It shot directly up my arm, like an electric shock. And although it only lasted the fraction of a second, it felt like time slowed to a crawl. Enough that I wondered if I had felt stretching, tearing, or breaking. Enough that Elisa had called out, wondering if I'd done damage to more than myself. Enough that I was able to adjust for Sam's patented arch and twist move, and end up protecting him with room to spare. But I won't lie - I knew immediately that this wouldn't be the type of thing that a coach would tell you to "shake it out". Nor were we in a conducive time of day that I could address it immediately. Instead, I tried the coach's silent suggestion anyway. I shook it off. I wrapped Sam in his miracle blanket a bit too quickly...he looked like a poor attempt at wrapping up a burrito. Still, he went back into his bassinet, Elisa turned off her light, and I tried to use the light from the bathroom to assess the damage. It all seemed normal (well, except for the throbbing pain). I turned off the light, headed back to bed, and laid down. I kept feeling the point of injury. I found that if I wrapped my pillow around it at the right angle, the pain would lessen. 3 minutes later, I was up to get some Tylenol. 5 minutes later, I was trying my best to drift off to sleep. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Somehow, some way, I'd done the reverse of the old cliche. I'd patented the approach to adding injury to insult.
But to understand the injury, you must first understand the insult. But our story starts before that. It starts with a victory. When we last left you, I was having my adult tantrum towards Dr. Brockmeyer. After having a positive meeting where we finally had a plan (albeit delayed until January), we were blindsided by a scheduled MRI before our next meeting. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for modern medicine, and I could almost see the inherent value in having an updated MRI as Dr. Brockmeyer and Tosky descended upon Sam for actual treatment of his fistula. But I was also reminded of Brockmeyer's choice words during our last in-person visit - no more MRIs because we wanted to reduce the wear and tear on Sam's body in preparation for the real trauma when fixing his brain.
The day we found out about the January plan and MRI, I spoke to Brockmeyer's nurse. I pointedly wanted to know why we had dissonance between wear and tear and a new MRI. Three days passed before I attempted again. No call from the nurse. No call from Brockmeyer. While I felt infinitely more grateful to Brockmeyer and PCMC than I had the St. Mark's crew (hence the appearance of the lion and lioness), I still felt the growl start to grow. I understand that Doctors are busy. They see hundreds of patients in a year, so it is hard to keep things straight. But I wish doctors would see the world from a parent's view. We cling to every word, appointment, received (or missed) telephone call, or diagnosis. 3 days of silence only made me mad. We wanted to know why. If you haven't kept up on the blog, you might be wondering why we're so against the return of another MRI. Sam didn't react well to the intubation, nor did he come well out of the anesthesia. A week later, and we discovered Sam had a virus that was simply exacerbating the reaction. It wasn't easy at all. I didn't want to go through a needless repeat. I was also worried that Sam's recovery from a MRI might further delay their action on Sam's fistula. I didn't want to hear that we were heading into February because he needed full recovery from being intubated again.
Apparently, however, my second voicemail did the trick. A couple hours after I had left it, Brockmeyer's nurse called me back. She explained that first he had been out of the office. Then, he avoided answering her question (sent via email). She had finally found a moment to discuss it with him, and the answer was actually surprising (and I felt a tremendous sense of victory). I braced for the news that Brockmeyer was worried about further growth. I steeled my nerves to fight the whole "well, two more months will have passed", considering it was their choice to delay. But my bracing and steeling was for naught. Because Dr. Brockmeyer's reaction was altogether different. He...agreed with me. Apparently, when reminded of his original comments, his response was "you know, I thought it might be helpful to have the latest scans, but he's right. We don't need to do it. Cancel the MRI." I think the nurse was bemused when my immediate question was "really?!" So the more subtle lion approach had worked. I pushed ever so slightly on the new diagnosis/plan, and was met with partnership and agreement. It was further proof of every parent's reality (even if they forget). We're the parents. Our voice matters. And for the good of our kids, we must find and use that voice.
It would be nice if the update ended there, but you're probably still perplexed at the whole "adding injury to insult". The insult itself is more straightforward. The injury - well, that's me being me. While Sam's sleeping habits hadn't been ideal before the last MRI, they had become downright unpredictable and the lack of sleep was an insult to our bodies and minds. One night, Sam had given us a tremendous gift. He slept soundly from 9PM to 3:30AM. The 6.5 hours was the longest stretch of his young life, and even after a 3:30AM feeding, we both felt refreshed the next day. After all, he had crashed for another 3 hours and our day seemed to just be off to a better start. But for every step forward, there have been countless steps back. The next night, Sam woke up to eat three times and I personally had crawled out of bed 20 times to re-insert the binky into his mouth. Two more nights of the same restless sleep, I was falling into the habit of pounding 3 cups of coffee every morning, and the delirious haze of a lack of sleep was starting to set in.
I started to complain about Sam's reliance on the bink at night, so Elisa and I aligned on the decision to not use the thing like a plug. We'd only introduce it if Sam got especially upset. In fact, it seemed to work. The problem was Sam's continuing battle with his virus. Sometimes, while quietly laying around, his breathing would be silent. Other times, the rattle in his throat would be markedly pronounced, inducing a lot of sympathetic throat clearing from me. But the moment that the lack of bink management had started to kick in, Sam started his screaming fits. They're out of control - he arches, screams, twists, turns, and woe to the person that encounters one of these fits when he's wrapped like the burrito in our miracle blanket. I've become an expert on unwrapping him in 3.2 seconds to try to get him under control. We've found that holding him on our chest, with his cheek next to ours, singing "we love you Sammie, oh yes we do...", while walking. Yes, every parent will understand this. I liken it most to the weird ass things that guys will do to superstitiously influence a sporting event. No, we aren't wearing underwear on our heads, and I didn't stop shaving since the 6.5 hour glory evening. But we've found a routine that we've convinced ourselves works.
But the insult of no sleep manifested itself in two new ways - first with Elisa. The poor girl, having been through enough already, came down with a cold. Sore throat, nasal congestion, runny nose. It's be enough being sleep deprived when you're healthy. It's something altogether different when you're sick. It didn't help that the stomach bug swept through Miles and Lukas over the weekend as well. That adds another element of exhaustion. At one point over the weekend, Sam was hysterically crying, Miles was crying out for help to get off of the toilet, and Lukas was throwing up his dinner in another bathroom. And we had three kids why? :)
Elisa and I were thoroughly insulted. It felt like one every time we would go to sleep. But at least we had our victory to balance things out, and I would have been content to battle through the sleeplessness with a lack of MRI firmly in our grasp. I just wasn't expecting that this group of seemingly unrelated items would converge into my hand. Yes, the dastardly forces attacked an appendage at about 12:47AM this morning (Wednesday). Give our take a few seconds. Sam had been relatively quiet until a little after 12:40AM. And he went from happily sleeping to uncontrolled crying like the flip of a switch. In my exhaustion, I was slow to respond. Elisa was the first up but soon realized Sam's crying was escalating quickly. She asked me to take over, as her cold had made her feel dizzy. I took Sam in my arms and tried my best to fall back into the cheek-to-cheek, pacing, singing solution. After about 6 minutes, it seemed to be working. I was able to move him back to a normal holding position, and had started to think we could maybe put him back to sleep. The problem was that in my 3.2 second unwrapping, I carelessly had tossed the miracle blanket to the floor. My first thought was to kick it up onto the bed. My sleepy demeanor ended that dream, so I thought I would just bend down and grab it. I chose the wrong time. As I bent down, Sam arched and twisted. I wasn't ready for it. My hand was already pointed at the floor when I lost my center of gravity. Of course, Sam was my main priority. I pulled him close, expecting my free hand to catch the bed. Instead, the full weight of my body landed on the first bit of me that touched the floor. My thumb. It bent backward. I heard and felt something - tearing, breaking, or stretching, I wasn't sure. But the electric shock went up my arm. I immediately knew it was bad.
I recovered my balance as the rest of my hand reached the floor. Elisa thought I had dropped Sam. I quelled her concerns and told her that I had hurt my thumb. In a mix of blinding pain and drowsiness, I got Sam wrapped into a poor man's burrito, and he was off to dream land. I felt my thumb, or rather the base of it. No swelling. Just pain. After the Tylenol, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep. I found it ironic that I had gotten injured while jumping in for Elisa because she was dizzy. Apparently, I didn't need to be sick or dizzy to be clumsy.
Again, I wish this could be the end of the story, but that would be robbing you of my favorite part. My own brush with the medical profession, and one I'm still trying to wrap my head around. I woke up the next morning, now convinced that the damage was worse than "it's a little sore". Don't believe me? I could barely wash my hair (my left hand feels a little weird when I try to make it my dominant hand....oh, I didn't mention that it was my right hand that was injured? Of course it was!). Elisa had to button my shirt. I felt like a Kindergartener trying to tie my shoes. Still, I went into work, still in denial. It took three co-workers telling me to get my swollen hand checked out before I relented. On my lunch break, I headed to the fast food of medicine. The Urgent Care. I wasn't about to admit this was serious, and I needed something that would only take a lunch break. Yep, I'm a guy. Welcome to Elisa's world. She now has 4 of them in the house.
I entered the Urgent Care and was checked in. 30 minutes later, my Doctor walked in. At least, I think he was a doctor. He looked like he was Doogie Howser's younger cousin. I was immediately worried. I explained what happened and he started moving my thumb around like a video game joystick. He'd play around with my injured hand, and then play with the healthy one. And provided a confident diagnosis that it wasn't torn, only sprained. To be sure, he wanted to do an x-ray to ensure we didn't have a break. So I got shuttled into that room and then headed back for another 20 minute wait. Oh, and did I mention that I was the only patient in the place? Yeah, they were "efficient".
I knew I was in trouble when the doctor entered with a quizzical look on his face. The x-ray didn't show a break, he said. And then, I kid you not, the following conversation actually took place.
Doogie: So while you were getting x-rays, I looked up some literature on this sort of thing. And I think I need to look at it again.
Brad: OK.
Doogie: (while playing joysticks again, over and over). I don't think it's torn. It would cause you more pain.
Brad: Well, maybe it just hurts all the time and I can't tell the difference. All I know is that it doesn't hurt in a "Oh dear God, stop moving it around" kind of way.
Doogie: Hmm. (back to joysticks)
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...
Doogie: I really don't think it's torn, because from what I read, it would really bend backward and you'd be in a lot of pain.
Brad: OK.
Doogie: I think we should take a conservative approach. I think it's just a sprain. The problem is that I don't have a lot of experience in things like this. They see complete tears alot with skiers because they fall and hit their thumbs on the snow, but the descriptions I read said the difference in movement is 20-30 degrees. And...(while moving my thumbs)...I just can't tell.
Brad: ...
Doogie: So since I don't have a lot of experience here, let's get you to a hand specialist. That way, they can really look at it and let you know if it's torn.
Brad: OK. *sigh
Doogie: Oh, and hey. Can you do me a favor? After you've seen the specialist, if they tell you that it is torn, will you call me and tell me? Because that will help me really be able to know what to look for if I ever have another patient come in.
Brad: Uhh...
Doogie: That would be so helpful to me. Thanks! Now let's get you a splint!
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Yeah, that really happened.
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