Welcome back,
We have reached the third phase of my incredible journey, which is the hospital stay. If you have read the previous article (if you haven't, you can find it HERE), you will know that my journey went through a period of a 12-day coma caused by a double fracture of the frontal bone and a massive hematoma. Fortunately, the hematoma was absorbed, and after spending days in the intensive care unit of the Maggiore Hospital in Bologna, the time had finally come for my transfer to the regular ward to continue with the Recovery after motorcycle accident.
The day before the transfer, the doctors, faced with the extremely high levels of infection I had, decided to try a treatment called "Vac Therapy." But what did this procedure exactly involve? My below-the-knee amputation (transtibial) was still an open wound, and sponges were inserted into the wound, which were then wrapped in a special vacuum film. A machine was connected to the whole system, continuously filtering the blood to try to purify it from infections. I can't deny that, described in these terms, Vac Therapy didn't seem particularly painful or invasive.
Unfortunately, every two days, dressing changes had to be done. And what did this operation entail? It involved opening the vacuum film, removing the sponges, thoroughly cleaning the unclosed stump wound, replacing the clean sponges, and closing the whole system. You may wonder how it feels at that moment. You know when you accidentally hit your elbow against a corner and you feel that painful shock that lasts only a few moments? Well, what you feel during the dressing change is exactly that sensation, but instead of lasting just a few moments, it painfully lingers for about thirty minutes. The wound is open, the severed nerves are exposed, and the pain is excruciating. The first dressing change was performed in the intensive care unit, where I had the option to alleviate the pain with morphine. But once transferred to the regular ward, I was no longer allowed to use such potent painkillers due to regulatory restrictions. Every day, I lived in torment, with anticipated dread for the dressing change and another dread the following day, knowing that there was only one day left until the next one. It was a genuine nightmare.
The transfer to the regular ward, even though it was the geriatric ward due to the lack of space, gave me an immense sense of relief. It almost felt like a discharge, and I felt freer. But in reality, true freedom was still far away. I must confess that until that moment, I had never experienced a hospital stay, not even in a day hospital; so for me, it was a completely new experience. Not particularly liking novelties, both positive and negative ones, I found myself facing a monstrous mental difficulty. Feeling caged, devoid of freedom, and unable to leave was unbearable for me.
During those days, Barbara was my pillar. She was not allowed to collapse because it could have caused a devastating chain reaction. The head nurse of the ward proved to be very understanding and allowed us to place a chair in the room next to my bed. Barbara could stay with me throughout the day and even sleep on the chair next to me. This was vital for me because she was everything to me. I couldn't be without her even for five minutes. Occasionally, Barbara had to go home to take a shower and/or relax for half an hour, but as soon as she left the room, I plunged into deep panic. Time seemed to stand still, hours and hours seemed to pass, I called her on the phone, and she would answer, surprised, telling me that only those few minutes required to reach the car in the parking lot had passed. It was a disaster for me. But I had "my" women, the important ones who worked tirelessly for my well-being and to expedite my recovery. I was very agitated during those days, tormented by pain and the ongoing infection. I had a giant syringe of antibiotics connected to me throughout the day. Antibiotics, as is often the case, caused a very common side effect: diarrhea. Yes, I wasn't spared from this annoying side effect.
The days in the hospital passed slowly, extremely slowly. In the morning, wake-up at seven, breakfast, changing the bed linens, and starting the various medical visits. As for the linens, I had specifically asked my mother to bring me my own personal pillows, and every day she brought freshly washed and scented pillowcases from home. She had to use an abundant amount of fabric softener because that scent reminded me of home. At night, when I woke up, smelling that scent gave me incredible relief. In the first few days, I continued to have hallucinations, especially at night. As soon as I closed my eyes, my mind would start painting thoughts and images that raced frenetically. Walls illuminated by a sea of Christmas lights, billions of bulbs shining everywhere, and children drawing on every surface as if creating a vibrant Keith Haring-style artwork. This situation drove me crazy; mentally, I couldn't rest, it felt like I never slept. The hallucinations continued for about a week, to the point that the doctors prescribed me Haloperidol. It is a medication used to treat disorders that affect thought, perception, and behavior, such as bipolar disorder, behavioral disorders, and schizophrenia. It scared me a bit because initially, I hadn't connected these disturbances to the morphine.
The amputation had weakened my body, especially the entire muscle system, both due to the 12 days in a coma and the lack of strength in the muscles of my left leg, which were not strong enough to support my weight in an upright position. The first time I tried to stand up, my head started spinning. Perhaps I wasn't ready yet. Barbara, with infinite patience, helped me overcome these temporary difficulties. We just had to reorient ourselves, find a new path to walk on, and start the journey.
The first three weeks in the ward were extremely complicated. The doctors, with caution, never explicitly mentioned my amputation. They claimed that the situation was still unstable. However, an unpleasant odor coming from the wound and a progressive worsening of my health led to a drastic decision: a second amputation was necessary. The announcement of this news shattered my inner world; everything seemed to collapse upon me. The three days preceding the operation felt like the final days of a condemned person. This event completely drained me of every ounce of energy; my mind stopped functioning, and my fighting spirit was defeated by this tragic revelation. Nevertheless, even in that moment, Barbara proved to be my rock, somehow helping me survive those three days until the operation for the second amputation.
Dr. A., the orthopedic surgeon at the Maggiore Hospital in Bologna, was the doctor who operated on me in every instance. He was on duty in the Emergency Department when I was brought in by ambulance in critical condition. Dr. A., who was relatively young at that time, maybe around 38-40 years old, took my situation to heart and decided to follow and operate on me in every phase of the journey. During the visit with the department head, Dr. A. was present in the room, showing great sensitivity and tact in trying to explain the situation to me. That conversation I had with my now trusted orthopedic surgeon became my own, used with everyone I encountered in similar circumstances. Fully grasping those words at that moment was not easy, in fact, it was extremely difficult. But over time, my mind accepted them and understood that was the only possible path. Dr. A. told me:
"I understand the importance of the knee as a joint, but you need to understand that a diseased and non-functioning knee is not useful for your life. It's a problem that will wear you down; a non-functioning knee serves no purpose. Paradoxically, you will come to realize that with a well-made prosthesis, you can do practically anything."
And I must admit that Dr. A. was right. A knee that doesn't work serves no purpose.
I want to emphasize a fundamental concept in this article, especially in the final phase. Sometimes, our minds get lost for some inexplicable reason. But as time goes by, perhaps through mistakes and lived experiences, we reconsider concepts that we cannot fully grasp at the moment.
Thank you, Dr. A.
Continue to follow my extraordinary journey towards rebirth.
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