Waterfalls – Guest Blogger Shares Power of Music

Cinderella Man

Back in the hospital, this time I am being visited by a doctor.  He’s a good-looking doctor. Too good-looking. Tv-doctor good looking, soap-opera-fake-doctor good looking.

I listen as he shares news about my arms. In response I say, “14 seems like a lot of fractures…” To which he counters, “that’s because 14 is a lot of fractures.”

He explains at great length the efforts that went into saving my arm. Plates, screws, cut away muscle and tendon, fusing bones…

But I see through him, I know what he has done. He has planted a tracking chip inside my cast. I know this, and he doesn’t know I know.

This isn’t a dream, or an unconscious nightmare.

I have been out of the coma for days…

The good-looking but conspiracy-cooperating doctor put a tracking chip in my arm, and he put a tube into my chest to prevent me from getting up. It was so obvious, all that effort to save my arm then they put it in a crappy plaster cast. Riiiiight… I asked several strangers (who turned out to be family and friends…) to help me escape. In great detail I explained how I was being held against my will. They nodded, smiled, then flatly refused to help me. I was on my own.

(Just so we are clear what was really going on, they worked for hours on my right arm – they cut away tendon and muscle, they implanted two plates to secure seven fractures, and fused a pile of mush in my wrist. The tube in my chest was a central line, a tube inserted into a vein above the heart, used for dialysis (more on dialysis to come…), medication, etc.)

As the day came to an end in CrCU (ICU for trauma patients), visitors made their way home, food service and housekeeping personnel wrapped up their tasks, lights dimmed, and we all settled in for the evening. Except me – I had a plan.

Evening medication taken, last nurse visited, lights out. Time to put the plan in motion. First, the tracker. Escaping with that tracker still inside my cast would be senseless, so I struck the cast against a hard part of the bed until it turned to mush. I couldn’t use my left hand, so I did what anyone in those circumstances would do – I bit the cast off my arm. It took a long time, but I did it. Then, I yanked out my central line. I lay there, gathering strength for the next phase, basking in the pride of what I had accomplished.

Then I fell asleep, remaining so with beard full of plaster and a gown soaked in blood, until the next visit from a nurse.

“What in the proper hell is going on here?”

Most of the next morning was spent answering questions in the Department of Psychiatry. They must have determined I was a threat to only myself, as I was back in critical care in time for the daily visit from that beautiful, talkative stranger (Lesley).

Now, dialysis. Turns out sepsis kicks the crap out of kidneys. My creatinine was at ‘kidney failure’ level – literally off the chart. Also, I couldn’t empty my bladder – which wasn’t helping. I had been cathetered since I arrived, and this too was a concern. The catheter was removed every day so I could try to regain function. Every day I failed to do so, and the catheter was reinserted – which is just as fun as it sounds.

Every day for 4 hours, hooked up to a machine, sitting dead still as warm, dirty blood left my body, returning clean and cold. I had had so many transfusions at that point, I was fairly certain none of the blood was actually mine. Despite weeks and months of treatment, 4 hours at a time, my condition did not improve. I was starting to come to grips with the reality of dialysis for the rest of my life.

Then… some hope.

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls

One day my creatinine levels dipped ever so slightly. This was our chance and the nephrologists leapt into action. They encouraged me to empty my bladder naturally, to coax my kidneys back to regular function. But I couldn’t. I lay in my hospital room – surrounded by doctors, nurses, PSW’s, custodians, even the guy that restocks the vending machine, and they were all chanting:

U R I N A T E !

U R I N A T E !

U R I N A T E !

At least that’s what it felt like. I did what any cornered animal would do, I pushed back, insisting that I could only go if I stood up. Discussion soon turned to debate, then argument. One nurse lost her patience with me, making it personal and verbally attacking me in Spanish. Ahora, mi español no es fantástico, pero – but I think we all know the meaning of the word “gordo.”

Sometime later she came to my room to insincerely apologize. I insincerely accepted.  Truth be told I probably got what I deserved.

So, every flavour of medical professional was gathered around my bed like a flash-mob, urging me to fill the bedpan. Then along came… well let’s call him PacMan = a young PSW (personal support worker), all of 100lbs soaking wet and an absolute bundle of joyful energy. PacMan pushed through the chanting crowd, grabbed my hand, and started singing Waterfalls at the top of his lungs.

Yes, Waterfalls by TLC.  Waterfalls!

PacMan’s Filipino-accented, 90’s hip-hop karaoke was just so absurd, so odd, so funny. I started laughing. Laughing, laughing… and peeing. That was the TSN Turning Point – eventually my blood normalized, and I’ve never had issues with my kidneys since, for which I am indebted to PacMan and Waterfalls.

One issue remains, though. Every time I hear Waterfalls in public, I look down to my lap in a panic, hoping I’ve not had a Pavlovian response. So far so good.

That’s enough for now…

 

Submitted by Andrew Lawlor

 

Andrew Lawlor is a motorcycle crash survivor. Since July, 2018 he has drawn on the love and support of his family and his community, working to repair body, mind and soul. Andrew knows everyone’s journey is unique, and hopes that fellow survivors might find a new perspective, or encouragement in the stories he tells. The Crash Support Network is thrilled to announce a collaboration with Andrew as he shares his journey through ongoing contributions to our Crash Survivor Blog.