A Drug Addict Saved My Life

He was a fine looking Indian man. Sexy as he wanted to be. Let’s just say, under different circumstances, he could get it. But I could not stand his tail because he pushed me to breathe without the ventilator. I was uncertain. I didn’t think I was ready. I didn’t believe my lungs were strong enough. I began to panic and focus on every breath I labored to take.

They timed me, sadistically increasing the time spent off my precious source of air. Until there came a time when I no longer needed anything to assist me with breathing. I didn’t even require the nasal cannula for additional oxygen.

No more feeding tubes. Now, on to solid food after my swallow tests. Tracheotomy and muscle weakness in the throat can cause things to go down the wrong pipe and a person can aspirate. Ultimately, that’s how my mother died. She aspirated after complications of a massive stroke.

Baby steps. Literally, waddling like a toddler through the halls. I was learning how to use my legs again. Bed-ridden for months coupled with a rare connective tissue autoimmune disease caused my muscles to atrophy. With exercise, muscles can be rebuilt. From wheelchair to rollator, I found my stride again.

I rang the bell as I left the ICU. A symbol of achievement, I wasn’t going home but I was getting closer. Making progress, I was being moved to gen pop where patients were closer to living than dying. I was in my new digs for about two nights before I awoke back in ICU. Apparently, I was unresponsive and was rushed back. Don’t remember that at all.

Honestly, there are many memories simply not meant to be stored. Nonetheless, whatever was wrong was corrected because I promptly left ICU. Regression was not an option for me. My time spent in the hospital was lengthy and grueling.

I was at Jeanes Hospital in April 2019 and Temple University Hospital from May 2019 to January 2020. Next stop, Moss Rehabilitation Hospital until mid February. By this time I could walk, talk, eat and reluctantly participate in regular physical and occupational therapy.

My back ached all the time. Barely, one hundred pounds, with no extra fat weighing me down. But my back ached like I was big bellied with a 10 pound baby. It was the steroids again. My condition required a high dose of steroids, which caused a hideous rash on my face, thinning skin and low bone density along my spine. I developed a compression fracture of the T7, T8 vertebrae. That’s right, I broke my back just a little bit.

Later, after a bone scan and x rays I’d be prescribed a daily injection to fortify my bones and lessen the severity of osteoporosis. Needles in the abdomen. What’s next?

I had finally managed to walk the 6 feet to the bathroom with little assistance. I held my bladder for as long as I could because traveling the short distance was challenging. The C.N.A stood outside the door granting me my privacy. My skinny legs dangled a bit while atop the over the toilet commode.

Groggily in the early morning, I began to wipe as I leaned forward. Face planting into the bathroom floor, banging my knee as I fell, I was literally at an all-time low. Bloody faced and stunned, I lay on the cold floor thinking, "We're doing this now?! Falling and sh#t?!"

Losing my balance, barely wiped and toilet left unflushed, I realized I really needed care. What was I going to do when I got home? I had fallen and I couldn't get up. What in-the-elderly-disabled-dependency bullsh#t had my life become?!