I must say it’s rather disconcerting to lie in bed and
contemplate having your leg amputated. I guess in many ways I was lucky . . .
my military vehicle wasn’t hit by an IED . . . I wasn’t standing there watching
the Boston Marathon . . .
My parents, sister, and ex-wife had flown in from various
parts of the country and spent the next several days with me. My aunt and uncle
were there, too, at times keeping me pretty well entertained. Friends, some I hadn't seen in decades, stopped in regularly, too. My younger
daughter Erin was there through the whole thing, keeping her very pregnant sister
in Colorado up to date and consulting with her throughout. It’s great to have
kids . . . it’s even better to have two great kids. It’s tough to think about
putting everyone through this, and I can never repay them. But having them all
there got me through the whole thing . . . family and friends.
Sometimes we just don’t think about how connected we are.
Then something happens and they just come. Their strength carried me.
After a few days, they moved me out of the ICU and into a
room. My system was getting hammered by the antibiotics, but they were working.
The infection had calmed down and my blood sugar was lower. Now I could deal
with the partially dead right foot and leg. My head had started working, too.
For a while there, I was pretty confused and unclear. To this day I have
virtually no recollection of the ER at Valley or the initial time at Dartmouth
Hitchcock.
I made the decision
after talking with a flock of doctors . . . orthopedic surgeons and plastic
surgeons. The die was cast even before I got to the hospital, though. My right
foot was rapidly dying and was already mortally wounded . . . riddled with the
infection that had in turn spread throughout my body, draining me of my
strength, hence the collapse at home. In the initial emergency room trip and
initially at Dartmouth, there was concern the infection was imbedded into the
bone and would kill more of that than it already had . . . then there was concern
about the left leg.
But I wanted to be sure amputation was the only option. Hey,
you can’t blame a guy for not wanting to have his leg cut off. They weren’t
great legs, but we’d had a 57-year relationship, after all.
Six days after entering the ICU at Dartmouth Hitchcock
Medical Center, my right leg was amputated below the knee.
Gone. It was removed as I slept in the operating room,
surrounded by nurses, anesthesiologists and doctors. God everyone was friendly. It was kind of
disconcerting. I barely caught a glimpse of the surgeons before I was went
under. The foot had been debrided twice before I made the decision—in the hopes
that, well, there might be a chance to save it.
There wasn’t.
So now I was left to think about how I’d move on from here.
Literally. I’d never thought about being handicapped, but now I was, what
remained of my right leg a short lump under the covers on the hospital bed. It
wasn’t going to grow back. So now I was left to think what that meant . . . How
would I get around? . . . Could I go back home? . . . Would I be able to drive
again? A million question flashed through my head. Right then I didn’t have any
good answer. Over the next few weeks, I’d go up and down emotionally, wondering
if it was worth living through this, or would it have been easier to just have
stayed in bed or on the floor and just died.
I think that’s the normal thought process, but as I got
stronger, things became more clear. Everyone at the hospital was upbeat and
positive. As were my family and friends, though I think behind the scenes there
was a lot of talk about my living somewhere else once I was out of the
hospital. But getting home became a goal, a driving force at least mentally to
get better and get the hell back to my house . . . my home.
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