Once Monday, March 4's successful surgery was behind me, it was time for a briefer follow-up surgery on the morning of Thursday, March 7.
I would be anaethetized for this one, when the surgeons installed my power pack snugly just under my collarbone on my right side and slipped the wires under my skin up my neck and connected with electrodes at the best sites in my brain selected to reduce my PD symptoms.
It took about 2 1/2 hours and all went well. I was soon back in my room -- I actually had a room after three nights without camped in various spots around the hospital.
I was very encouraged by the testing that was done on me between the first and second surgery by the surgical team's nurse. Using a small hand-held power pack, she tried connecting to the various wires sticking out of my head. She tried a variety of combinations and power levels; some of them were quite successful at stopping tremors and dyskinesia, including my neck, and smoothing out my walking. I felt great!
I was told that I wasn't going to get to have my own power pack turned on until after Easter, when swelling had abated and my brain was functioning normally. Another chapter in the hurry up and wait story of this medical condition.
I was released from hospital Friday, March 8. My recovery continues at home, where I can rest when I want and feed a healthy appetite. It's going to take a little while to feel 'normal' again. I've resumed taking my PD meds and my neck is telling me it's overdue for a botox injection, but that may be a thing of the past once I'm 'switched on.'
Many thanks to Vicki for her special care and to all of you who sent cards, flowers, fruit and e-mails. I'm truly humbled by your care and concern.
Next time, we'll talk about turning on my hardware. I can't wait.
Thursday 21 March 2013
Thursday 14 March 2013
the longest day ends in success
I made it through the surgery. Thank God!
Here is sit in front of the computer, brain still somewhat scrambled after two significant surgeries and looking like Frankenstein Jr. with all the stitches in my 'noggin.
I think I scared the s--t out of more than several people at a close friend's funeral yesterday, as it was one of those days when my speech was not clear or loud. I mumbled something they couldn't understand and said something about final hookup for my hardware coming after Easter, when my brain and all my incisions are healed and swelling is no more. They just smiled blankly back. Obviously, they didn't understand a word I had uttered.
On March 4, the first part of surgery required me to be at the Foothills Hospital at 5 am for preparation and a preliminary CAT scan so that surgeons could map my brain. Actual surgery commenced about 7:30 am and didn't end until closing about 7:30 p.m.
The OR was a cacaphony of noise and light as people came and went all day. And I was awake for the entire procedure, with local anaethestic in my scalp so that I could guide the surgery team towards the right targets deep inside my brain. I stll don't know how I did it, but I did. Talk about an endurance test.
Having my head bolted into a frame within another frame used to set surgical co-ordinates on my skull also helped keep me still.
The team drilled two major holes on the right side of my brain, and then inserted probes which used electrical sounds to find target sites. As they neared the target sites, technicians called out how far they were from the site -- for example 8.8 mms -- and said what the cells were like in that area.I was told to watch for unusual responses, such a a burst if light in my field of vision -- as they applied different amounts of current. I recall seeing bursts of light, as well as a strong sensation pulling down on my left shoulder, arm and leg.
Probes inserted into the right side of my brain produced some strong responses on my left side and a few strong flashes, as I recall.
The morning passed quickly. As the day progressed and we began work on my brain's left side, I grew more weary.I asked one of the surgeons, Keith, a friendly, unflappable Aussie, when he was going to be done. He estimated about 2 1/2 hours. Each minute that went by seemed like an eternity.
A very full day finally ended with freedom from the metal frame and a headache you wouldn't believe. I was wheeled into a corner in the Recovery Room, where I spent that night due to a lack of beds. I spent two more nights in an overflow area of the neurology ward and then finally got a bed in a semi-room for my last night. Thank you, Alberta government!
I'm going to sign off now and promise another posting next week on Part 2 of the surgery..
Until then, take care.
I've encountered some blogspot hosting problems which I'm now trying the iron out. In the meantime, here is my latest postng.
Here is sit in front of the computer, brain still somewhat scrambled after two significant surgeries and looking like Frankenstein Jr. with all the stitches in my 'noggin.
I think I scared the s--t out of more than several people at a close friend's funeral yesterday, as it was one of those days when my speech was not clear or loud. I mumbled something they couldn't understand and said something about final hookup for my hardware coming after Easter, when my brain and all my incisions are healed and swelling is no more. They just smiled blankly back. Obviously, they didn't understand a word I had uttered.
On March 4, the first part of surgery required me to be at the Foothills Hospital at 5 am for preparation and a preliminary CAT scan so that surgeons could map my brain. Actual surgery commenced about 7:30 am and didn't end until closing about 7:30 p.m.
The OR was a cacaphony of noise and light as people came and went all day. And I was awake for the entire procedure, with local anaethestic in my scalp so that I could guide the surgery team towards the right targets deep inside my brain. I stll don't know how I did it, but I did. Talk about an endurance test.
Having my head bolted into a frame within another frame used to set surgical co-ordinates on my skull also helped keep me still.
The team drilled two major holes on the right side of my brain, and then inserted probes which used electrical sounds to find target sites. As they neared the target sites, technicians called out how far they were from the site -- for example 8.8 mms -- and said what the cells were like in that area.I was told to watch for unusual responses, such a a burst if light in my field of vision -- as they applied different amounts of current. I recall seeing bursts of light, as well as a strong sensation pulling down on my left shoulder, arm and leg.
Probes inserted into the right side of my brain produced some strong responses on my left side and a few strong flashes, as I recall.
The morning passed quickly. As the day progressed and we began work on my brain's left side, I grew more weary.I asked one of the surgeons, Keith, a friendly, unflappable Aussie, when he was going to be done. He estimated about 2 1/2 hours. Each minute that went by seemed like an eternity.
A very full day finally ended with freedom from the metal frame and a headache you wouldn't believe. I was wheeled into a corner in the Recovery Room, where I spent that night due to a lack of beds. I spent two more nights in an overflow area of the neurology ward and then finally got a bed in a semi-room for my last night. Thank you, Alberta government!
I'm going to sign off now and promise another posting next week on Part 2 of the surgery..
Until then, take care.
I've encountered some blogspot hosting problems which I'm now trying the iron out. In the meantime, here is my latest postng.
Saturday 2 March 2013
approaching final countdown
Many of you have probably wondered why I have blogged nary a word here since Christmas. Well, it's a long story. I'll do my best to explain.
You may recall that I had just received news of a firm date for my DBS surgery, Monday March 4. I was elated. However,the chillly rains of reality soon dampened my enthusiasm.
I returned to the Foothills Hospital here in Calgary on Jan.16 for some pre-operative testing and preparations. I was instructed to not take my Parkinson's meds that morning, so that base-line tests of physical and mental capacities could be performed on me. The same tests were done several days later after I resumed my normal meds schedule.
Sans medications, I felt awful. My voice became unintelligible; my limbs froze weakly at my sides and tremors gripped my entire body. All seemed to be going well in my first no-meds test session with a nurse who is part of the surgery team. Then I did some basic memory testing.
I did not perform well on some simple recall questions. The nurse quickly picked up on this and flagged what could be a potential problem.
Neurologists do not want to do DBS surgery on candidates with failing memories, fearing the procedure could further aggravate essential memory functions.
My memory had been tested six months earlier in preliminary screening and was okay.
This discovery, however, led to three more memory and mental functioning testing sessions -- one a brief session with another nurse and two more three-hour sessions with hospital psychologists -- before an assessment team decided just this past week that my memory was okay and the surgery could indeed proceed this coming Monday.
Stressed doesn't begin to describe how I felt through all of this trial. The surgery I had been looking forward to for at least a year could have been cancelled. Was my brain to betray me? Had Parkinson's begun to gnaw on my memory, too? Was I going to be denied a good chance to reduce my PD symptoms? I even began to question my resolve to undergo the surgery. The last thing I wanted to do was blog about my uncertain future.
A good friend reminded me to heed what I felt in my heart about the procedure more intently than what my intellect was telling me in my worried state. I did, and realized that I was willing to take all the risks this kind of surgery entails in return for a better quality of life. I faced my worst fears and examined them closely.
Now, I envisioned nothing but success.
So here I sit, ready to deliver myself over to a team of surgical experts in about 40 hours for the first part of what will be a two-part surgery, scheduled for Monday and Thursday.
I now sport a practical, surgery-friendly brush cut instead of longer, thick locks of hair that still refuse to grey.
Day 1 is a long day -- up to 12 hours in a conscious state so as to confirm to doctors that electrodes are placed in the correct locations on both sides of my brain. Day 2, the electrical stimulator that will deliver current to my brain will be installed in my chest and connected by wires under my skin to the electrodes.
Right now, I feel like an astronaut must feel strappped into a space capsule atop a huge rocket ready to thunder skyward. There's no turning back, and it's euphoric and terrorizing all at once.
Prayers and positive thoughts are the order of the day (thanks to all who have kindly shown support to Vicki and I).
I'll tell you all about my experiences again soon.
You may recall that I had just received news of a firm date for my DBS surgery, Monday March 4. I was elated. However,the chillly rains of reality soon dampened my enthusiasm.
I returned to the Foothills Hospital here in Calgary on Jan.16 for some pre-operative testing and preparations. I was instructed to not take my Parkinson's meds that morning, so that base-line tests of physical and mental capacities could be performed on me. The same tests were done several days later after I resumed my normal meds schedule.
Sans medications, I felt awful. My voice became unintelligible; my limbs froze weakly at my sides and tremors gripped my entire body. All seemed to be going well in my first no-meds test session with a nurse who is part of the surgery team. Then I did some basic memory testing.
I did not perform well on some simple recall questions. The nurse quickly picked up on this and flagged what could be a potential problem.
Neurologists do not want to do DBS surgery on candidates with failing memories, fearing the procedure could further aggravate essential memory functions.
My memory had been tested six months earlier in preliminary screening and was okay.
This discovery, however, led to three more memory and mental functioning testing sessions -- one a brief session with another nurse and two more three-hour sessions with hospital psychologists -- before an assessment team decided just this past week that my memory was okay and the surgery could indeed proceed this coming Monday.
Stressed doesn't begin to describe how I felt through all of this trial. The surgery I had been looking forward to for at least a year could have been cancelled. Was my brain to betray me? Had Parkinson's begun to gnaw on my memory, too? Was I going to be denied a good chance to reduce my PD symptoms? I even began to question my resolve to undergo the surgery. The last thing I wanted to do was blog about my uncertain future.
A good friend reminded me to heed what I felt in my heart about the procedure more intently than what my intellect was telling me in my worried state. I did, and realized that I was willing to take all the risks this kind of surgery entails in return for a better quality of life. I faced my worst fears and examined them closely.
Now, I envisioned nothing but success.
So here I sit, ready to deliver myself over to a team of surgical experts in about 40 hours for the first part of what will be a two-part surgery, scheduled for Monday and Thursday.
I now sport a practical, surgery-friendly brush cut instead of longer, thick locks of hair that still refuse to grey.
Day 1 is a long day -- up to 12 hours in a conscious state so as to confirm to doctors that electrodes are placed in the correct locations on both sides of my brain. Day 2, the electrical stimulator that will deliver current to my brain will be installed in my chest and connected by wires under my skin to the electrodes.
Right now, I feel like an astronaut must feel strappped into a space capsule atop a huge rocket ready to thunder skyward. There's no turning back, and it's euphoric and terrorizing all at once.
Prayers and positive thoughts are the order of the day (thanks to all who have kindly shown support to Vicki and I).
I'll tell you all about my experiences again soon.
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