Scoliosis chat

I received an email today that I wanted to pass along.

The Hospital for Special Surgery will be hosting a Facebook chat focused on scoliosis on Tues., June 24, at 5:30 p.m. EST. Dr. Roger Widmann and Dr. Lisa Ipp from HSS will be available to answer questions from the scoliosis community.

Located in New York City, HSS is a world leader in orthopedics, rheumatology and rehabilitation, and is a member of the New York-Presbyterian Healthcare System and an affiliate of Weill Cornell Medical College. The hospital's research division is internationally recognized as a leader in the investigation of musculoskeletal and autoimmune diseases. Visit HSS's Facebook page for further information.

Falling

There was something about the stairway in the house on Hazel Avenue. Maybe it was the height or depth, or the way the 70s-era, burnt-orange carpet clung to each step. Whatever it was, those stairs were conducive to falling.

We lost count how many times my mother fell, but thankfully the only casualty was the odd heel snapped off of her fashionable pumps.

And then it was my turn.

Less than two years after my scoliosis surgery and cast removal, I fell down the stairs. I don't know how I lost my footing, but I remember thinking "This CAN'T be happening!" as I tried unsuccessfully to grab the ornate metal railing and stop my descent. My mother rushed in from the kitchen just as I landed and we both started to cry.

On the surface, I was fine. No bruises or pain. But I was paralyzed with fear wondering what might have happened to my spinal fusion and Harrington rod.

About a year later, I needed minor surgery (a misnomer, IMHO; in my experience, there's no such thing) to remove a cyst from my left hand. During my pre-op appointment, the surgeon reviewed my lab work and chest X-ray.

"Everything looks good and, by the way, your X-ray showed that a hook has dislodged from your Harrington rod."

That's just how he said it. Casual. Matter-of-fact. And, yes, of all the surgeons I have encountered in my lifetime, he gets a big, fat F in bedside manner.

"What?!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean, 'dislodged'? Where is it going??" I practically screamed, as visions of a metal hook floating throughout my body swirled in my mind. He assured me that the hook was surrounded by scar tissue and would not be going anywhere.

That was more than 30 years ago and, since then, my infamous hook has been featured on many an X-ray. Numerous medical professionals have gently broached the topic with me, assuming I was unaware of its existence. It has happened so often, in fact, that I usually cut them off with a polite, "Yes, I know, a hook dislodged from my Harrington rod."

But back to the topic of falling.

About a month ago, I tripped and fell in my bedroom. Straight back, landing unceremoniously on my butt. It was another surreal moment of disbelief--"OMG! My back! My hip! My shoulder!"--followed by a crushing fear of possible damage done.

Concern for my hip surpassed all others as I recalled following Dr. Wellman's recommendation for a ceramic joint, instead of steel, because research shows the former is longer-lasting. But that data probably did not take falling into account!

I was frantic with worry, ignoring the bump to my head, and Mark tried to calm me down.

"You're able to walk. You're okay," he said.

Dr. Wellman echoed that reassurance, saying that, as long as I could bear weight on the hip, it was probably fine.

Probably fine.

It has taken this long for the soreness--mostly in my right arm, which apparently absorbed a large percentage of the impact--to subside and I'm finally convinced that all is well.

Here's to a fall-free future!

Bye-Bye, Boo-Bear

It has been four weeks since we said good-bye to Sandy, yet I still expect to see her come into the room. Although it sounds trite to refer to a dog as your loyal companion, that's truly what she was. Always by my side when I needed her ~ and vice versa.

In October 1999, only one month had passed since we had mercifully laid our spaniel-mix Maggie to rest. Mark had taken her passing particularly hard since Maggie was the first dog he'd known from puppyhood til death. He said he wanted to wait awhile before getting another dog, but when he suggested we visit the animal shelter on that bright autumn day, I warned him: "If we go there today, we're getting another dog today."

Enter Sandy.

I can still see that sweet, three-month-old face as I lifted her from the pen at the local ASPCA. Dogs were barking all around her, but she sat quietly, waiting...for me? I immediately knew she had the perfect temperament for a family with children and when I showed her to J, the deal was sealed.

I was working full-time outside of the home then, and we never knew what we'd find after leaving Sandy alone for most of the day. I didn't have the heart to crate her, so we attempted to confine her to the kitchen. One day she was sitting in the adjacent dining room, despite the gate that remained installed in the doorway. "I have NO idea how I got here!" she seemed to say as I stood there, stunned.

Although her indoor manners improved with age, she remained the proverbial escape artist, seizing any opportunity to slip out of our backyard to prowl the neighborhood. But she always came home, eventually.

Mark said Sandy was as tough as nails (one of her nicknames was "Brick-head" because sometimes, when she didn't quite clear a doorway, she'd smack her snout ~ and just kept going), a trait that endured as she aged. Despite arthritis, deafness and various lumps and bumps, she remained alert and mobile with a healthy appetite until the end.

We did our best to give her a good life. I hope she knew that.

RIP Boo-Bear. Until we meet again.

Maximized manipulation

I wore a Milwaukee brace for two and one-half years (age 14 to 16) before the decision was made to undergo a second spinal fusion that would correct my scoliosis. If you're at all familiar with pictures of the brace, you know it's hardly inconspicuous. The neck ring, in particular, is clearly visible. And that made it easy for P and me to meet.

It happened during the rush between classes at West Orange High School. Our eyes met and we froze as other students jostled past us. Speechless, we finally continued on our respective paths, fresh with the knowledge that neither of us was alone. Eventually we became friends and learned that our scoliosis treatment was being managed by the same surgeon, Dr. Keim.

Several months later, our common bond was dashed when I saw P at school, brace-less. Her parents were taking her to a chiropractor. "I go twice a week and it doesn't hurt," she told me. I was so jealous! And I pleaded for my parents to take me to a chiropractor, but after doing a little research, my mother nixed the idea.

Over the years, my infatuation with the thought of chiropractic treatment has done a 180. In fact, I have often said that a chiropractor for me would be like taking a Rolls Royce to a Hyundai mechanic. Having said that, I know there are some excellent chiropractors out there providing essential care to their patients. In fact, several of my family members (including my husband, Mark--and, in an ironic twist, my mother) and friends have turned to chiropractors for various ailments and gained positive results. For example, P (whose S-curve was at 6 and 12 degrees) received treatment for three years to prevent her scoliosis from progressing and, as of this writing, is doing very well with no regrets.

But there are also practitioners that claim chiropractic care can cure everything. And that brings me to the point of this post.

Recently, I found myself at an "information session" for a chiropractor in the Maximized Living franchise. One of their doctors had been at a healthful living event at EarthFare, offering free nerve scans, and Mark signed up. After a follow-up appointment and X-rays, he was asked to bring me along to his next visit to ensure I was "on board" with his treatment plan. Mark and I had no idea what to expect, but we hoped to be on our way within an hour so we could go out for coffee afterward.

First, we (there were six of us altogether) heard from the CA (chiropractic assistant)--a patient at the practice--who told us how awesome she felt after receiving treatment. Then the junior chiropractor took over the podium. He began by asking us to list the top four causes of death in the United States. Now, as a freelance writer, I have interviewed numerous cardiovascular surgeons and researchers, and they have all told me the same thing: the number one cause of death in America is cardiovascular disease. But according to the JC, heart disease was number two, followed by cancer (#3) and diabetes (#4). The number one cause of death was a word I'd never heard of (starts with an "I"), a disorder that afflicts those who are taking multiple prescriptions for various chronic disorders. Cue skepticism.

Finally, the chiropractor--Dr. B.--taught us how to read X-rays, using "before" and "after" views of previous patients. He emphasized that the key to a long and healthy life is proper spinal alignment. Then he went on to illustrate how any malady can be cured--or prevented--with spinal manipulation. Even cancer. And at that point, Mark caught my eye and mouthed "I'm sorry."

But the coup de gra for me was the last patient, a teenage girl whose X-rays illustrated the progression of her scoliosis. After explaining that the girl's parents had been advised by their pediatrician to monitor her curve at home and not pursue chiropractic care, Dr. B. dramatically revealed the most recent X-ray showing a noticeable curve to her spine. It achieved the desired effect as the other participants gasped. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, I've seen worse. Pressing his advantage, Dr. B. went on to describe--in graphic detail--that the girl had since undergone scoliosis surgery with cages and bolts and all manner of horrible apparatus that were now a part of her body.

O.M.G.

We were dismissed to a private room for the final phase of the evening: Mark's individualized treatment plan--and payment options. I will spare you the financial details (Dr. B. doesn't take insurance). Suffice to say that, after three hours of mangled medical facts (did you know that people with scoliosis have a markedly shorter-than-average life span??), Mark and I were punchy and snarky when the CA came in to discuss financial arrangements. After we got home (it was too late for coffee), I googled "maximized living+reviews" and found several cautionary tales, including this one.

So, the next time you're out and about, if you see someone offering free nerve scans, remember: "forewarned is forearmed."

Remembering a Christmas Eve past

Christmas always evokes memories of my large, loud Italian family coming together to celebrate. And eat. A lot. Italians do not consume meat on Christmas Eve and every year Aunt Rose (my grandmother's sister) would invite us all to her small house on Wellington Avenue to enjoy steaming dishes of stuffed squid, stuffed peppers, cooked baccalla, eggplant parmigana, and a big bowl of baccalla salad. I never developed an appreciation for seafood, so I would instead focus on her crunchy homemade pizza and spaghetti, picking the calamari out of the latter's sauce and passing it to my cousins.

Going to Aunt Rose's house on Christmas Eve was something my family did without thinking. It's where we belonged, where there was always a place at the table--or, for the kids, a TV tray in the living room. But that year--1975--I was halfway through my six-month recovery following my first spinal surgery (for spondylolisthesis ). In addition to a body cast, I was bedridden and therefore seemed destined to miss the annual gathering at Aunt Rose's.

But my mother, the troubleshooter, would have none of that. She managed to convince my father that I should be transported--along with my hospital bed mattress--to Aunt Rose's living room floor that year. And then it was his job to make it happen. Calling upon his friends at our town's first aid squad, I was given round-trip transportation to Aunt Rose's house by ambulance that memorable year.

The ride (literally around the corner) was the first and only time I would leave the house during the first three months of my convalescence. The following month, Dr. Keim granted me permission to walk again, but that seemed a long time off. As I was carried into the cold, crisp winter night, we paused so that I could gaze upon our house, framed in multi-colored Christmas lights--something else I would have otherwise missed that Christmas.

The warmth of Aunt Rose's house was punctuated by the aroma of Italian spices, garlic, and simmering tomatoes. In the dining room, the volume of adult conversation ebbed and flowed, and often erupted into hearty laughter. Meanwhile, my cousins, seated on the well-worn furniture in the living room, formed a circle around me as I lay in the middle of the floor. As they ate from their dinner dishes, the television droned on in the background. The youngest of us, two-year-old Michael, raced between the dining and living rooms, darting under furniture and through adult legs. Occasionally he skidded to a halt long enough to rest his head next to mine. And then he was up and running again. It was just another Christmas Eve at Aunt Rose's and I was so happy that, thanks to my parents, I had not missed it.

This Christmas finds me decades older and many miles away from the extended family that made that noisy, crowded house so special. But I am blessed to be with my own family, making new memories that I hope my children will similarly cherish decades from now.

Wishing you joyous memory-making.

Merry Christmas!

Glowing

The first time it happened, I shrugged it off.

Then it happened again. And again.

Everywhere I go these days, people keep telling me the same thing:

"You're glowing."

Glowing?

Bemused, I discussed this recurring comment with a colleague that I had not seen since a few months post-hip joint replacement (who also used the G-word upon meeting me for lunch a few weeks ago).

"You're visibly not in pain anymore. People can see it in your face," she said.

Well, the joke's on me. Here I thought I was soldiering on, with no one the wiser. But in reality, everyone else had my number.

And now I'm glowing.

After one year, one month, one week and a day since my successful surgery, I'm feeling better than I ever thought I would. And if that means I'm glowing, so be it.

In the meantime, I need to reconsider the quote at the top of this blog. Apparently 'suffering' isn't as 'optional' as I once believed.

Surgeon surprise

A few weeks ago I had my final post-op visit with my shoulder surgeon. It has been four months since my rotator cuff repair and he has officially discharged me--and told me something I never knew about surgeons.

As his nurse led me back to the exam room, I noticed a sign announcing my surgeon's intent to retire later this year. I was at once glad that I'd had my surgery when I did, and sad that he won't be there if I need him in the future.

Dr. David (Fajgenbaum) has an animated personality and, as we talked about his decision to retire, it quickly became clear that he is very excited about hanging up his scalpel to spend more time with his family while he is still healthy to enjoy it. He is also looking forward to fewer sleepless nights. What the what?

He explained:

"My wife works in a hospital recovery room and when she wheels a patient out that door, that's it. She doesn't need to think about that person again. But that's not the case with surgeons. I never stop thinking about my patients and I've had many a sleepless night worrying about whether I missed something or could have done something differently. That's one thing I won't miss at all."

He stated this as if all surgeons feel as he does. Would that it were true. But I consider myself very lucky that he feels this way.

God bless you, David Fajgenbaum. May your retirement by long and healthy, and may you rest easy knowing that your patients are better--physically and otherwise--for having known you.