The Walker Derby

When my son, Ken reached his 17th birthday, we were sitting in the living room one summer Saturday afternoon when I noticed my son didn’t look right. He was pale, and his lips had a blueish tinge. Early the next Monday morning, I called work and explained my need for the day off. I immediately called my doctor and he suggested I take him to the clinic where blood work could be done immediately. My son was anemic. He was placed on an iron supplement and a change of diet. The wait began for his health to return. But what made him anemic in the first place was still undetermined or rather, explained as a poor teenage diet.

His doctor insisted on a colonoscopy which confirmed his hunch that Ken had severe ulcerated colitis. The doctor put him on a different diet, and we hoped for the best. For a short while, it seemed to work.

By the time he was nineteen, he fainted at work, the ambulance called, and he was rushed to the hospital. His diagnosis was again severe anemia. Tests were made and it was determined that his colitis caused bleeding ulcers. His hemoglobin count was down to five when it should have been thirteen. Two pints of blood later and a seven day stay in the hospital, he was finally released with a hemoglobin count of eleven.

Another diet change and a heftier does of prescription iron vitamins helped. Ken was also put on a regimen of medications to treat the bleeding ulcers. To say he “thrived” is clearly not accurate. He didn’t “thrive,” but he did survive. He was still under-weight but at least the bleeding seemed under control – so we thought.

For years, he was plagued with various doctors’ visits, medication changes, which included an “injection cocktail” to curb the ulcers and severe diarrhea.

At the beginning of 2011, the colitis took control, and the decision was made. My son would have a colostomy. He wasn't happy. After all, he was only 45 years old. A colostomy bag was the last thing he wanted. Yet, on June 1st of that year, that's what happened. He had a full ileostomy. However, that wasn't the end of the problems - only the beginning.

For the next three years he was in and out of the hospital with one procedure, or surgery, or infection after another. Finally, his health began to stabilize, and he seemed to be getting better but still hated that colostomy bag.

In December of 2011, my mom who was about to turn 91 years fell down the stairs in her home. That forced her to reassess her living conditions. She realized that she could no longer live alone, and in January of 2012, she packed her things and moved in with me. My younger son and his wife cleared out mom’s house, we put it on the market. Mom was recovering nicely from her accident but still needed the use of a walker to get around.

Back to Ken: his house is about three-hour drive away from mine which enabled us to visit often.

It didn't matter that I am his mother and my mother, his grandmother. He was mortified every time the colostomy bag began to fill. He would leave the room and hide in his bedroom until the sound and odor dissipated - which often was about 30 minutes While we were busy socializing with his wife and children, we were unaware of the colostomy bag. Unfortunately, he was, and it made him extremely uncomfortable.

Early in 2013 a friend began doing research on colostomy bags and found a doctor who specialized in a different kind of procedure. It's called the Barnett Continent Intestinal Reservoir Koch Pouch – or B.C.I.R. Being unfamiliar with this type of surgery, our friend, my son, and his wife, and I scrambled to find out as much about this as possible.

At that time there was only one doctor in Florida who could do this surgery. My son eager to have the, what he called “smelly beg” removed, made the appointment, and it was determined that surgery would be scheduled for August of 2013.

The procedure is a reconstruction of the small intestine using about two feet at the end to create a small internal pouch. The stoma is no wider than a #2 pencil which enables the pouch to be emptied a few times a day using a catheter. No noise, no smell, no mess!

My son was thrilled. The doctor warned him, however, that this surgery didn’t work for everyone, but my son wanted to try.

His stay in the hospital was seven days but he insisted during that time we bring his grandmother for a visit. “Mom, I want grandma to see that I'm OK. After all I've been through and all her prayers, she deserves to spend some time with me, and I really want to see her.”

I loaded mom's walker in the car and help her climb in the front seat and off we went.

The hospital was about three hours and forty-five minutes from my house, and mom and I passed that time easily since she had many questions about his surgery.

Once in the hospital, we pulled a chair closer to his bed and while holding his hand, grandmother and grandson spent the next hour gloriously talking about health and family.

The nurse came in a few minutes later and reminded my son he needed to get out of bed and walk. Lying in bed wasn't good for anyone so I encouraged him to follow the nurse’s orders. He was still hooked up to an IV, the urinal bag, and a heart monitor. Anytime he left the bed, the pole with all the bags and monitor went with him everywhere.

Looking at the pole my son spoke up. “Hey Grandma, since I have to walk for exercise why don't you come with me? I have my pole; you have your walker. we could race up and down the hallway.”

My mom laughed. “I don't know about racing, but I'll take a walk with you.”

For the next 15 minutes grandma and grandson walked the halls of the hospital wing where his room was located, chatting, and enjoying each other's company.

Once back in his room, he sat in bed, my mom sat in the chair, and they talked and laughed about how they must have looked with him pushing his pole and mom pushing her walker.

Our visit lasted another 30 minutes and my son looked as though he was about to fall asleep.

I suggested we leave since mom also looked tired and I had to make sure she had the strength to withstand the ride down the elevator and the walk to the car. We still had a long drive home. We left the hospital and walked slowly, stopping periodically for mom to regain her strength and her breath. Mom was now 92 years old, and her stamina wasn't what it used to be.

As soon as we got in the car, she perked up and said, “Can we stop at McDonald's? I'd love some fries and a coke!” That was mom!

My son was released a few days later and the first thing mom wanted to do was visit him at his home.

Mom may be gone now, and my son is healed, but I'll never forget that day in the hospital when grandson and grandmother had their Walker Derby.

It definitely was a remarkable sight and one I'll cherish forever.