Life in a wheelchair

It was a 17 month reprieve from daily bandage changes, constant pain and difficulty walking. Since the removal of my toes on the left foot, a short stay in a nursing home, my life returned to normal. Then I noticed a splash of blood on a bathroom rug, and the most recent bout with disease resumed where it left off.

I cleaned and bandaged the wound, as a practiced ritual of the past seven years; I knew the drill to not allow a foot wound to get infected. All was well, and what was the quarter-sized hole was small as a pea.

I made my final visit to the foot clinic only to see my life change 180 degrees.

My smallest toe on the right foot had gangrene, a black spot was found between the toes, and I was admitted for what I thought would have been a small, almost routine procedure. I opted for another trans-met amputation (all toes) since they were looking at taking two and the other three were worthless. The surgery was scheduled and I assumed I would spend a week or so in a rehab and be back to work for the balance of the NBA season, and my career as a photojournalist for Reuters. Wrong.

The nursing home that I was sent to was filthy. Black mold stained the shower room in a place of suspended animation that was best described as the entrance of Hell, or the waiting room for Heaven.

I became infected with MRSA, an antibiotic resistant form of staph. Then spent 21 days hospital stay getting three bags of expensive drug that was the only known treatment for the deadly infection direct into my system through a Pick line- a mainline into a large blood vessel. At the end, I was sent back to the same nursing home.

Needless to say, this was not a good idea and within a short time, I was re-infected and this time the price was higher than five toes.

This time, I got to the hospital on day three of the critical first three days of infection in the life of a diabetic. Infections feed on the sugar rich blood. The staff in Hell refused treatment even though I pointed out the obvious symptoms each day.

The verdict was that the leg would be amputated 15 centimeters below my knee.

I agreed with the young Doctor’s opinion that with the infection in the bone, we could still save the knee.

I was now disabled.

I spent one year in a better nursing home. I left to live in a rental duplex on Social Security and Food stamps, barely able to survive on the stipend. But, I was no longer in a nursing home.

After a year, I wanted a life back, and started to go back to school. Then I posted a resume on the career center website, and responded to an advertised position. I was called on Friday, interviews on Wednesday and started to work the following Monday. It was a good four months of being back in the real world.

And that company laid me off, the week after Christmas, whilst I was still in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.

A heart procedure in August resulted in partial paralysis of my right shoulder. This is Rhabdo. Whilst on the table for nine hours, an enzyme started eating muscle tissue and if not discovered would result in kidney failure- All for nothing. A great doctor, Dr. Lane Jacobs noticed the cola colored urine and started pushing Bicarbonate into my IV to neutralize the  effects. After rehabilitation I can again use my arms.

Fortunately, the implantation of a bi-ventricular pacemaker, and an ablation made me totally dependent on a tiny computer chip in my chest. My heart beats 70 times a minute, as regular as a computer clock. My cardiologist,  Dr. Lazlo Littman, said my congestive heart failure has been resolved by the regular beat.

But, that does not mean a return to normalcy quite yet.

The Ortho doctors have had three whacks at the residual portion of my right leg. The darn thing will not heal well enough to wear my carbon fiber and titanium leg. I have a new appreciation of being dependent on a wheelchair. I watched Oscar running on two prosthetic legs in the Olympics.

I believe he wears the Otto Bock Cheetah legs. I want a bumper sticker for wheel chair that says, “My other leg is a Cheetah”