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[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

Physical Therapy: Getting back on my feet....literally

I have only four sessions (possibly) left, and some previous conversations brought some insight to my journey.

I’ve had some wonderfully great and wonderfully awful therapists in my 18 weeks or so of therapy. The only PT I have ever really had was when I sprained my ankle after tennis my sophomore year, then the SHAPE clinic at OU during 110 season. So I had a pretty good idea going in, which made it less scary….think Saw 2 instead of Saw. I knew it was going to be scary, but I was still diving into the unknown.

The Good:

- The therapists (both OT and PT) were wonderful at OSU, what little I could do. They understood the pain, but they pushed me like no other. I knew if I could do it a day after post-op and still make it through, each day would get better. Every day is better than the last. It’s hard when you don’t see results immediately, but every little bit helped. (I even met a therapist at OSU who went to Mohawk, a high school in my county! *cue ‘Its a Small World After All’*)

- How my therapists at Nursing Home #1 could work with one good leg and one leg in a fixator, plus one good arm and one bad arm, is beyond me. They were simple, but helpful. Nothing was scarier than actually standing up for the first time, but it also gave me hope. Even though I had one leg that still needed work, and a multitude of things could have happened, I knew that someday I would be back on my feet again.

- My PT at Nursing Home #2 became my personal ally. He got me back on my feet. He got me to be mobile again. He was able to confront my fear of getting back into a car, instead of being strapped down on a stretcher. He found my inner strength and was able to push me to my limits. Within the month of December, I went from being immobile in my bed with my hospital gown to being dressed in a cute skirt and carrying gifts down to the room on Christmas Day. And I can’t leave the one OT I actually got along with out of this. It’s hard when you have only 1 ½ arms to work with, and she did it. I left with a good foundation for my left arm to start healing.

- My therapy at the local hospital here has been so great. My doctor said it would be helpful to do maybe a month more of therapy. My main goal was to get on a cane - from there, normalcy and life would be able to transition me to walking on my own. My therapist was able to meet my goal with such an ease. I was able to go from a walker to a cane with no difficulty. (She even had a cat cane!)

The Bad:

- At one point in the hospital, I remember the therapists screaming at me because no one had cleaned my neck brace. I started choking up, feeling helpless because these women were interrogating me, asking why my care hadn’t been better, why my brace wasn’t cleaner, why no one took care of it. I felt so low; I know it wasn’t my fault, but I felt responsible. There is no worse feeling than when you are rendered helpless but you ask yourself why you can’t do more.

- I once was told I had to transfer from bed to wheelchair and vice versa using a transfer board. I originally had the therapists assisting me, but then they wanted the aids to do it. (God bless STNAs, btw.) Only half of them had been trained properly and one day I got the two that weren’t. Also didn’t help that they were both weak and one barely spoke English. They both were nice ladies, which made this process feel even worse. We were unable to get me out of the wheelchair - I was so weak, and I’m not tiny. Nothing ruins your already destroyed self-esteem than being stuck in a wheelchair. We had to get a therapist to assist - and since I was already at a bad angle, I slid and landed head-first into my bed. Sometimes we over or underestimate our body’s abilities, but throughout all of this, I have had a pretty keen sense of my body’s worth. I knew what I could and couldn’t do. Having to tell professionals brings a whole “do we push them or do we let it go” argument, and some of them push because they think that’s the best answer. I can’t blame them too much; I’ve been in enough classrooms to know that sometimes you have to. But on the patient side, pushing isn’t always the answer in my case.

- Second example: In Nursing Home #2, my OT was in charge of bringing me back to my room. She thought we could transfer back into bed with me, her and a board. I said multiple times: just one more person. Please, grab an aid. She was headstrong and remained positive that we could do this!

Boy was she wrong.

Mid-transfer, the board started flipping up and I ended up falling. Fortunately, I reached out for the bed and landed safely. However, this could have ended in a worse way. The lady offered a half-hearted apology (“it was the bed’s fault, it started moving”) and I never trusted her throughout my stay! 🙃

- At least she would work with me. After a long argument of a lift vs a transfer board that I wanted to lay to rest after I made my point, but was brought up multiple times, I had an OT come into my room to work. She starts stretching my arm in a way that was hurting my wrist - all I could think of was “you’re twisting/pulling/bopping it” (okay maybe not bopping). She snapped, saying she wasn’t twisting and I was just sore. Let me just state this - after all I’ve been through, I would THINK I have an idea of what “sore” feels like. Trust me when I say this: it’s not sore. I tried to communicate the best I could, which is what a patient/therapist relationship should be all about.

Instead, she stood up and walked out. “You do better with the other therapist, so we’re done here. I can’t deal with this.”

I know I look young, but I’m 25. I have a decent idea of what professionalism is. That was not it.

- Another case of non-professionalism, we tried not having a raised toilet. (“We only have one bed commode and we have a new patient who needs it so we’re taking yours”) My therapist asked me to sit on it and I did - it hurt and I had to use all my might to get back up, but I did it. To him, that means A-OK! I cried, and explained to my mother that if I have to use it more than twice a day, it’s going to be rough. I asked her to try it, since I said it was unusually low for a normal seat. So she went in and sat, then got back up.

“Aw hell no!”

She fought and they “looked” for a raised seat. The solution? My wonderful boyfriend - who works for a completely different medical company - had to bring one in.

Then, the therapist barged in asking what the problem was - “You were doing it just fine! You don’t want to go backwards! You don’t need it!” Mind you, he was screaming these “facts” of his, confused by why someone who has weak arms and legs wouldn’t want to use such a low seat multiple times a day! How bizarre! That was the last straw. My mother and I had to tell him to leave multiple times. I appreciate trying to be a cheerleader, but a cheerleader doesn’t come in uninvited to scream at the subject. Yelling isn’t going to make me magically believe, “Oh yeah! I can do it!” But no, his bruised ego couldn’t take that maybe I didn’t trust his judgement - which wasn’t the case, but he made it the case. By the way, I still use a slightly raised toilet seat. We’re in the process of getting rid of it, but there are more important things in life like walking with a cane or being able to put my own socks on.

The Ugly:

I only left one story for the ugly. I know some of the previous stories were ugly, however I saw them as “bad” because of the people involved. All of those stories could have ended quite differently had some people had different attitudes (even myself, I can admit that.)

But this one…there’s no getting around it:

The day after I had my second leg surgery, my therapists came in. They wanted to at least get me to the side of the bed, if not standing. My doctor promised me, “We’ll have you trying to stand the next day!” Well, she wasn’t wrong. See, the difference between my first leg surgery and my second is that during my first surgery, I was so out of it. Whether it was strong drugs or being on the brink of possible death, I was unaware for the most part. However, the second surgery came with full awareness. The pain meds were even making me nauseous, which didn’t help that we took out the feeding tube. So the therapists come in, ready to work. My boyfriend was there for moral support and I have to be honest, I am torn between whether I really wanted him there or not. Because what he saw, I wouldn’t have wanted to see happen to him. I was screaming in agony, I had never felt such a pain. I was already in a ton of pain, every joint was on fire. We had to do it, I know, but it was awful. I couldn’t stop crying, I just wanted it all to end.

The one therapist told me then, Every day is better than the last.

If life is troubling you, just remember that. If I can go from screaming any time they tried to sit me up on the edge of the bed, to walking everywhere on my own, then so can you.

[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

Physically, things are well. I’m using a polka dot cane, so now it’s not as obnoxious in public. I still occasionally get “the eye” for using a motorized wheelchair in Wal-Mart. (Listen….before my legs got all jacked up, I walked my obesity-infested body all over Wal-Mart. I’m sorry if you’re fat, but I need this cart now more than you do. In a few months, you can have it back because walking through five aisles gets you winded. /end mean rant)

I did purchase a wig. I’m not usually one who does things for the purpose of vanity. I try to look put together, but I’ve only dyed my hair twice and had my nails done a couple times. However, they had to shave my head to do medical things - not the whole thing, just part of it. Currently, my hair isn’t growing back even. While long on the sides, the top and back are still short. I’ve said once it gets to chin length, I’m going to even out my hair. So I bought a wig in case I go out for dinner with my boyfriend or get coffee with friends. It doesn’t look that gaudy, I was pleased. It takes a lot to admit that one’s self-confidence has taken a nosedive. I had just gotten to a decent place in my life where I wasn’t hating what I saw in the mirror, and then it came screeching to a halt (NOTE: puns will ALWAYS be completely intended in this blog.) I barely wore sweatpants to class in college; I attempt to look put together in order to feel put together. If that means occasionally I wear fake hair, then so be it.

Also, if I look good, I’ll feel less like a disaster. Of course I don’t want to go out because I’m 25 years old with a polka dotted cane. Young people with canes are not a common sight. I have never been one who wanted to be seen in public to begin with; a cane/a walker/a wheelchair just adds a bright spotlight to it all. If I can not worry about my appearance, then I can focus on my constant fear of traveling by vehicle. I hate that I still worry and I know I’ll worry for years (let’s be real,) but a ptsd-esque worry is more important than a “my hair is uneven in the back when I wear it down, but maybe I don’t want to look like Pippi Longstocking for the fifth month in a row” worry.

If you have any body image issues, feel free to talk about them with me. I’ve been fighting those issues even prior to using walking assistance tools and a fake weave. I can help you out!

Just remember, y'all are beautiful. You do you.💙 -Snooks

[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

All Nightmare Long

We met with the lawyer on Friday. That woman is a beast. Everything seems to be going well, and it’s all moving faster than I thought. I did have to finally give her my story, which I was able to do surprisingly well. Imagine trying to tell someone a really bad dream that happened 4 months ago. Let’s say you had a dreams about being dunked in a tank of spiders. You can feel numbed by it and you get less freaked out each time you talk about it (probably with your therapist,) but you can still feel one crawling on your skin each time, ever so faintly.

She also offered me providing a victim’s statement when the man goes in for sentencing. I was on the fence of whether I should just write one or go in person. She brought up the empathy and emotion that the judge could feel; it would be much more impactful if I was there in person.

So I’m going to do it. I’m going to be there and tell my nightmare. Because nothing would give me more joy than locking up that man. That might sound sadistic, and I know we should forgive as the Lord would. And I would say I’m handling it better than some people would. However, if this man was a first-offense, hard-working, fell-asleep-at-the-wheel-from-overworking kind of human, I would. I would forgive, and I would be haunted with my hatred because I would know it’s an honest mistake. He is quite the opposite of all that. I’ll reveal more later (I have to lure you as a reader somehow?!?!….ok and legality stuff, but mostly the former), but this can’t go by without punishment.

I would never wish what I’ve been through on my worst enemy.

[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

Makes me that much stronger, Makes me work a little bit harder, Makes me that much wiser, So thanks for making me a fighter.

Christina Aguilera, "Fighter"

[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

My State as of 1/30/2017 (4+ Mo. Out)

Current physical state: using a walker, unable to lay on my side comfortably, weak as a toddler. If using furniture to walk, I kind of look like a toddler. Actually, I think I'm a 25 year old toddler.

Current singing state: I think I sound worse than I did when I first started taking voice lessons at the age of 13. #toddlerstatus

For reference, listen to what I previously sounded like at my senior recital: https://soundcloud.com/rebecca-gloria-daniel/music-for-a-while

Current mental state: I am physically able to get in a car. However, I cried the other day because it started snowing and I got scared. (Never mind the fact that when I was hit, it was fall and clear weather.) So you could say it's a tad.....rough.

[rebuildingrebeccagloria]

Never Gonna Walk this Journey Alone

Hello everyone who may stumble upon this!

I’m writing this story that’s currently in progress for others to read. This is something I probably should have started earlier, but I was very reclusive when it came to the first part of my recovery. Now, I feel I want to discuss my journey with those who are curious.

Back in September, I was taking a lovely drive from one small town to the next. From a choir rehearsal to an interview to discuss being a music director for a show. Though the day was long, I was taking part in two of my favorite activities: music and driving. Nothing beats driving with the windows down, radio up, and cruising. Out of nowhere, a man started drifting left of center. Textbook left of center. I did the next textbook thing: honk, slow down (even to a stop), brace yourself. I heard a high pitch noise, a crunch, and next thing I know, I’m hanging from my seat belt. After “screaming” in a pathetic whimper for what was probably a half hour, help finally came. While I was laying there, I knew life was about to go for a whirl.

Months of surgery, scares, scars and screams went by. I lived in four(?) a lot of different hospital rooms, and two nursing homes. From mid September to late December, I was a resident of Columbus, then Marion, until I was able to go back home with my parents.

I will blog more about my past experiences too. However, this blog is for progression. I am currently learning how to walk normally, how to live normally, and - as a musician - how to sing normally.

I’ll try not to be as annoying as some bloggers. But with all the political corruption in the world, I need to focus on getting better and rejoin the world. I’m inviting you to clear your mind of all that for a few minutes to join me on my journey.

If you have any questions, feel free to message me on here or via Facebook. If you prefer email, my email address is rg202010@gmail.com

Even if you’re the only person who reads this, thank you. I don’t feel as alone when I at least have you. :)

- Rebecca (“Snooki”) Gierhart #RebuildingRebeccaGloria