Showing posts with label surgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surgery. Show all posts

Thursday, September 16, 2021

Losing sleep over the pandemic

Photo by Александар Цветановић from Pexels

 Vox:

When the pandemic hit, rates of insomnia spiked around the world, driven by everything from the stress of living during an international public health crisis to the changes in daily life wrought by lockdowns. “People had additional responsibilities, new challenges, much more uncertainty,” Lauren Hale, a professor of family, population, and preventive medicine at Stony Brook University, told Vox.

And as the delta variant continues to spread around the country, that uncertainty and its effects on sleep may not have abated. Some people have just gotten used to disrupted cycles and 3 am anxiety spirals; it’s how life is now.
I've mentioned this before, but my experience has been totally the opposite. After nearly a decade of sleep deprivation -- to the point that work was nearly impossible, depression gripped me, and I expected to die any day -- I finally started sleeping again not long into the pandemic. Some of this, I think, was due to quarantine-induced diet changes: I stopped eating fried food so much, and I stopped drinking caffeinated coffee because anxiety was producing heart palpitations. Within a few months, I was sleeping better than I had in years, with huge results: Less depression, more energy, more hope. Sleep, I've come to believe, is the most important factor in my well-being. 

Friday, April 30, 2021

The anniversary

Ten years ago today I went to the emergency room at Thomas Jefferson Hospital, knowing that I was sick but unaware how close my body was to failing entirely. The doctors saved my life. But my body was left broken. I am grateful that I didn’t leave my son fatherless when he was still a toddler. I struggle every day with how to make a good life in a broken body. I am better at that task right now than I have been, but it is still an effort, and the trauma of that year never really goes away. That’s life, I guess. Is there a German word that captures a recognition that one is fortunate but also haunted by a sense of loss? That's me.

Hopefully, I’ll be here in 10 years to give you another update. But nothing is guaranteed. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones.


Thursday, November 26, 2020

I couldn't sleep for a long time. Now I can.

This year, I am thankful for the ability to sleep. Because until earlier this year, I hadn’t slept well for most of a decade. And it was killing me. Let me tell you a story...

I trace my years of bad sleep back to the surgeries I had in 2011. My already-bad nasal passageways were messed up even more by a bad attempt to shove an oxygen tube up them before the second surgery, with the result that almost no air got through afterward. (I was a mouthbreather by necessity.) I never really recovered from those surgeries -- my torso is broken -- and my sleep was the worst outcome of all: During my last years in Philly, I would fall asleep at work (humiliating -- I even fell asleep during a cop corruption trial in front of colleagues) or wake up in my home at night having sleptwalk around the place. A couple of times I woke up because I was accidentally injuring myself.

And the exhaustion was total.

My life felt awful. My ability to hold a regular job, instead of freelancing, felt awful. (Spending eight hours in an office was an ungodly challenge.) My blood pressure and weight ballooned. Depression set in. I couldn’t read a book or watch a movie without falling asleep. Everything was a struggle.

A nasal surgery a couple of years back helped restore some function -- I haven’t sleptwalk in a couple of years -- but honestly -- I entered 2020 ready, and maybe even willing, to be done. To die. It was that bad. It had been years since I slept more than about two hours at a stretch, and even that sleep was nastily oxygen deprived.

I took a sleep apnea test the night of the Iowa caucuses. It came back how I expected, but with a discouraging result: The CPAP machine they tried to use on me was impossible. I felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t keep it on for more than a few seconds at a time. I felt like I had run out of options.

Only, I hadn't.

One weird thing about the pandemic lockdown. They made me reset. I stopped eating out much. The result: No more fried foods. The reflux that had been a regular part of my life for years just ... kind of disappeared. And the anxiety made my heart palpitate a bit, so I stopped drinking coffee. And I adjusted my sleeping arrangements to prop my upper body up a bit so that my sleepy breathing is better. 

And sometime over the summer, I realized I'd had a few good nights of sleep. That I wasn't waking up all the time.

That I felt ... rested.

There is something of a virtuous feedback loop to all of this. Not being exhausted and out of oxygen has made it possible for me to exercise better than I have in a long time. Starting in August, I regularly walk two miles a day. When the year started, that would have been beyond me.

So the weird thing for me about 2020 is that I arrive at Thanksgiving more personally hopeful about my ability to live than I have been for years. I am a better father and husband than I was, I think. Not so crippled by depression, or an inability to walk more than a block without needing to find a seat. I am not all the way back -- and honestly, I probably won't get there. But I am a lot further back than I expected to be. I'd lost hope. Now I can sleep again. And everything about me is better for it.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

On hospitalization: Advocate for yourself

Over the course of three surgeries starting in May, I've had the honor of spending 17 days in the hospital in recent months. Before this, I'd not spent a night in the hospital since I was five years old, so I had to learn a thing or two about how best to take care of myself.

What I learned is this: I had to be an advocate for myself.

My second visit to the hospital, in July, was the worst. Part of that was a function of the surgery itself--I was opened up along the entire length of my belly, and surgeons had a difficult time once they got inside. The result was more pain--and more pain medication--than I have ever experienced in my life.

An additional problem, for me, is that I am what's known in the medical industry as a "bad stick." Hospitalization is an unending series of 1 a.m. blood draws--the better to deprive you of needed rest--and what became clear during that second visit is that it was hard for medical personnel to find a decent vein to tap. On one particularly unpleasant evening, the phlebotomist stuck me five times, fruitlessly, leaving an ugly and long-lasting bruise. I warned subsequent needle-bearers they would get two opportunities, tops.

I was ready for the problem this time. Every time somebody new approached me to draw blood, I told them: "I'm a bad stick. It's hard for people to find the right veins. I know you're trying to help me, but I'm not inclined to sit still for repeated stickings." And the results were good: One young lady stuck me three times--once in the hand! digging around!--but everybody else seemed to take extra time and care to finding and preparing the right vein. For the most part, the blood draws were a smooth process this time around.

My other problem during the second visit was room-sharing. I'm not above the company, but I realized--thanks to a nasty panic attack on my last day--that I needed better air and light than I was generally getting. So I told the people in charge of my care that if I shared a room, I needed to be next to the window--which, in addition to providing natural light, also happened to be closer to the air-moving unit in the room. With light and moving air, I could survive better. It's probably not a coincidence that I was moved to a private room after one night during this last visit.

I'm sure I seemed snotty and a little precious in laying down the ground rules to the (really!) great team of medical professionals who were helping me recover from a devastating illness. But the truth is that this hospitalization was the easiest of the three. That's partly because the surgery was less invasive and painful, but also--I think--because I knew how hospital conditions affect me, and what conditions provided the best level of comfort (and thus the least stress) in that setting.

I'm grateful for every single person who attended me during my hospitalizations. I hope I never offended them, though I'm sure I did from time to time. But there's no point in becoming a passive slab of meat once you enter the hospital. Once I figured out what I needed, I asked for it. And generally got it. That made the process much, much easier to endure.