Despite several different regimens of antibiotics, the infection in Stephanie's left foot hadn't gone away. Walking had become so painful for her that we'd purchased a wheelchair, so she could get around inside our apartment, and get out once in a while. We'd been told that the infection had spread to the bone, and that eventually it would spread and kill her, unless she had an amputation.
Her
admission was scheduled for January 3, 2016, at the University of Wisconsin
Hospital, in Madison. Stephanie was terrified, but perfectly calm.
I parked the
car, and popped the trunk. Then I came around and opened the passenger door,
walked back and brought the wheelchair from the trunk, placed it beside the
passenger seat, and locked the wheels. I extended my arm toward Stephanie,
she took my hand firmly, and I gently pulled her out of the car and into a painful standing
position, very briefly, then pivoted slightly, and lowered her into the
wheelchair.
That
gentle-pull was how Stephanie got into and out of her wheelchair, on and off
the toilet, and into and out of the shower chair we'd purchased and installed
in our bathtub. We used a variation of that gentle-pull to get her up the four
steps and into our apartment building, which of course was much more painful
because Steph had to be standing on her infected foot the whole time,
step-pull-step-pull-step-pull-step-pull. The gentle-pull became an anguished but
necessary routine for Stephanie over the months of her infection.
Several
times, at Steph's many medical appointments, the staff thought that getting her
from the wheelchair onto an examining table would be a problem. They proposed bringing
in an additional employee or special equipment to lift her, but Steph would
say, "Nah, we've got this," and they'd watch as we did the gentle-pull.
On
that bleak morning in the hospital's parking ramp, after gently-pulling Steph from
the car to the wheelchair, I pushed and she rolled into the building. We went down
a long entry hallway she couldn't possibly have walked, and around a corner into
the check-in area. UW Hospital is huge, and even with several staffers at the front
desk there was a short line. We waited for a few minutes, Steph in her
wheelchair with me standing behind her.
We
had talked about this beforehand so I wasn't surprised, but I was absolutely
impressed. We were there to have her leg chopped off, so never again would
Stephanie be able to walk on her own two legs, and she wanted to walk to the
front desk.
"Next,
please." A light came on, indicating which reception station we were
supposed to go to, and I rolled Stephanie until she was about a yard from the
desk. Then I set the brakes, came around to the front of the wheelchair, and
gently-pulled her up. She held my arm for stability as she took the few slow
but very painful steps to the check-in station, and sat in one of the hospital's
chairs — a chair with four legs, not a wheelchair.
Stephanie
answered the forty questions you're asked at any hospital's front
desk, and the man who checked us in noticed that Stephanie's eyes were wet,
and offered her a tissue. She was crying not from fear or worry, just from the
pain of those last few steps she would ever take. I was moist-eyed, too, and
Stephanie shared her tissue.
When
the questions and answers were over, a plastic ID-band was snapped onto Stephanie's
wrist. I brought the wheelchair directly beside the chair Stephanie was sitting
in, locked the brakes, and gently-pulled her up from the chair, pivoted
slightly, and lowered her into the wheelchair, same as we'd done a thousand
times.
The staffer recited the always-complicated directions of which way to go, where to turn, which colored line to follow on the floor, and which elevators
to take in that enormous, bafflingly-laid out hospital.
It
was the beginning of an adventure neither of us wanted, but we were both
enormously proud of those last few steps Stephanie took.
* * * * * * * * * *
She
was assigned a pre-op room, and a couple of staffers lowered the
bed and watched as I gentle-pulled Steph from her wheelchair into the bed. Then
came a long wait. Then more questions. Then another long wait. Steph had been forbidden to eat, so in addition to being worried and impatient, she was hungry and a little cranky.
After what seemed like hours of waiting, Stephanie picked up the remote control and we watched judge shows on the wall-mounted TV. Steph always liked the judge shows, and there
was one local channel that played only judge shows all day, five days a week.
When
half a dozen cases had been adjudicated, and the scheduled time for Stephanie
surgery had already passed, someone came in and apologized, telling us that the
day's schedule was running late. Which, obviously, we already knew, but it was nice to be told.
Then came more judge shows, then more judge shows, with someone else occasionally popping in to make sure we were doing OK. Finally the judge shows ended, and the insufferable sit-coms began. We'd been waiting perhaps four or five hours past Stephanie's scheduled surgery time.
"These things happen," she said. "There was probably an emergency and I'm not going to complain or anything, but if today was going to be nothing but watching judge shows, I could've done that at home."
Then came more judge shows, then more judge shows, with someone else occasionally popping in to make sure we were doing OK. Finally the judge shows ended, and the insufferable sit-coms began. We'd been waiting perhaps four or five hours past Stephanie's scheduled surgery time.
"These things happen," she said. "There was probably an emergency and I'm not going to complain or anything, but if today was going to be nothing but watching judge shows, I could've done that at home."
"In
a more comfortable bed," I said, "and with a bigger-screen TV and
fewer interruptions."
"It's
already after 5:00," she said. "The doctors and nurses and the
anesthesiologist probably want to go home. I'll bet my surgery gets delayed
until tomorrow. We wasted a whole day waiting for something awful, that won't even
happen today."
"Nah,
it'll happen today," said me. "If they delay the awful thing until tomorrow, they'd
have to delay all of tomorrow's surgeries."
"Bet
me," she said.
"What
do you want to bet?"
"If
they don't chop my leg off today, you have to take me to Cafe La Bellitalia when
I'm out of the hospital." That's her favorite Italian restaurant — it's expensive
so we only went on special occasions, but the food was usually good and they
did delivery, which had been a godsend while Stephanie was homebound.
"OK,
you get Cafe La Bellitalia if your surgery isn't today. But what do I get if they do the surgery today?"
"Name
it," she said. "It doesn't matter, because I'm absolutely certain it
won't be today."
I
thought about it for a while. It had to be something that would annoy her, something
she very much didn't want to do.
"You
have to watch an episode of Doctor Who with me."
"Oh.
My. God. No, anything but that."
It
was a long-running joke. I love Doctor Who, but Stephanie thought it
looked worse than stupid. I was always (and still am always) on a slow cycle
through re-watching reruns of old episodes, and Steph was always teasing me about it and
refusing to watch. But now I had her — if the surgery was today.
"You
said you wanted to bet. I'm willing to bet. It's Doctor Who if your surgery
is today, and Cafe La Bellitalia if your surgery is tomorrow."
"It's
a bet," she said, and we kissed on it.
About
ten minutes later the anesthesiologist came into the room, to ask Steph whether
she had any allergies. "Wait," she said, "they're still doing
the surgery tonight?"
"Oh,
yeah. We're running late, sorry, but definitely. We'll start in twenty
minutes or so."
After
the anesthesiologist had left the room, Steph turned to me and said, "So, Doctor
Who — just when I thought today couldn't get any crappier."
* * * * * * * * * *
A
few minutes later they rolled Stephanie down the hall, still in her bed, which had
wheels. I wasn't allowed to come with her.
She was gone for what seemed like
hours, but might have been less than I'm remembering. It was Stephanie's third surgery
since we'd been together, but by far her biggest surgery. "Worry worry
worry," as Steph and I said in our only-us baby-talk.
After
lots of pacing and worrying, the surgeon sought me out in the waiting room to
tell me everything had gone well. Stephanie was in a recovery room, so I couldn't
see her yet, but she'd been '"a trooper," she said. She also told me that
the last thing Stephanie had said as she faded under the anesthesia was, "Where's
my husband?"
When
the staff let me see Stephanie an hour or so later, someone else told me that
"Where's my husband?" had been the first thing she said when she woke
up. At the time I thought that was the sweetest thing, but now more
pessimistically I wonder if that's what they say to all the worried husbands.
We
talked, she dozed, and she awoke and we talked some more. I held Stephanie's
hand, and slept in a chair beside her bed all night, every night while she was
hospitalized. She always wanted me there, and I always wanted to be there.
The
doctors had told us that after the amputation she'd need up to two weeks of
recuperation time at the hospital. Instead it was five months and four admissions to three hospitals, and an extended stay at a nursing home, before
Stephanie finally came home.
Next:
The aftermath of the amputation.
