Life as I see it: A Science Guy’s Almanac #18. Year 2. A ruptured Spinal Disk and Giant Snowflakes

A Science Guy’s Almanac #18. Year 2. February 22, 2016

A ruptured Spinal Disk and Giant Snowflakes – Part 2

When last we left our intrepid hero, that’d be me, I was sent by gurney from the ER to the pediatrics floor. I was only 18, so I qualified as a child chronologically. Just by looking at me, though, I’d have thought someone would have noticed that I was 6’ tall and weighed around 205 pounds. Neither of those dimensions is stereotypically pediatric.

The whole “you’re how old?” thing began early in life. I was the biggest kid, or in the top two, in my class from kindergarten through 6^th grade. I had to start shaving in 7^th grade because it was against school rules for students to have facial hair.

By the time I graduated from Junior High I was 5’9” tall and weighed 165 pounds. I was also the school record holder in the 100-yard dash and the long jump. Both those records still stand today—52 years later. Of course, they don’t run any races in yards anymore, so that’s safe in perpetuity. Since my record jump was 18’ 1¾”, I’m not all that surprised that it’s still on the board in the boy’s locker room.

Another digression. There are others to come. Now, back to the pediatric ward.

Beds in pediatrics are 6’ long. My head touched the headboard. My feet were at right angles against the footboard. The blanket almost made it to my chin. Since I was on heavy-duty pain meds, none of those were an issue. But, even the largest pediatric hospital gown was an issue.

If you’re familiar with hospital gowns, the adult ones are far from modest. Imagine wearing a hospital gown whose bottom hem ended just about 6” below my navel. I’ll wait while you look down and see what’s 6” below your navel. Modesty was not an option. The gown was also too narrow to meet anywhere along my dorsal surface. The combination of lack of length and lack of horizontal cloth left nothing to the imagination.

I woke up in the miniature hospital space. Just after 7:00 AM a stern-looking nurse entered my room. In an equally stern-sounding voice, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

I had no answer for that. So, I kept quiet.

“You need to be on the 5^th floor in orthopedics.” With that, she tossed me a pediatric robe. “Put that on. I’ll send an orderly in with a wheelchair.”

Once again I ask you to imagine. The pediatric robe was about 2” longer than the pediatric hospital gown. For those of you math-phobes, that put the bottom of the robe 8” below my navel. Hold that thought.

The pediatric wheelchair arrived. It was not quite as wide as my hips. I had to kind of wedge myself into the seat. It was awkward. But there was just enough room for squeezing and crossing of my lower body parts that I managed to make it to the 5th floor without being arrested for indecent exposure.

My arrival in orthopedics solved the wardrobe problem. I was given an adult hospital gown. Hmmm. Perhaps solved is a bit of an exaggeration, the gown being designed as it is. Nonetheless, male body parts that are covered by fig leaves in Roman sculptures but not by pediatric hospital gowns on adult-sized patients were now covered.

I hadn’t been in my new bed more than an hour when I was attached to a medieval torture device. A headgear was placed on my head with a strap beneath my jaw. A second leather strappy-thing was hooked around my hips. Metal cables were attached to both my headgear and my hip-gear. The cables were placed on pulleys. Weights were hooked to each cable.

The experience is known as traction. It’s an attempt to pull the vertebrae apart until the distance between them is restored to factory specifications. At that time, Dr. Laughlin, the Head of Orthopedics, wasn’t sure if one of my lumbar disks was compressed, herniated, or ruptured. The constant pull from the weights on my rack…

Ooops. The Rack was a medieval torture device. Traction is a medical procedure. Toe-may-toe/Tow-mah-tow.

The constant pull on my spine by the weights during traction is designed to relieve pressure on the sciatic nerve.

I got to go on a field trip the afternoon of the first day on the 5^th floor. A physical therapist with an adult-sized wheelchair entered the room.

“Time to go down to Physical Therapy,” she announced. After unhooking me from the traction setup, we headed down to the basement for PT.

Once in the basement room, she helped onto a thinly padded table. If you don’t know why I needed a wheelchair and help to climb up on the table, you should go back and read/re-read the face-planting description in Almanac #17. Just sayin’…

“Lay back flat,” she directed. I did.

“The first thing I’m going to check is how the damage is affecting your muscular control.” I nodded.

“Okay, then. I want you to point your toes straight up to the ceiling. I’m going to try and pull your toes down so they’re pointing at me. I want you to prevent me from doing that.”

Give it all you’ve got, I thought. You’re not pulling my toes in any direction.

That sounds overconfident. Remember: I was 18-years old at the time… and invincible! Or so I thought.

In my defense, my legs were strong. I had 24” thighs and 17” calves…

“Let’s start with your good leg.” She grabbed my right foot. “Hold them in place.”

She pulled. I held my toes up. After a few seconds, she stopped pulling. My toes were pointed straight up to the sky!

“Good,” she said.

Of course! I thought.

“Now let’s try the injured one.” She grabbed my left foot. “Hold those toes in place.”

She pulled. I held my toes up.

“No,” she said. “I want you to hold them up like you did with your right foot.”

“I did,” I said.

“Oh… Well, let’s try again.” She pushed my toes back up. “Hold them up.”

This time, I tensed every muscle in my body and willed those left toes to stay up.

She pulled. My toes pointed right at her. I’d watched. That stupid foot had ignored my mental command!

Let’s try something else,” she said. She held up what looked like a pizza-cutter with spines instead of a sharp edge. [I Googled it. It’s called a Wartenberg Wheel.]