Bedpans and reachsticks

Saving Elmo: Part III

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On Friday night, Sept. 16, I fractured my left femur just above Elmo, my replacement knee. Four days and two surgeries later I found myself in The Fortress, a post-acute care facility, doing my best to save Elmo (and my mobility).

These are the stories of that path. They’re self-indulgent, icky-raw in places and, if you don’t know me, probably boring. As I move down this path, though, I’ll read them to see how far I’ve come. And, maybe, if you or a loved one end up on the same path, they’ll help you spot a light at the end of the tunnel.

“I’m sorry,” I said, falling back with a sigh, “I don’t quite have the hang of being an invalid yet.”

Dave had been rubbing cream on my sore leg, but now his head came up, “Invalid?!?” and his eyes flashed, “You’re NOT an invalid. Where did you get that idea?”

I gestured to the hospital bed, the wheelchair, walker, leg rests, safety rails, call button, bed pan… “Gee, I dunno,” I said drily, “Lucky guess?”

“Those things don’t make you an invalid,” he said, glaring, “Your HEAD makes you an invalid. These are tools to keep you from BEING an invalid, so stop saying that.”

Did I mention that Dave’s one of my favorite nurses at The Fortress?

I saw he was right. This rehab facility, the medical gear, physical-occupational-recreational-respiratory therapies… Just as I use kilns, studio classes, and cutters to sculpt glass, or computers and meeting rooms to do my dayjob, these are the tools of my new occupation: Saving Elmo and getting back on BOTH feet, asap.

So far, my tools wind up in one of three categories:

  • Enablers, like my wheelchair and reachsticks
  • Protectors, like Hector the Protector brace and the hospital bed with its blessed safety rails
  • Royal pains in the patoot. Like bedpans.

My sister Becky–who’s done no-load-bearing before, sent me a bunch of enablers: Long-reach sponges, reachsticks that use pinching fingers to grab stuff, and a telescoping magnet that’s especially good at picking a dropped power cord off the floor:

I’m getting better with the reachsticks. I can pick up socks, close the blinds, and retrieve stuff on the top shelf of my little closet without tumbling it onto my head. And I’m finding more and more of these infinitely useful enablers: Sliding bath seats (for whenever they finally let me shower) and fingerless padded gloves so my hands aren’t bruised when I wheel down the road.

But bedpans? Here’s the thing about bedpans: They contravene a lifetime of potty training.

I never encountered one before my current adventure and I can’t exactly say it’s been one of the highlights.

First time, the nurse brought the thing in, bagged and powdered it, then slid it underneath me.

Correction: “Slid” isn’t accurate. It’s more like “shoved, pulled, pushed, rolled, lifted, pried, and pinched.”

Finally, though, they got me perched atop this flat pink plastic pan that intruded on my private parts. We all waited for something to happen.

Uhm…Brain? You wanna get with Bladder and get on with it, here?

The Brain snorted, “Wait, what? You WANT me to wet the bed? Are you crazy? Sweetie, you just shimmy your nasty little bladder onto that toilet over there, like a good girl, and let me know when you’re ready. (sniff) Wet the bed. Yeah, right.”

Look, this bedpan thing hurts. Can you just…give the order to go?

“In your dreams, bed-wetter.”

The caregiver turns the bathroom faucet on full-force, apparently in hopes The Brain was too stupid to get the point and needed a watery stimulus. Kinda like a urinary sing-along.

The Brain wasn’t buying it.

Sigh. I’m gonna take root on this bedpan. They’ll find my body in the morning, permanently capped by this hollow pink monster.

I counted sheep. Tried to relax. Powered the bed up to full sitting position. Read a whole magazine article. 40 minutes later, mission accomplished. By then, The Brain and I weren’t on speaking terms.

The poor nurses carefully peeled the bedpan off my backside (ouch!), got some warm washcloths and, well, cleaned me up.

Thank god I’m constipated.

It got easier, though. Third time around, I had bedpanning DOWN. I’m never going to win a medal, and I will never make friends with my bedpan, but at least I was completing my mission in less than 20 minutes.

And it sure as heck gave me a great incentive to learn that bed-to-walker-to-wheelchair-to-bathroom trick.


The Saving Elmo series covers my adventures after crashing to the ground on Elmo, my replacement knee, sustaining an “open, comminuted fracture of the left femoral shaft.” It’s a tad more dire than it sounds; if my bone doesn’t grow completely back and return me to normal function, there’s a new, more painful, less effective femoral replacement in my future…with eventual amputation.

If you want to follow along on the journey, try these posts:

The ravell’d sleeve of care…

July 26th, 2017|5 Comments

Test: Can you spot the cripple?

July 22nd, 2017|14 Comments

Zeroing in and leveling out

July 20th, 2017|34 Comments

Femurs, accessibility, and Utah: Saving Elmo II

July 16th, 2017|14 Comments

Tripping the light surgical: Saving Elmo II

July 14th, 2017|12 Comments

Wheelchair traveler…

July 12th, 2017|7 Comments

Filling up on sweetness, with fragility

July 6th, 2017|8 Comments

Saving Elmo: Sometimes the bear eats you

June 26th, 2017|17 Comments

No place like it…

June 12th, 2017|6 Comments

Driving Miz Cynthia, Part Two

June 5th, 2017|9 Comments

Drivin’ Miz Cynthia

June 1st, 2017|5 Comments

Home-ward bound

May 29th, 2017|10 Comments

Room 15: Paying it forward

April 3rd, 2017|12 Comments

Whippersnapper

April 1st, 2017|5 Comments

The Fortress

March 25th, 2017|9 Comments

On the bone again…

March 10th, 2017|14 Comments

Moonlight at sunrise, with jitters

March 8th, 2017|8 Comments

The wheeled view

March 2nd, 2017|10 Comments

Elmo, Beorn, and the Ferengi’s ears

January 30th, 2017|12 Comments

Cliffhangers, clues, and claying around

November 28th, 2016|7 Comments

8 weeks: Patience for the unvirtuous

November 16th, 2016|12 Comments

Death by chicken

October 20th, 2016|5 Comments

Mr. Desmond

October 13th, 2016|7 Comments

Saving Elmo 4: The Meltdown

October 9th, 2016|13 Comments

Bedpans and reachsticks

October 2nd, 2016|4 Comments

Saving Elmo 2: The Plan

September 29th, 2016|11 Comments

Saving Elmo 1: I fight concrete…and lose

September 27th, 2016|26 Comments

 

2017-07-03T14:25:59+00:00

4 Comments

  1. ellen abbott October 4, 2016 at 7:18 am - Reply

    so how many stairs was that? my mantra for getting through things has always been ‘it’s only temporary’. anyway, at least now when I get pissy about something I’ll just think of you. it can always be worse.

  2. fostersbeauties October 3, 2016 at 6:04 pm - Reply

    Ah, bedpans. Thankfully, I’ve never had to try to poop in one, but peeing in them is hard enough. Thinking of you, Cynthia, and hoping you keep your spirits up and that leg healing. –Aviva

  3. Linda October 3, 2016 at 1:30 pm - Reply

    I have been a lurker for many years and first time that I ‘say something’…….you are one AWESOME LADY!!!! Sending warm hugs and speedy full recovery wishes to you Cynthia.

  4. Lesley C Nolan October 2, 2016 at 5:06 pm - Reply

    OMG….Just can’t think….Wow. You know sometimes in our lives we are reminded that….”Tomorrow Tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow…” and “This too will pass…” and in those moments we might show restraint and not say “Fuck You” as loud as we can! But then again, we might not. Cynthia, I will just say, that your humor will keep you in good stead. I have enjoyed reading this and quite frankly…. I am watching for the stairs! Be well soon.

Comments welcome! (thanks)