The Chair

THIS week has been a week filled with lessons.  It's hard to take a moment to sit and put a thought on paper, because there has not been many moments to myself all week long.  I almost hate to waste one, as there is so many other things that need to be done.  Laundry is piling up, the counters are covered with dishes and mail, the cat's surgery got cancelled, and the carpet needs shampooed where the dog had fun drinking a leftover caramel frappucino.  Beginning Tuesday morning, our life as we knew it has been on hold. 

Friday, August 28:  Our daughter got a long-scheduled surgery to correct the bunion and stabilize her foot on the left side.  We did the left one so that she could still drive to school.  She wanted to wait till the end of summer, since she had a concert festival to attend in August and wanted to finish out her summer job.  This was to be the first of two, carefully scheduled.  The first in August, then eight weeks of recovery, then the second over Christmas vacation, after her brother got his driver's license and could drive.  That way she could have them both done and out of the way to get her off to college after graduation next summer.  Yes, it would be a pain to spend Senior Year in a cast, but better now than later.  And the pain in her feet would go away.

The surgery went well.  We had it done in the nearest large town, an hour and a half away, where the medical services are better.  We took her home in a splint, with several more appointments and checkups to go.  She had a lot of pain, but seemed to be recovering well.

Wednesday, September 2:  The first day of school.  She will not hear of staying home, so she went back to school on crutches.  We got the wheelchair she requested, but she soon found out that there was no room for it in our overcrowded high school hallways, nor in the classrooms.  She was doing great on the crutches, so little by little, overprotective Mom let her branch out a little bit.  She was still doing a good job keeping it elevated when she was home, in between running hither and thither as teenagers do. 

Thursday, September 10:  Back to the doctor's office for a recheck and the hard cast.  She was totally tickled to have the cast on, so that everyone can sign it.  Plus it was a lot more comfy than the splint, which had been rubbing.  Doc thought everything was looking great.  The incisions looked good, the alignment and correction looked great, everything was on track.  She was slated to keep the cast for at least 2-3 weeks, after which she'd be in the walking boot.  The next appointment was scheduled for the 30th.

Monday, September 21:  We got home from work and she was complaining of pain under the cast.   I asked if it was down in her foot (where the surgery was) and she said no, it was up in her calf, somewhere deep in the muscle.  She said it burned.  It was too late to call the doctor's office that night, so we went to bed and I made the call in the morning, first thing.

Tuesday, September 22:  The doctor's office wanted to see her pronto.  We got there, they cut the cast off, and could not see anything wrong.  He sent her over to the Vascular Lab for a doppler, just to make sure everything was okay. 

I sat with her during the ultrasound, and watched it on the screen as the tech talked us through it.  Up in her leg everything looked normal, but as he got to the painful spot, he took a lot more time looking.  I watched him take shots and type on the screen.  After about the fourth time he typed the notation "No flow", she and I looked at each other.  After that, things got moving pretty fast.  He called over to her foot doc and told him she had DVT - blood clots in her calf.  There are two veins at least that are totally occluded.  He sent us back over to her foot doc, and insisted on a wheelchair so that she would not jiggle her leg.  The foot doc, since circulatory issues are not his specialty, got on the phone to her regular doc, and we were on our way home. 

Halfway through the trip home the regular doc's nurse called with instructions.  They were calling in a prescription to the pharmacy.  If we were not able to do the medication, they were admitting her to the hospital for 3-5 days.  The medication, of course, was an injectible - absolute devastation to my daughter, who has an extreme phobia of needles.  Every sentence got worse and worse.  Shots of medication.  Twice a day.  For up to ten days.  In her stomach.  That someone at HOME would have to do. 

The first night was a nightmare.  I can't even recreate it.  Grandma (who is an LPN) came to give the shot, and by the end of the night, everyone was in tears.  I think we finally got through to the girl that if she did not get the shots, she could DIE.  We were all upset, angry, frustrated...you name it.

Wednesday, September 23:  We had an appt first thing in the morning with the regular doc.  The regular doc (who can be a tyrant) was really good this time.  She spent some time explaining the ramifications of this to B, the girl and I, and then told us she would be on the oral Coumadin for at least three months, which means that the second surgery is off, and that we would have to finish out the shots until her blood levels stabilized.  This includes bed rest (essentially) and no school for the next week.  She also broached the subject of how unusual it was for a 17 year old healthy teen to get clots, and that we would need to check for some genetic clotting disorder, in light of the fact that her grandma had also had clots.  The girl gets her second shot at the doctor's office, by the nurse, who teaches me how to do them.  This one leaves a bruise.

Next we are introduced to the new world of the Anticoagulation Clinic, where we will spend a lot of time over the next few weeks, checking her clotting factor and tweaking the medication.  I send B home, since this is a long appointment.  He looks awful, and needs to med up and have a nap.  At the A.C. they take a baseline blood level and teach us all about shots, diet and schedules.  They also set us up with Hematology, who will monitor things and try to get to the bottom of this.  We get an appointment with Hematology on Friday, right after our next visit to the A.C.

I do my very first subcutaneous injection on a human being Wednesday night.  The girl is relieved.  (She says I do the best ones.)  She will submit to the injections, so long as I do them and she can do them her way, which means her brother on one side holding her hand, and her head buried in B's shoulder.  I have done shots on the dogs and cats, but never on a human, and never would have wished to do one on my child.  I went through the first half year of nursing school, but dropped out in the injections unit, because I could not stomach the idea of causing pain to another human being.  This is a test of both of our strengths, and an unwilling lesson.  We are both growing and learning, though, my girl and I, and we will come out of this stronger for the tempering.  But oh how we hate it.

Thursday, September 24:  B and I go back to work, as I have very little leave time left.  I hate to leave her alone, but she has the cell phone.  My stomach is so irritated by the stress that I have nearly constant diarrhea, but I have to get back to work.  There are a lot of projects left half done.  B is way up on his meds, and is so strung out that his PD is terrible. 

This morning we looked at the foot and decided that it didn't look as good as we liked.  So at 10 a.m. I am off again, taking the girl back to the doctor's office, where we see a fill-in.  To top it all off, her brother is showing flu symptoms, and this morning she has a sore throat as well.  Not good.  The fill in doc thinks that everything is kosher, that we are simply seeing residual bruising, so we go back home. 

B is not convinced.  He has lost his mother to DVT and a pulmonary embolism.  His fear is palpable.  That evening while the girl has a visitor and is entertained, we cling together.  And together, for once, we pray.  I am filled with a strange calm.  Tuesday night I cried so hard I had a migraine all day Wednesday, while he held me.  Tonight, I hold him, stroking his hair and whispering "It is going to be all right." 

Through this whole nightmare week, we have learned a whole lot of things.


One of the largest lessons is that this little family is like a chair. There are four of us: B, me, the girl and the boy. It takes all four legs, of equal length and equal size, to make a chair. The strength of the chair comes from the fact that each leg is interconnected; each leg connects to every other leg. Two of us could not do this job alone, and three not very well. It takes all four. Our connections to each other, like interlocked hands, can hold a lot of weight without collapsing.

But above them all, tying them all together, is a seat. Without that binding four chair legs would just be a collection of sticks. Without God, we would be floundering in this sea of uncertainty, wobbling, unable to hold it together. Our faith and the grace of God is the glue that binds us. He holds this little family in His hand, especially when we are struggling.

Without each other, without God, the whole structure would fall over. It takes all the pieces to make a chair, and all of us to make this family.

This is what the girl posted Tuesday night, when it seemed darkest, on her Facebook page for everyone to see.  She wants to have it integrated into her tattoo, which was her deepest desire for her 18th birthday and will now have to be put off for some future time.

Psalm 23:4

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.