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An Open Letter to my Bone Marrow

January 4, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Dear weird red squiggly stuff inside my bones,

I know we don’t sit down and talk very often (or ever, come to think). I know you probably feel neglected. I know that recently, we’ve had a pretty rocky relationship: me, falling off of ladders, you, refusing to fight off infections every time I go on vacation.

But for the most part, it’s been good, right? Twenty-seven years of relatively pleasant symbiosis? I gotta ask you for something pretty huge, and I hope that our shared history is enough for you to acquiesce.

I’m gonna need you to let some doctors suck you out through my hip bones so you can go live inside my dad.

I know it sounds weird. But it’s for a really good cause! He really needs my (your) help right now, and if you do this for me (us) I promise to take better care of you. I won’t drink that last beer when I’ve already had enough. I’ll eat more oranges and kale. I’ll even go running more, if that’s what you want.

All he needs is for you to go in there and do what you’ve been doing in me. Get all up in his immune system and go all Rambo on those Leukemia cells. Give him back his energy and life. Give the whole family renewed hope.

That’s all. I ask nothing more than for you to do your job somewhere else for a little bit. Think of it as getting to travel for work. All of the airfare and accommodations are covered, you just have to show up for the meetings.

On January 18, when you’re making that trip down the hall at Hopkins, remember this letter. If you won’t do it for me, do it for him. Do it because he deserves this for being a great man and a great father. Do it because he deserves a life free from the worries and weight of cancer. Do it because I still have so much left to learn from him and I want him around to see me become a man he’s proud of.

Do it because the world needs more people like him. More people full of optimism and humor, more people willing to face a challenge with a smile and a laugh, more people who rise to a challenge and beat it back with fierce determination.

Do it because I love him.

Yours, literally,
-Oliver

Do it, because, and I quote, "“During your teenage years you were a pain in the ass.Now I get to be a pain in yours.”

Do it, because, and I quote my dad, ““During your teenage years you were a pain in the ass. Now I get to be a pain in yours.”

Comfort Level

March 3, 2011 · by Oliver Gray

When you injure yourself, you learn a new language. The syntax of this language is number representations of ideas; pain is gauged on a subjective scale of 1-10, progress is measured in proprietary, illogical measurements of negative degrees, and exercises are doled out in 30 second increments.

Twice a week I am asked “where I am” and I respond obediently with “3” or “5” depending on the day. I quickly added this new linguistic subset into my own verbal lexicon, growing to understand how and why it functions the way it does. I’ve tried to explain pain and can say that it is nearly impossible to describe to someone who hasn’t felt it, so an abstract scale somehow works.

Pain can be tolerated and mitigated. I am nearing the 6 month anniversary of my injury (hooray for arbitrary celebrations for unremarkable lengths of time!) and am happy to announce that my pain is dramatically lower than it was when my bone was in many, many fragments. I still have days where I feel like the metal in my arm is being assimilated into the Borg Collective, but fortunately those days are becoming a rarity. With meditation, breathing exercises, visual distractions, mental distractions, coffee, beer, happy pills (and many other things I can’t think of because of the happy pills) pain can be nearly negated.

Unlike pain, there is something that comes with being badly injured that few mention, probably because it is masked by or confused with pain. While you can manage and reduce pain, there is no way to improve your level of comfort. If you are uncomfortable, you are uncomfortable; no medication or distraction can bring you any solace.

Normally, when you are uncomfortable, you can make a slight alteration to your environment or placement in said environment and be comfortable again in short order. When you are cold, you can put on a long-sleeve shirt, if your butt is numb, you can move to a more comfortable chair. But when the discomfort is inside your skeletal system, you can do nothing. Your most comfortable outfit doesn’t help, resting in a certain position is impossible for any length of time, and what was once mundane becomes awkward and clumsy as discomfort quickly sets in.

It seems trivial and shallow to complain about something as minor as being uncomfortable. Discomfort is almost always short lived which makes it seem like nothing; try being uncomfortable in the same capacity for 6 months. It becomes a big deal at about the 2 month mark. Persisting numbness in fingers is annoying, painful, and limiting. The inability to sleep without waking up every hour or so to reposition is maddening for a single night; on the 180th night your sanity has long since unraveled. Frustration mounts and eventually overflows until you sort of rewire your brain to accept that you can’t be comfortable the same way you used to be.

It is vexing and humbling, but most importantly, it gives you perspective. I took for granted getting cozy next to a fire with a book and being able to play with my cats as if I were a cat myself. I can now appreciate what even more disabled people have to suffer through; especially those who suffered their injuries years into their lives.

The next time you have a paper cut that stings for a few days, or a bruise that aches for a week, imagine that feeling lasting indefinitely. Appreciate the times when you are pain free and can be comfortable if you so choose. Wear clothes that fit well and flail your joints about with reckless abandon. You never know when you might not be able to anymore.

Good role model.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

December 1, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Despite popular belief that has been perpetuated by popular TV, you do not need to be a barfly, womanizer, or functional alcoholic to maintain a healthy circle of friends; you need only injury yourself and find the nearest physical therapy office. After only a few sessions, the reception staff, therapists, trainers, interns and other patients know you and many details about your life quite well. Perhaps it is the caring nature of those who choose rehabilitation as a career or the innate empathy that is offered to injured people that creates and atmosphere of acceptance and serenity.

The typical Physical Therapy office is a magical, mystical place filled with colored putties and odd machines, the purpose of which you can only loosely surmise. There are kindly wizards who will zap your injuries with lightning and other benevolent assistants clad in identical vestments, presumably undergoing some sort of neophytic wizarding ritual. Aside from those who provide the care, the office is normally filled with the everyday citizens of all the neighboring kingdoms; trolls, goblins, gremlins, kobolds, gnolls, creeping oozlings, ogres, bandits, brigands, nameless horrors and even a unicorn or two.

Combining a bunch of strangers experiencing varying amounts of pain in one small location seems like a bad idea. I can imagine a scenario where someone would go ballistic from acute pains causing more pain to themselves and nearby pain sufferers. The person going berserk might topple some heavy equipment and scare the older patients. The cataclysmic cascade of pain would create a veritable chaos unseen since the dark ages. Fortunately, despite mentally debilitating pain and discomfort, the patients in a PT office are generally benign. Whether it be the the overtly friendly staff, bright lighting, or subtle background music, something keeps the place surprisingly upbeat. I tend to stay optimistic as I know that wallowing in a mire of sadness and self-pity won’t make my arm any more flexible; maybe this is the prevailing mentality for all patients. Maybe the wizards cast a happy spell every morning; I don’t know, I’ve never caught them in their robes.

The exercises you are given are tedious and irritating, mostly because you feel so awkward doing them. Normally, bicep curls would not bother me, but when you are grimacing and awkwardly jerking around a bar that weighs a paltry 3 pounds, you feel quite silly. You are also provided a little timer that beeps when you are supposed to stop/switch an exercise. This is your inanimate guide to a PT session, chirping loudly when you are to move along. The therapists actually do very little during the first 80% of each session and spend most of their time floating about like factory foreman, pointing out flaws in technique or suggesting you, “slow down”. I think some of the wizards underestimate my magical aptitude.

During this time, you are often doing a repetitive motion that requires almost no cognitive processing power, leaving your mind to wander and think about the mysteries of the universe. My metaphysical pondering is often interrupted by a nearby goblin asking me how I got injured and then launching into an unsolicited 22 minute rant about how they got injured. I am usually bored/tired enough to play along, commiserating and saying, “aww” when appropriate. This seems to be the M.O. for the unchaperoned portion of a PT session. Patients ramble quietly too each other, reminiscing about pre-injury days until their beeper goes off/runs out of batteries. The wizards do not like it when the beeper is not silenced immediately which is understandable, as it is pretty damn annoying.

This week, I met a man who has been in therapy for 8 months because, and I quote, “someone tried to kill him but didn’t”. His story is quite compelling; he was mugged at a gas station for the $8 in his wallet and left bloodied for 2 hours until another customer found him. He had trauma to his neck, back, left forearm, and right leg. He is a fan of Real Madrid and told me he lost $500 to his nephew in a holiday-time bet that they would beat local rivals Barcelona. He is a pretty nice dude and I don’t know why someone would want to kill him. I hope the wizards fix him quickly.

Another woman, who seems to have a schedule identical to mine, is recovering from back surgery. She slipped a disk in her back at work (she is a registered nurse and probably has the worst bedside manner on the east coast) and now claims to have horrible burning sensations in both her legs. She moves quite well despite this claim, but does a fine job of whining non-stop throughout her entire appointment. When asked why she wasn’t taking her pain medication, she told them to, “stop trying to make her an addict” and said hydrocodone (Vicodin) would let the doctors, “control her brain.” The wizards clearly dislike her.

I also met the local commander of law; he had injured himself in a high speed horse chase or something. He had already had one knee replaced and was planning to have the other replaced as soon as he recovered from the first. His son plays hockey which, according to this man, was superior to soccer in every possible way. I did not argue with him, because he had a gun and handcuffs. The wizards seemed dismayed that he only came to appointments when he felt like it (which apparently was not very often).

After the social time is over, one of the therapists comes over to you to cast some healing spells and zap you with lightning. The lightning is not too painful, but the other things they do are very, very painful. They will apply heat and then bend your injured extremity at extreme angles. They will make you resist their attempts to bend your joint all about to “test strength”. They will even squeeze, rub, and otherwise man-handle your poor, sore appendage to stimulate nerve activity and blood flow. This goes on for about 25-30 minutes. When they are finally finished with their work, you kind of don’t like wizards for a while, but that feeling wears off when you realize they were actually hurting you for your benefit…somehow.

Twice a week you visit the wizard and meet your new, odd friends in the clean-smelling office. Twice a week you are told the same stories or get minor updates on how many degrees a person can bend something or other. Twice a week you spend money to let someone physically hurt you. It’s a very weird phenomenon, but given my progress thus far, a very necessary one.

The wizards gave me some magical clay to help speed my recovery. It is hard to sculpt, but I tried anyway (since that is probably good therapy). I have included some pictures of its awesomeness below:

I meticulously shaped it into a tofu cube.

Then I made it into a cobra, which in retrospect looks a little like a poo.

The poo-snake transformed into a sea turtle with a dented shell.

And then the turtle changed into the goddamn Batman.

I’m Overcoming Adversity!

November 3, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Now that I have been released from my fiberglass prison, I am ready to undertake the seemingly arduous adventure of joint recovery. Everyone, from doctors to random acquaintances, claim it will be a difficult and painful journey. They suggest I may mature and grow spiritually from the experience. But most of all, they emphasize the fact that my near future will be indescribably hard.

I think not.

I have heard people loosely throw around the phrase captured in the title of this post, in regards to myriad life complications including injuries, disabilities, diseases, and social intolerance. It is used in a praising context, suggesting that a person is strong and brave in their triumph over adversity. My angle on the entire phenomenon is very different, and I feel that the people who cower and fail in the face of adversity are just quitters.

I realize that cancer and other wholly debilitating diseases make my broken arm (and other historical injuries) look like a frivolous walk in the park. Regardless of that, my injury was about as catastrophic as a physical bone-related injury can get. I stand by the fact that I would embrace this philosophy in the face of ANY challenge; be in physical, emotional, spiritual or supernatural. Life remains too amazing and full of potential to be defeated so easily by a corporeal malady. Bones will break, cells will degrade, people will be assholes, and life will remain a general bitch as long as you draw breath.

The solution comes in attitude. If you roll over and die after some tragedy befalls you, accepting your fate, then you deserve said fate. I do not see the act of overcoming a challenge as something one should be commended for, but something that is a natural part of human life. Giving up is a failure, while kicking the situation’s metaphysical ass is a success, and should be expected. By all means, express your amazement or admiration for someone’s ability to overcome something that by all means should be difficult, but do not exalt it to some superhuman status.

According to the general public, I am currently “overcoming adversity”. It really doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I should be striving to return to a healthy state of being for myself, my family, my vocation and my ever-present sense of self-satisfaction. I suggest we start helping those people who are struggling with their difficult, unfortunate situations, instead of wasting our energy telling people who just so happen to get on with their lives how proud we are of them. The people who overcome need the least support; start helping the people who can’t seem to get themselves out of the quagmire of desperation that often accompanies a life changing event.

If you go into a situation assuming it will be difficult, your self-defeating prophecy may just come true. If you go into a situation with a, “ok, sweet, what’s next!” attitude, you may just come out OK. Optimism is difficult when everyone reminds you that you may never be able to reach your head with your left hand again. I recognize this. To those people, I say, “fuck you!”. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but seriously, sod off. Being realistic is important to keep someone grounded, but it can also cause a spiral of despair some people are not ready to handle.

To my fellow Adversity Overcomers; do not fret! Well, you can fret your guitar if it will help with physical therapy, but do not fear! Doctors have to be pragmatists by the nature of their profession and the general litigiousness of the field. Take nothing at face value. It was once suggested by a very reputable orthopedist that I may never play soccer again after a serious leg break. I was running and playing 10 months later. Nothing is impossible, and impossible is nothing.

I am prepared to make this recovery my bitch. Sure there may be some pain, and yea, I may never be able to beat Rafael Nadal one-on-one. Some things you have to live with. I will despair for cathartic purposes, but will not let it consume me. The human body is capable of amazing feats, have some pride in yourself and your future, and nothing is too big to hold you down. To all those out there with broken bones and welling tears, I quote all around optimist, Norman Vincent Peale:

“Life’s blows cannot break a person whose spirit is warmed at the fire of enthusiasm.”

Thumbs Up!

Itchy, Itchy, Scratchy, Scratchy

October 13, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

It’s not all bad.

An injury can be quite sobering, especially if it impacts your well developed routine. It’s very easy to take things, even those that are very important to you, for granted when you’re able-bodied. Stupid things that normally take no cognitive thought become herculean feats of strength. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put on socks with one hand?

It forces your brain out of its comfort zone and tests the very limits of your creative thinking. Healthy limbs and surfaces of your body take on new roles and your manual strength and dexterity is tested at every turn. I’ve found ways to open bottles one-handed, sort the mail one-handed, even apply deodorant, to both armpits, one-handed. Some people may resign themselves to not doing certain things while injured, but I am far too stubborn to be so fatalistic when I still have some capacities.

I may not go to the extreme of driving or playing guitar with my feet, but I have been using them for unorthodox purposes. I can use my left foot in conjunction with my right hand to create a grip with a much wider span, or put my feet together to grasp something while my good hand opens/adjusts it. Years of soccer have given my toes freakish strength, which comes in very handy for picking up assorted items that are out of reach due to the injury.

But beyond forcing a new kind of adaptation, an injury ruins some of your favorite activities. Like the realization that all of your entertainment is electronic during a power outage, I was faced with the realization that all of my favorite hobbies rely heavily on having two free hands. Playing a stringed instrument: two hands. Using a computer efficiently: two hands. Reading a book: two hands. Dressing oneself: two hands. Showering: two hands.

All of your innate learning wants your body to use both hands, but a screaming stop sign of pain quickly reminds you of reality. Your arm becomes a cumbersome dangly part; good for getting in the way or making you look mentally handicapped at best. The easy route would be to lie in bed until cast removal day, but some of us don’t get that kind of time off work.

Instead I began to appreciate what I was missing. I took my left hand for granted, using the most literal definition of the phrase. My mini jam sessions will be all the more sweet from here on out, as I’ve tasted life without my music. I will cherish any feeling in my hands, cold or hot, good or bad, just because I know realize how terrible prolonged numbness feels. I’ve reawakened my appreciation for the little things in my life and all it took was one catastrophic injury!

There are many things I have found joy in, in an otherwise miserable period. I learned that the harmonica is one of the only instruments you can play one handed, and is fun as hell to boot. I rediscovered the joy of classic, turn-based video games that don’t require the frenetic response time of their contemporary brothers. I taught myself to take pride and garner a sense of accomplishment from the perfunctory, because I opened that can of cat food all by myself, dammit. Life becomes simple and your brain goes a little Pennsylvania dutch; it doesn’t matter that you’re not building an HD TV satellite, it just matters that your overalls are clean and that you can wear a sweet beard in public.

I have to mention the one bastion of sanity that an injured person can cling to even in the darkest of times, that I have embraced like a mother: scratching itches. A cast, while protective and stylish, is a hellish prison full of itch-monsters, hell-bent on driving you insane with impossibly placed, difficult to scratch itches. They will wake you up in the night, tickling or poking the hardest to reach areas of your wound, until you maniacally laugh or depressingly cry out of sheer frustration.

I had a theory in high school, that the total pleasure experienced from scratching itches outweighed the total pleasure experienced from sexual gratification over a lifetime, but unfortunately I cannot back it up with anything empirical. Scratches itched inside a cast are the mangum opus of a career featuring thousands of bug bites and the worst poison-plant induced rashes.

When you finally manage to satisfactorily scratch the itch, a euphoria, that I can only assume is like doing a buttload of Ecstasy while watching The Incredibles, washes over you. Your knees quiver and a chorus of angels sing praise hymms in your name. Small, furry animals flock to you and hippie folk musicians sing of your triumph. You may even black out. It it quite possibly one of the most rewarding physical experiences in the scope of human feeling.

Getting to these itches is an art in itself. Some suggest vibrating the cast from the outside with a personal massage tool (nudge nudge wink wink, say no more), but I found this only marginally effective. Others suggest using a can of compressed air to “shoot” air down into your cast. The thought of liquid nitrogen leaking out into my cast and incisions negates the idea. One of my coworkers even suggested dumping talcum powder down my arm, an idea I found difficult to pull off without creating a giant mess.

See below for my weapon of choice, a size 3 (3.25 MM) knitting needle.

(Scissors included for scale)

This is a thin, green, metal stick. A knitting needle is ideal because of its rounded edge and superb length. That curve came naturally from use and is exactly why I didn’t buy the plastic versions; I don’t want to explain to my orthopedist why there is a half of a broken plastic stick stuck in my cast.

Here is an action shot!

(Scissors included because I forgot to move them)

Technically speaking, you’re not really supposed to stick things down your cast. The doctors claim you can cut yourself and get a horrible infection, but I’m pretty sure that is an empty warning. Anyone who has ever experienced the mind-bending bliss of scratching that long sought after itch would completely agree with me.

This has been my life for the past 5 weeks, scratching my way to freedom one day at a time. I’m over the hump now but hopefully I can retain the appreciation for the little things that this elbow has given me the chance to finally notice. Do yourself a favor and try to use just your dominant hand for one day; duct tape the other one to your leg or something. You’ll be surprised how awkward, but ultimately humbled, you feel by the time you go to sleep.

Sticks and Stones

October 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I have a small piece of advice for anyone reading this: do not, under any circumstances, no matter the situation or social pressure involved, break any of your bones. Breaking a bone is one of the worst decisions a human can make. If at all possible, keep all of your bones intact and in their locked and upright, original positions.

I know this may not be easy for those more athletically or recklessly inclined, but heed my words; I speak as a grizzled veteran of the skeletal wars. I have seen all manner of bio-structural wounds, from hair-lines to compounds, even a complete shatter. Some of these have left scars, but those are the least worrying of all the after effects.

My list of broken bones, from minor to major, is as follows: toes (phalanges), fingers (also phalanges), nose (nasal bone), ankle (tarsal), wrist (carpal), shin-bone (tibia/fibula) and now elbow (humerus). Two of the prior involved somewhat major surgery to correct. Surgery is also inadvisable; they make you go to, and then stay in a hospital for an indeterminable amount of days. Parts of you get uncomfortably numb and what doesn’t becomes excruciatingly itchy. Other parts they color with funny chemicals, making your post-surgery recovery feel like a drugged out version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where your hand, but only your hand, is an Oompa Loompa. You will sing the Oompa Loopma song and your significant other will probably join in. It’s terrifyingly confusing.

For those of you who remain virgin, broken bones hurt like hell. You’d think your body would have the decency to pass out upon suffering a break, but no, you just get to sit there in agony, feeling stupid and helpless. After a severe break, you can’t really move and will most likely go into shock, so you are limited to whimpering pathetically, crying lightly as to not aggravate the injury further, or trying to be a badass and shrugging off as much pain as possible. Shock normally takes over after a few minutes, leaving the poor selfless paramedics in the direct path of possible regurgitation. I had eaten Mexican food prior to my most recent injury, a poor choice in hindsight.

I have tried in the past to explain the initial pain of a major fracture, but somehow words fail me. It is describable only in abstracts. It is a very badly stubbed toe combined with a scalding burn from boiling water. It is a crunch and a pinch, followed by a poorly injected flu shot. It is a wave of dull and a scream of sharp and as debilitating as the worst odor you’ve ever smelled. It is having your favorite meal spoiled by noisy patrons after being stung by 15 bees. It is fleeting terror of the surreal mixed with teary acknowledgment of reality. It is your stomach leaping into the air while you startle awake from a most unpleasant dream. It is the horror of dead men walking the earth, until the few seconds after they inject the morphine.

And as awful as that sounds, the initial pain passes rather quickly. Deft hands hastily repair your damages, even if their skills come at great cost. The recovery, with all of its emotional punches and unforeseen disabilities is the where the real pain hides. If you are an independent soul, the limits forced upon you by medication, casts, and movement-oriented pain are almost too much to handle. You can do little but live day-by-irritating day, stealing awkward chemically induced naps when you find that one comfortable resting position. Slowly but surely it gets better, but it takes a steel resolve to maintain your sanity when assaulted by itches that are damn near impossible to scratch.

Contrary to popular rumor, the easiest part is the physical therapy. When you finally get to the point that you can rebuild your strength, you are free; the very worst parts of the injury are behind you, only scars remain as discolored reminders. With no casts and greatly diminished pain you are suddenly capable of anything. A feeling of emancipation washes over you, and you will at any cost restore your limb to its former, sexy glory. Joints may be tight, muscles may be weak, but you can easily look past any of these trivialities and bask; bask in the wonderful glow of wholeness and normalcy.

These are the days I crave. The days when I can drive, and run, and type with both hands. The days when my left hand is more than a half-numb crab-claw of frustrating clumsiness. The days when I can hug my beautiful lady with both arms, and no pain. Soon, my cat will bite and scratch both of my hands and afterward a melody will float through the house, in the neighborhood of D minor.

Soon.

As proof of all advice and anecdotes contained herein, here is the inside of my left arm as of 9/22/2010: