My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Macrine's Tribulations Post Hip Surgery Last Week

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Macrine's Tribulations Post Hip Surgery Last Week

Macrine's fell last Feb 28 when she got out of her walker. She did not scream ( last year she did). We were able to help her stand up and she walk with a slight limp. David and I examined her head, legs and arms and there were no bruises. She said she was ok except for a muscle pain on her thigh. We called Dr Kramer's office ( he was out of town) for a muscle relaxant. WE gave her aspirin and she was able to sleep. The next day her pain on the right thigh continues and Dr Kramer's office suggested we go to Urgent Care for an X'ray. After waiting at Urgent care for 2 hours Macrine got her X'ray. The result was not conclusive. Urgent Care suggested we sent her to the Emergency for Confirmation. We got a medical transport to the San Juan Mercy Hospital( Carmichael) nearby It took only 30 minutes for confirmation, that she had a fracture on her right hip and needed surgery immediately. Numerous tests, blood, and pre-operation procedures were done for her surgery in the morning. From the emergency room, Macrine was transferred to a Regular Hospital Room at the 6th Floor ( the Tower) of the newly built addition Hospital wing. The next morning she went to surgery as scheduled( March 1). Everything went smoothly. Dr Fujii, the orthopedic surgeon performed a closed reduction and percutaneous screw fixation on Macrine's right hip. After surgery Macrine was wheeled back to her Room on the Tower.

The room was spacious, clean and an extra couch bed where I slept overnight and for the next four nights after the operation. The nurses, assistants and medical services ( food and other amenities) were excellent except for one incident as Follows:

Since Macrine is diabetic her blood sugar was monitored closely. Her regular medication at home is 500mg of Metformin( Oral). However, the hospital do not used metformin as it can interfere with other tests according to the nurses. Instead they use long acting Insulin Injection. Day 2 Macrine was ready to set down and perky and got out of her bed. Her blood sugar ranges from 100 to 180. The Hospital doctor predicted she should be out in 2 more days if there are no infections ( no fever) and if her blood test ( every morning the Vampire attacks Macrine early at 5AM) are normal. In the night of Day 3, Macrine blood sugar was 100. I told the nurse not to give her the insulin. She did not listened to me so in the morning Macrine blood sugar went down to 65. Macrine was lethargic and slept all day. They give her Glucose in her IV. Her blood sugar went up to 270 and finally stabilized the next day at 140. She developed a fever, so they gave her Vancomycin and another antibiotic via IV. Macrine finally woke up from her lethargy ( 36 Hours). An EEG, MRI and CTS were done. All were normal and Macrine was discharged on March 5. We were immediately transferred to a Rehabilitation facility that same day.

We wanted to use Manor Care as the Rehab since last year we were able to get a private room for only $100 daily as my personal expense ( not covered by Insurance) and its five minutes from home. We were told they are not accepting patients because of FLU epidemic in the facility.

Today, David informed me there is article in the Wall Street Journal that Manor Care has filed for bankruptcy.

The Discharge Planner of Mercy was busy looking for alternatives. Our wish was a Private Room and within 30 minutes drive from our residence. She gave us a list of six facilities. One facility has a private room but will charge $265 additional fee and located in North Sacramento. The rest of the facilities had no private rooms opening. The Nearest Facility that is rated above average and near us was Whitney Oaks in Carmichael- only a 20 to 30 minute drive depending on traffic. I decided we give it a try.

We made a good decision to send Macrine at Whitney Oaks. The past 2 days, services had been excellent. It has a rating of 4.5 out of five. A few of their employees are Filipino-Americans. Their PT, Activity and Nursing Staff are headed by Fil-Americans who welcome us with service in their Hearts. So far so good. Another positive note, Macrine's room mate adore her and very protective of her if I am not around. There is no slept over as it is not a private room. Today, Macrine and I went to Catholic Mass on their Activity Room offered every Wednesday from 10:00 to 10:30AM. They have also Bingo once a week.

I have no idea how long Macrine will be on rehab, but I know Whitney Oaks was an excellent choice.

For more Information On Whitney Oaks Care read: http://whitneyoakscarecenter.com/

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Macrine's Tribulations Post Hip Surgery Last Week

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