then, it's a little achy, but most days I don't notice it at all (thanks, ice cream!!). The Neuroma foot still hurts quite a bit. The surgery site is still discolored and feels bruisy. The incision itches like mad sometimes. But the most pain comes from walking in shoes. The good news is, I no longer have electric shooting pain up the 3rd and 4th toes that make me shriek a blood-curdling scream when I set the parking break and scare the hell out of the FO, FA, and first 3 rows of passengers (which was common before my surgery). The bad news is, it feels like I'm stepping on a big rock with each step. Well, not even each step. Sometimes, inexplicably, it doesn't hurt when I walk. My podiatrist says this is due to scar tissue and it will go away eventually. He hasn't steered me wrong yet, so I have faith in him. When people ask how the foot is, I answer honestly - "good steps and bad steps."
In the meantime.... it doesn't hurt when I drink! I'm trying not to fall into the trap of drinking every night to kill the pain, like I did before. I long to return to my healthy lifestyle I had when I was running 4 - 5 days a week. But it just takes time. I truly believe I will get there again, I just don't know when. People tell me that it takes a great deal of time to overcome the trauma of what my foot went through - and looking at the picture of the hunk of meat my doc took out, I'll admit my foot was probably pretty traumatized.
So, luckily there is plenty of money in my uniform account to order bigger uniforms!! The Holiday Season is upon us, and there is plenty of Holiday Cheer to be had.
First round's on me!!
Monday, August 13, 2012
A Cut Above
It's been approximately one week since I had surgery to remove my Morton's neuroma. In the event that any of my handful of readers (or anyone who happens to stumble upon this writing) is blessed with Morton's (or any other neuroma, for that matter), I hope they consider my experience in their quest to find the way of dealing with it that suits them. There are many options. After several months of the conservative approach, I chose to cut the sucker out. Know what? I'm glad I did, and I wish I'd done it sooner. The following is my experience.
2 days prior to the surgery:
I go to the outpatient surgery center, which is the first floor in a building full of doctors and physical therapists. Check in, sign some forms. Head upstairs to my podiatrist's office (we'll call him Dr. K) to sign a consent form and receive a prescription. I read the consent form that lists all the horrible things that could happen to me, which I already know because of all the internet research I've done and wish I hadn't. Dr. K sees me in the lobby from behind the glass doors, and because he is so awesome, I am pleasantly surprised that he comes out to talk to me. I express my doubts that this is the right decision. "I would just feel a lot better if we could see the thing, before we cut my foot open and go spelunking," I say. Unfortunately, you can't see a neuroma with an x-ray or an MRI. However, Dr. K looks at me exactly the same way I look at passengers who tell me they are terrified of flying - that mixture of empathy and reassurance - and tells me it'll be obvious once he gets in there. He says, "don't worry about anything." Despite my confidence in this man's obvious competence and years of experience, the fact that it has been diagnosed by 3 different doctors, and the knowledge that I've tried everything else I could possibly try to no avail, I remain dubious.
The next day, it dawns on me that I am scared for the same reasons some people are afraid to fly: knowing that something could go terribly, horribly wrong, combined with not knowing enough about what is about to happen, and most importantly - not having control of my fate. I relax. A little.
The day of the surgery:
I report to the surgery center and am escorted into a little room where I exchange my civilian clothes in exchange for a sexy robe that opens in the back, a single bootie for the special foot (I'm still wearing the boot on my broken right foot), and a hair thingy. I look like one of the lunch ladies from my high school days. We make sure I'm not pregnant (skimped by another month, yay!), the nurse starts an IV in my hand, and Sweet Cheeks is allowed to come in and see me before the surgery. Dr. K comes by and asks which foot (at this point, the boot on the right foot is off, but I am still wearing my sock. It's a festive sock, with wine glasses and grapes all over it. I thought about writing "no cutting" on that foot, but decided the sock would suffice). He signs his initials on my left foot and says, "This is me. And this..." he makes a vertical slash on the top of my foot in between the 3rd and 4th toes, "is where it is." He again reassures me and disappears.
It's showtime!!
The anesthesiologist comes to get me on my little bed, and suddenly my hand and arm burn as we make our way down the hallway. "Owwwwww," I say. She apologizes and turns to Dr. K who has magically appeared and says, "tell him what you told me." I feel myself slipping away and I feel it's only a matter of time before I'm gone. In a voice I recognize as the one I use after about 4 glasses of wine at the bar, I say, "HEY!! If I wake up and discover that not only have you taken out the neuroma, but you've given me liposuction and a boob job too... I promise not to be mad!"
He laughs and says, "Well.... that might be the end of my career."
And I retort, "but it just might be the beginning of mine!! HAHAHA!!"
Thanks to the propofol they gave me for anesthesia, I don't remember anything after that. Evidently, Dr. K came by my recovery room after it was all said and done and we had a normal conversation, during which, he showed me a picture of the monster he took out of me and assured me there should be no more neuromas (It was 3 cm x 1.5 cm x 1.5 cm). I do remember looking at the bandage on my foot and seeing a wine glass - it totally made my day! I went home, Donnie made lunch, and we both took a 4 hour nap.
It didn't hurt very much the next few days, and they gave me a little walking bootie so at least I wasn't on crutches. I was mildly peeved that it didn't match the giant boot that I wear on the right foot (Don has nicknamed me "Bigfoot).
By day 3, I really missed the taste of wine and felt brave enough to ditch the pain pills so I could drink. I wasn't sure if I should be proud of my dedication to alcohol or ashamed of it. BIG MISTAKE!!! After the small buzz wore off, I tried to use my heel to assist with getting myself out of the bathtub and felt an explosion of pain. I panicked. I thought, Oh Jesus, WTF have I done? I'm going to be one of those horror stories! I'll never walk, much less run or FLY ever again! PLEASE HELP ME!! I know you're not supposed to use the F word when talking to our Lord, but I was scared. The rest of the week, I remained in a pain-pill-induced fog, on the couch with my feet up, and read books on my e-reader until Don was ready to fire up the x-box.
9 days after the surgery, I was scheduled to go back to Dr. K's office and have the bandage removed. I hadn't slept the night before. I was worried he was going to take the stitches out and I didn't want to scream. So I took another pain pill. Plus, Mother Nature was really super pissed at me for going yet another month without fulfilling my obligation to my species by procreating. Needless to say, I felt like hell and probably looked even worse. However, the staff at Dr. K's office is always so friendly. They even gave me a souvenir coffee mug! They removed my bandage. Dr K came in, had me move my feet in ways that to my surprise didn't hurt at all, we shot the shit, and he said, "We'll see you next week to remove those stitches!"
So... to sum it up so far..... It has been 12 days since the surgery. I am completely off the pain meds (unless you count recreational purposes.. hahah, just kidding, kinda). I am walking around the house barefoot without much pain. There is some numbness between the 3rd and 4th toes. I will get stitches out in 2 days, and I am no longer terrified. There are a few weird sensations in there that I want to ask him about when I see him, but otherwise - WHY the hell did I wait so long???
Disclaimer - this is only one person's experience. If you are considering having this done, it is EXTREMELY important that you find a good doctor. Originally, Dr. K was a second opinion. I trusted my original doctor, but was blown away by Dr. K's professionalism, cool personality, competence, confidence without cockiness, experience, and dammit - I just got a general good vibe from the guy. If you happen to be in the mid-Missouri area and need a good foot doc, I can refer you to him. Email me at deliawilles@hotmail.com and I will send you his info. If you're still with me after reading this lengthy account, thanks for sticking around. I'll post an update in a few weeks.
2 days prior to the surgery:
I go to the outpatient surgery center, which is the first floor in a building full of doctors and physical therapists. Check in, sign some forms. Head upstairs to my podiatrist's office (we'll call him Dr. K) to sign a consent form and receive a prescription. I read the consent form that lists all the horrible things that could happen to me, which I already know because of all the internet research I've done and wish I hadn't. Dr. K sees me in the lobby from behind the glass doors, and because he is so awesome, I am pleasantly surprised that he comes out to talk to me. I express my doubts that this is the right decision. "I would just feel a lot better if we could see the thing, before we cut my foot open and go spelunking," I say. Unfortunately, you can't see a neuroma with an x-ray or an MRI. However, Dr. K looks at me exactly the same way I look at passengers who tell me they are terrified of flying - that mixture of empathy and reassurance - and tells me it'll be obvious once he gets in there. He says, "don't worry about anything." Despite my confidence in this man's obvious competence and years of experience, the fact that it has been diagnosed by 3 different doctors, and the knowledge that I've tried everything else I could possibly try to no avail, I remain dubious.
The next day, it dawns on me that I am scared for the same reasons some people are afraid to fly: knowing that something could go terribly, horribly wrong, combined with not knowing enough about what is about to happen, and most importantly - not having control of my fate. I relax. A little.
The day of the surgery:
I report to the surgery center and am escorted into a little room where I exchange my civilian clothes in exchange for a sexy robe that opens in the back, a single bootie for the special foot (I'm still wearing the boot on my broken right foot), and a hair thingy. I look like one of the lunch ladies from my high school days. We make sure I'm not pregnant (skimped by another month, yay!), the nurse starts an IV in my hand, and Sweet Cheeks is allowed to come in and see me before the surgery. Dr. K comes by and asks which foot (at this point, the boot on the right foot is off, but I am still wearing my sock. It's a festive sock, with wine glasses and grapes all over it. I thought about writing "no cutting" on that foot, but decided the sock would suffice). He signs his initials on my left foot and says, "This is me. And this..." he makes a vertical slash on the top of my foot in between the 3rd and 4th toes, "is where it is." He again reassures me and disappears.
It's showtime!!
The anesthesiologist comes to get me on my little bed, and suddenly my hand and arm burn as we make our way down the hallway. "Owwwwww," I say. She apologizes and turns to Dr. K who has magically appeared and says, "tell him what you told me." I feel myself slipping away and I feel it's only a matter of time before I'm gone. In a voice I recognize as the one I use after about 4 glasses of wine at the bar, I say, "HEY!! If I wake up and discover that not only have you taken out the neuroma, but you've given me liposuction and a boob job too... I promise not to be mad!"
He laughs and says, "Well.... that might be the end of my career."
And I retort, "but it just might be the beginning of mine!! HAHAHA!!"
Thanks to the propofol they gave me for anesthesia, I don't remember anything after that. Evidently, Dr. K came by my recovery room after it was all said and done and we had a normal conversation, during which, he showed me a picture of the monster he took out of me and assured me there should be no more neuromas (It was 3 cm x 1.5 cm x 1.5 cm). I do remember looking at the bandage on my foot and seeing a wine glass - it totally made my day! I went home, Donnie made lunch, and we both took a 4 hour nap.
It didn't hurt very much the next few days, and they gave me a little walking bootie so at least I wasn't on crutches. I was mildly peeved that it didn't match the giant boot that I wear on the right foot (Don has nicknamed me "Bigfoot).
By day 3, I really missed the taste of wine and felt brave enough to ditch the pain pills so I could drink. I wasn't sure if I should be proud of my dedication to alcohol or ashamed of it. BIG MISTAKE!!! After the small buzz wore off, I tried to use my heel to assist with getting myself out of the bathtub and felt an explosion of pain. I panicked. I thought, Oh Jesus, WTF have I done? I'm going to be one of those horror stories! I'll never walk, much less run or FLY ever again! PLEASE HELP ME!! I know you're not supposed to use the F word when talking to our Lord, but I was scared. The rest of the week, I remained in a pain-pill-induced fog, on the couch with my feet up, and read books on my e-reader until Don was ready to fire up the x-box.
9 days after the surgery, I was scheduled to go back to Dr. K's office and have the bandage removed. I hadn't slept the night before. I was worried he was going to take the stitches out and I didn't want to scream. So I took another pain pill. Plus, Mother Nature was really super pissed at me for going yet another month without fulfilling my obligation to my species by procreating. Needless to say, I felt like hell and probably looked even worse. However, the staff at Dr. K's office is always so friendly. They even gave me a souvenir coffee mug! They removed my bandage. Dr K came in, had me move my feet in ways that to my surprise didn't hurt at all, we shot the shit, and he said, "We'll see you next week to remove those stitches!"
So... to sum it up so far..... It has been 12 days since the surgery. I am completely off the pain meds (unless you count recreational purposes.. hahah, just kidding, kinda). I am walking around the house barefoot without much pain. There is some numbness between the 3rd and 4th toes. I will get stitches out in 2 days, and I am no longer terrified. There are a few weird sensations in there that I want to ask him about when I see him, but otherwise - WHY the hell did I wait so long???
Disclaimer - this is only one person's experience. If you are considering having this done, it is EXTREMELY important that you find a good doctor. Originally, Dr. K was a second opinion. I trusted my original doctor, but was blown away by Dr. K's professionalism, cool personality, competence, confidence without cockiness, experience, and dammit - I just got a general good vibe from the guy. If you happen to be in the mid-Missouri area and need a good foot doc, I can refer you to him. Email me at deliawilles@hotmail.com and I will send you his info. If you're still with me after reading this lengthy account, thanks for sticking around. I'll post an update in a few weeks.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Going for broke.
This post is not going to be about flying.
That's because I haven't flown since before my last post. Actually, I haven't flown since July 15, because I am a klutz. If you put me in a straightjacket and a padded room, I will figure out a way to accidentally knock myself out.
A few weeks ago, while I was recovering from some kind of black plague I inherited from one of my first officers, I was walking down my hallway to the bathroom to get another tissue and maybe some OTC drugs that NEVER seem to work. Does that shit work for anybody? Anyway, ever since I broke my right ankle, tibia, and fibia 10 years ago, that ankle has been weak. Any uneven ground at all, and it gives. I tumble, usually in uniform at the airport, and usually in front of a crowd of people. Anyway, the rug in the hallway had a small wrinkle in it, unnoticeable to a normal person, but lethal to my ankle. As I tried to regain my balance, I heard and felt a "POP!" somewhere in my foot. Oh GOD the pain....... I shouted the F word about 10 times, then shouted the S word until Donnie peeked his head around the corner. I said, "I'm ok. I'm ok."
But I wasn't ok. I waited a few hours just to be sure it wouldn't start feeling better on its own, then called my podiatrist's office. As luck would have it, they had room for me the next day. I still managed to carry the laundry up and down our stairs, because in my denial I thought I was still commuting to work the next day after my appointment. I drank a bottle of wine and toughed out the pain.
The x-ray clearly showed a break in the 5th metatarsal head of my right foot. I looked at my doctor, and had just enough time to think, "how long?" when he answered my unspoken question - "4 - 6 weeks. You probably can't drive with a giant boot on, can you?" I said, "Well.... when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I waited until my boyfriend was out of the house, jumped in my car, threw the leg into the passenger's seat, and drove away like a thief. But that was an automatic; I'm driving a standard now." He said, "no.... I meant, 'drive the plane.'"
Oh.
"Well, I could use a vacation," I said. He said, "you know.... since you're not going to be working anyway.... you might consider having surgery on your left foot to remove that Neuroma." I took some time to think.... and he's right.
In fact, I've been thinking a lot. At first, I was so pissed at myself for breaking my foot. And in such a stupid way, too! What a LAME way to become lame. I've been trying to come up with a badass story of how I broke it when people ask. I twisted it putting it up the ass of someone who really deserved it! I am on the Jefferson City curling team, and one of my teammates accidentally dropped one of those stones on my foot during practice. I was rescuing a crippled dog from a burning building, when the ceiling caved in. We both barely got out with our lives.
Nope.... I tripped in my own hallway. Weak. At least when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I was doing something awesome. You know what they say.... if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you! Although, I couldn't tell my parents that I was skydiving. They'd freak. My boyfriend at the time and I cooked up a story that I broke it falling off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights on the house. My folks never really bought it, and kept asking questions. Only after I had healed up well enough to run away, did I come out with the truth. I haven't seen them laugh so hard in a long time!
So, the surgery to remove my neuroma is tomorrow. What is a neuroma? It is a non-cancerous tumor that grows on a nerve. It's painful. It's the thing that's kept me from running after my race in March. I thought that giving it time off from running would help it. It's only gotten worse. Now, each step is an explosion of pain. Not all the time... it's always a surprise. But, since I broke the right foot, the left one is doing double-duty and it's complaining. I tried physical therapy, 3 cortisone injections, chiropractic care, different shoes, and a second opinion, but nothing worked. It's like it's laughing at me! I'll show it.... I'll remove the little bastard.
You know what the worst thing you can do is? NEVER google "Morton's neuroma surgery." I am haunted by bloody, terrifying images and horror stories of how people are worse off after the surgery than before it. So.... this is a gamble. But I don't know what else to do. The timing is perfect.... time to shit or get off the pot!
I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope breaking my foot was a blessing in disguise. I know if I hadn't been forced to take time off, then I never would have scheduled the surgery. I am comforted that I tried the conservative approach before resorting to this. I feel so lucky to have Don here to take care of me! He's been so sweet and helpful with my one-legged, gimpified state. And... to tell you the truth.... I am thankful for this extra time at home with him and our cat.
I told Don to take a picture of me with both feet wrapped up in their respective boots so I can refer to it on cold mornings when I'd rather sleep than go for my morning run. I am not looking forward to these next few weeks. I have already gained back 20 lbs since I stopped running. I so desperately miss being fit, and the endorphins that swam around my head after a 10 mile run. I am essentially at square one again. I hate the feel of the fat that has returned to my legs hips, face, and belly! Already, my right calf has atrophied into a floppy version of its old self. I am really regretting giving all of my fat clothes to Goodwill. The skinny girl inside me is screaming to go for a run!!
Will this be the rock bottom for me? Is it all uphill from here? Please God, let it be so.
That's because I haven't flown since before my last post. Actually, I haven't flown since July 15, because I am a klutz. If you put me in a straightjacket and a padded room, I will figure out a way to accidentally knock myself out.
A few weeks ago, while I was recovering from some kind of black plague I inherited from one of my first officers, I was walking down my hallway to the bathroom to get another tissue and maybe some OTC drugs that NEVER seem to work. Does that shit work for anybody? Anyway, ever since I broke my right ankle, tibia, and fibia 10 years ago, that ankle has been weak. Any uneven ground at all, and it gives. I tumble, usually in uniform at the airport, and usually in front of a crowd of people. Anyway, the rug in the hallway had a small wrinkle in it, unnoticeable to a normal person, but lethal to my ankle. As I tried to regain my balance, I heard and felt a "POP!" somewhere in my foot. Oh GOD the pain....... I shouted the F word about 10 times, then shouted the S word until Donnie peeked his head around the corner. I said, "I'm ok. I'm ok."
But I wasn't ok. I waited a few hours just to be sure it wouldn't start feeling better on its own, then called my podiatrist's office. As luck would have it, they had room for me the next day. I still managed to carry the laundry up and down our stairs, because in my denial I thought I was still commuting to work the next day after my appointment. I drank a bottle of wine and toughed out the pain.
The x-ray clearly showed a break in the 5th metatarsal head of my right foot. I looked at my doctor, and had just enough time to think, "how long?" when he answered my unspoken question - "4 - 6 weeks. You probably can't drive with a giant boot on, can you?" I said, "Well.... when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I waited until my boyfriend was out of the house, jumped in my car, threw the leg into the passenger's seat, and drove away like a thief. But that was an automatic; I'm driving a standard now." He said, "no.... I meant, 'drive the plane.'"
Oh.
"Well, I could use a vacation," I said. He said, "you know.... since you're not going to be working anyway.... you might consider having surgery on your left foot to remove that Neuroma." I took some time to think.... and he's right.
In fact, I've been thinking a lot. At first, I was so pissed at myself for breaking my foot. And in such a stupid way, too! What a LAME way to become lame. I've been trying to come up with a badass story of how I broke it when people ask. I twisted it putting it up the ass of someone who really deserved it! I am on the Jefferson City curling team, and one of my teammates accidentally dropped one of those stones on my foot during practice. I was rescuing a crippled dog from a burning building, when the ceiling caved in. We both barely got out with our lives.
Nope.... I tripped in my own hallway. Weak. At least when I broke my leg 10 years ago, I was doing something awesome. You know what they say.... if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you! Although, I couldn't tell my parents that I was skydiving. They'd freak. My boyfriend at the time and I cooked up a story that I broke it falling off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights on the house. My folks never really bought it, and kept asking questions. Only after I had healed up well enough to run away, did I come out with the truth. I haven't seen them laugh so hard in a long time!
So, the surgery to remove my neuroma is tomorrow. What is a neuroma? It is a non-cancerous tumor that grows on a nerve. It's painful. It's the thing that's kept me from running after my race in March. I thought that giving it time off from running would help it. It's only gotten worse. Now, each step is an explosion of pain. Not all the time... it's always a surprise. But, since I broke the right foot, the left one is doing double-duty and it's complaining. I tried physical therapy, 3 cortisone injections, chiropractic care, different shoes, and a second opinion, but nothing worked. It's like it's laughing at me! I'll show it.... I'll remove the little bastard.
You know what the worst thing you can do is? NEVER google "Morton's neuroma surgery." I am haunted by bloody, terrifying images and horror stories of how people are worse off after the surgery than before it. So.... this is a gamble. But I don't know what else to do. The timing is perfect.... time to shit or get off the pot!
I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope breaking my foot was a blessing in disguise. I know if I hadn't been forced to take time off, then I never would have scheduled the surgery. I am comforted that I tried the conservative approach before resorting to this. I feel so lucky to have Don here to take care of me! He's been so sweet and helpful with my one-legged, gimpified state. And... to tell you the truth.... I am thankful for this extra time at home with him and our cat.
I told Don to take a picture of me with both feet wrapped up in their respective boots so I can refer to it on cold mornings when I'd rather sleep than go for my morning run. I am not looking forward to these next few weeks. I have already gained back 20 lbs since I stopped running. I so desperately miss being fit, and the endorphins that swam around my head after a 10 mile run. I am essentially at square one again. I hate the feel of the fat that has returned to my legs hips, face, and belly! Already, my right calf has atrophied into a floppy version of its old self. I am really regretting giving all of my fat clothes to Goodwill. The skinny girl inside me is screaming to go for a run!!
Will this be the rock bottom for me? Is it all uphill from here? Please God, let it be so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)