Take the Pain

Lemon Boy Tomatoes-Bird Back 40

The calendar says it's only been two weeks since I last put pen to paper. But to be honest -- it seems like eons ago. Three weeks ago life was grand. That pesky Achilles tendon that kept me out of the garden had finally healed up. The boot was off. Bill Bird was back in his element -- in the garden where he belongs -- blowing through one delayed project after another.

And then -- wouldn't you know it? I pushed that envelope yet a wee bit too much. Even though I promised myself that I would take it easy -- I knew those heirloom tomato plants that I'd just staked up three weekends ago would enjoy a nice long drink of liquid fertilizers.

I use a combination of liquid organic fertilizers in the garden. I've been hooked on a product called Maxicrop, for example, ever since Farmer Fred Hoffman was kind enough to share some with me many, many moons ago when the wife that is Venus and I first started this North Natomas garden assault. Combined with another organic fish fertilizer that I'd obtained from Peaceful Valley Farm Supply in Nevada City, the fertilizer solution has always resulted in out-of-this-world tomato production.

Miracle Tomato Producer

Sure it takes time to fertilize 28 tomato plants with this liquid fertilizer solution, but the eye-popping production was worth it.

It didn't really dawn on me that hauling five gallon buckets filled with water and fertilizer solution from the garage to the backyard would put much stress on the back. I was more concerned about the foot that had just come out of a walking boot to be brutally honest. I wasn't thinking about the back.

And what a terribly bad thing to not think about.

As a veteran of many back problems, plus at least one back surgery, I can tell you that once you hurt the sciatic nerve in the spine, you're done for. The pain, however, is not immediate. It starts as an annoyance a day or two after the injury. And, depending upon the severity of the injury, that tickling annoyance of pain slowly increases to a level of gut wrenching, soul-killing, pain that is hard to describe.

There is no relief from this pain. Lying down doesn't help. It only makes it worse. Sitting only serves to increase the jolts of pain that the injured sciatic nerve is sending into your legs, and yes, even testicles. It is a pain like no other. And it was all mine, mine, mine. I owned it. All of it. I did it to myself. Three or four days after pinching the sciatic nerve, I couldn't move from the only contorted spot I'd found that temporarily relieved the shockwaves of pain.

It was, at this point, where I allowed waves of negative thinking to take control of my mind. What had I done to myself? How could I possibly screw up this back again after going through $15K of highly successful back surgery nearly ten years ago? How can I live with this pain? What about my job? My career? I couldn't move from the spot I was anchored too, let alone throw on a suit and tie.

Narcotics offered some relief. Prescription pain killers like Percocet, Morphine, Flexeril and many others offered the only road to relief that I could find. And while this road is nice for awhile, it's also a trap. Narcotics don't solve the problem. They merely mask the pain. Narcotics also leave you unable to function, especially in a work setting. And forget about setting foot in a car!

I spent a solid week -- my vacation week for the year oddly enough -- in this narcotics fog. The recipe called for pills in the morning, pills in the afternoon and pills before heading off to bed. With each passing day, the fog grew deeper. What was today? Wednesday? Was tomorrow Friday? Where did I leave the Percocet?

I was in no shape to return to work when I finally did just that. The pain levels were still very high, but the narcotics continued to mask it. On that first day back, a co-worker remarked, "your face is as red as a stoplight!" Simple tasks, like answering a phone call, suddenly weren't so simple anymore. And why was my voice so high?

It was at this point where I realized that allowing myself to sink into a pit of pain-killing narcotics for a week really wasn't the best of ideas. Instead? I should have just taken the pain. And that's when I decided to dump the pills. And when I say dump? I mean, DUMP. There is really only one way to confront the abuse of narcotic pain-killers. It's called "Cold Turkey."

It was also about this time where I ran across one of my favorite epics dealing with the Vietnam War. Platoon not only related a fantastic story of what our fighting soldiers faced in Vietnam, the Academy Award Winner for Best Picture in 1986 also gave rise to a number of great young actors like Willem Dafoe, Tom Berenger, Charlie Sheen and many others.

But it's one line from that movie that stuck with me one night while I slowly dried out from the narcotics I'd used to mask my back pain. It's a battle scene where several soldiers are wounded and one even loses his life. It's a line where Berenger tells a screaming soldier to "take the pain." And suddenly, I knew what I had to do: Take the pain.

It's been five or six days since I made that decision. My back aches as I sit at this desk and type this prose. But I'm smiling because I know it's a pain that isn't half as bad as it was two weeks ago. It means surgery may not be needed. The falling levels of pain might indicate some future time in a garden setting. But -- don't worry kids -- I won't overdo it this time. That's a promise.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

Snap, Crackle and Pop Here to See You

I know what you're thinking. I really do. You saw the title of this latest blog posting and your heart sank. "Bill Bird has gone commercial," you thought. "He's traded in his heirloom tomatoes for some kid's cereal!"

The shame, the shame of it all.

But that's the furthest thing from the truth. You see, this blog posting could be named many things. It could be called "Gardening Hurts." It could also be called "Gardening Season is Over," because both titles would represent the truth. Gardening does sometimes hurt. And gardening season, although it's just now getting underway for some folks, has come to a rather abrupt end in the Bird Back 40.

Nice toes! NOT!

At least -- that's the story for crazy blog writer Bill Bird. As for the wife that is Venus? She may carry on with her seed planting ways. Her faithful husband will watch her efforts from the patio with a beer in one hand and a sad smile. For the first time in years, I cannot join her. I can only sit and watch.

You've probably guessed by now that I'm not schlepping for some kid's cereal. That "Snap, Crackle, Pop" sound I heard last weekend was all too real. Unfortunately, I didn't hear it while pouring milk onto a kid's cereal (although I wish now that I had). I heard that sound while stepping off the sidewalk in the Bird Back 40 while moving a heavy wheelbarrow load of compost to the in-ground test gardening bed. Unfortunately again, the sound came from my right foot.

That wasn't right. Did I step on something perchance? No? Is that blood? Where did that blood come from?  From me? Those are the thoughts that first crossed my mind when I suddenly dropped that wheelbarrow load of gardening product and looked down. The bottom of my ankle began to ache. Which really isn't all that strange because at my age, after a weekend full of gardening, my feet not only REEK to high heaven they are also quite sore.

Life in a BOOT that Never Comes Off

But this was a different kind of sore. And the soreness grew into a pain that had me limping back to the garage and settling into the nearest chair. Something wasn't right. It wasn't until I tried to get back up some 30 minutes later (to attempt to resume gardening no less) did my ankle let me know that things were "not OK."

The hours following my little "garden accident" are still somewhat of a blur. I blame that on the numerous emergency room doctors and nurses that I visited that evening. For each one came armed with a horse-shaped pill, a glass of water and the instructions of: "Here, take this."

Percocet Fog

Since those pills made me feel somewhat better -- I had no problem with repeating the line of: "What? Another Percocet? For me? Sure!"

I would learn later that Percocet makes you somewhat happy and somewhat groggy. I don't really remember a lot of detail from those emergency room visits and followups with the Podiatrist, except that a partially torn Achilles Tendon and an aggravated bone spur in the heel are going to keep me out of action and in a lot of pain for quite some time.

I swore off the Percocet a few days back. I'll live with the pain instead. How people get addicted to prescription pain killers I'll never know. They just make me feel groggy and play all sorts of negative havoc with my digestive system. Plus, to be honest, I don't remember the pain ever really going away. I suppose it made the pain manageable, but given a choice, I'll opt for a clear mind and a painful foot any day of the week.

Off Limits! Verbotten! Do Not Pass Go!

And so -- that's it kids. The 2014 gardening season is finished for me. My number one love of life, other than the wife that is Venus, is off limits. There will be no digging in the dirt. There will be no weeding. There will be no fertilizing, no planting of seeds, no drip irrigation repair. Zip, nada, nothing.

There will only be this damn boot on my leg, a damn sore right heel bone and a cranky gardener who can only watch while others do.

I'll be honest with you. There's not much fun in that.

When Gardening Stops

Gazing at the Bird Back 40 Garlic Crop

There does come a time in life where gardening does come to a complete standstill. I hate to say that I really haven't done much of anything lately, other than watch the garlic grow and witness other beds become overgrown with weeds or flowers from past seeds that failed to germinate at one time or another.

What, pray tell, brings about a halt in all gardening activities? Well, it wasn't the words from the wife that is Venus. Don't worry fair readers. Everything is fine and dandy in that department. In fact, life has never been better.

But there are other matters that can bring a temporary halt to the lifestyle that I love. And when that surgeon started in with a list of questions some weeks back, suddenly, priorities changed somewhat.

What, pray tell, would that question be?

Thought About This?

It was this question, a simple one really: "Have you made out a will?" Many people will ask this question of you over the course of a lifetime. Most of the time? There's no reason to worry. But when a treating surgeon asks this question? The time to worry is now, my friend. The time to worry is right now.

Surgeons don't have the time to crawl or tippy-toe through verbal minefields. If they ask? You answer. And it's probably best not to hide anything.

The famous stomach-ache that led to this rather eye-popping question came on during the day after the President's Day Weekend. That would be Tuesday, November 13th. I had just finished up a nice three-day weekend and even found time to juice half of a pomegranate crop from the Wonderful pomegranate tree located in a side yard of the Bird Back 40.

Pomegranate Juicer (It works!)

As I now recall, I would have juiced that entire tree, but my energy level just wasn't what it should have been. I was ready to call it quits after juicing more than a gallon of pure, deliciously sweet pomegranate juice. It was the first time I'd ever attempted something like this with a juicing contraption that the wife that is Venus bought for me during Christmas last year.

It worked like a charm.

At first I believed I'd probably mixed far too much gin with that fresh juice over the three-day holiday! My stomach will sometimes grumble if I consume too much alcohol in any one sitting, and man was that juice good! "It had to be that," I thought at the time.

But as the pain grew, and efforts to keep it in check failed, it suddenly dawned on me that not all was well with the Body of Bird. This was unlike any stomach problem I'd experienced before or since. The chills and fever that set in some hours later were also unique. I'd never experienced anything quite like this before. Stomach aches? Yes. Chills and a fever? Not since I was a teenager. That was a long time ago, people.

Although I just wanted to stay in bed and wait this thing out, the wife that is Venus would have none of it. Off to the North Natomas Med-7 clinic I went later that night, with Venus dragging me every step of the way. She was more concerned than I. Did I also mention she's also just a tad smarter than I am?

When the Med-7 treating physician got one look at the urine test that could have passed for orange colored Koolaid, he didn't bat an eyelash. "You are severly jaundiced," he told me. "Jaundice? What the Hell was that," I thought. I may have also said it out loud. Which is when he stopped trying to explain, and called for an ambulance instead. That will shut a cranky patient up.

Ambulance? Really? I guess this was kinda serious. As the surgeon explained to me the next morning after a night of tests at the Mercy General Hospital Emergency Room, it was. This was distressing news. It wasn't something I was expecting to hear. I wasn't ready to hear it.

Pancreatitis? Really?

"The enzyme levels from your Pancreas are sky high," the doctor told me. "You have a severe case of Pancreatitis."

"Pancreatitis," I thought. It sounded rather familiar. "Oh yeah," I remembered. That's what dad died from in 1973. And then, suddenly, reality: "Oh shit! You can't be serious!" But this time the joke was on me, people. Dr. Bozdech was dead serious. I had the same disease that took my father's life at age 57 in 1973. Pancreatitis is nothing to laugh at.

What is Pancreatitis? There are many forms of it. In my father's case, it developed into Pancreatic Necrosis and eventually Pancreatic Abscess. Although these cases can be treated now with better and stronger medications than were available in 1973, they can still be deadly. If allowed to spread it leads to multiorgan failure and eventually, death.

Tsk, tsk, tsk...

There are two known causes of Pancreatitis. One cause is heavy drinking. "Great," I thought. "My affair with cheap gin is paying off in ways that I did not expect." The second cause is blocked ducts thanks to a gall bladder that is spitting out stones instead of enzymes that are produced by the liver.

In my case? Despite my love affair with all things cheap gin, I simply didn't drink nearly enough to be classified as a patient with an "alcohol problem." I still did (key word, did) drink too much. But not enough to bring on a case of Pancreatitis. Multiple tests would soon reveal the true culprit: my gall bladder was spitting out stones that had blocked multiple ducts.

Although I felt somewhat better, as I would come to find out, this was still a huge problem. There was no room for a problematic gall bladder in the Body of Bird. It would have to come out, right quick too. But that was just the first problem. The gall bladder, as my surgeon would later explain, had actually stopped doing the job it was intended to do quite some time ago. Dr. Hunt explained that the blocked ducts would have to be cleared first, before any other surgery could take place.

But even before any of this could happen, the cranky pancreas had to CALM DOWN! By calm, I mean it had to stop spitting out enzymes that were no good for the body. Despite the many advances that have come with medical care since the advent of the digital age, there is only one sure-fire way to calm down a cranky pancreas: a diet of no food whatsoever.

Hospital food: Verbotten!

"What's that," I repeated? "No food? Not even crappy hospital food? This is a joke, right?" As it turns out? The joke was on me. I can't blame the nurses for grinding percocet (oxycodone) powder into cups of ice and water and water and ice, the only food I was allowed to have. By Day 3 of the "no food whatsoever" diet, I had become one very cranky individual.

"How long will this last," I whined one night to Doctors DeBose, Hunt and Bozdech, who would gather in my room nightly for one update or another. The answer from Dr. Hunt wasn't too encouraging. He smiled as he explained that people could actually go for WEEKS without eating. And, in some cases, it might take WEEKS for a cranky pancreas to stop being cranky. The surgeons may have smiled upon informing me of this news, but I wasn't. I wanted an end to this nightmare. But it was just beginning.

By Day Six of the "no food whatsoever" diet, the cranky Bill Bird had capitulated completely. There were ongoing discussions (some might even day disputes) between treating physicians as to whether the numerous gall stones blocking various ducts should be removed first -- or the problematic gall bladder get first treatment. At this point, after six days of ice and water, needles protruding from this arm or that arm, I really didn't care. They could have removed every organ in my body at this point, and I wouldn't have so much as batted an eyelash.

ERCP: Not for the Faint of Heart

I can now understand why the treating Gastroenterologist had voiced continual concerns about the procedure to remove gall stones from blocked ducts. The procedure, known as Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography or ERCP, is anything but easy. Physicians were concerned about the stress on my heart. And since I have had previous heart troubles...

No matter. The procedure had to happen. Otherwise, the pancreas was toast. One can live without a gall bladder. But not without a pancreas. Surgeons would enter the troubled duct area via a tube inserted into my throat, into the stomach, and then into the duodenum. Small cameras would reveal the presence of the troublesome stones, which would be removed, provided all went well of course.

Waking up from a procedure like this is just a small taste of Hell on Earth. One must learn how to breathe all over again. As you hack and cough from the fluid that has entered the lungs, taking even the smallest breath becomes a herculean task. I suppose this is how one feels when drowning, and it's not an experience that I wish to repeat. As the breathing muscles finally figured out how to work again, the treating surgeon entered the room with vacation photos from his trip to see the various monument stones near the cranky pancreas.

There were more than I expected. The surgery had been 100% successful, but left me weaker than I had been before. And, after six or seven days sans food? You're a pretty weak individual. I nearly jumped from my bed, however, and did the "happy dance" when treating physicians upgraded my diet from water and ice to clear liquids such as broth and jello. Broth never tasted so darn good.

Although I was well on my way to recovery, the battle was half over. The gall bladder responsible for this little problem and near miss with pancreatitis was still there. It was still filled with stones and still a threat to send those stones on a merry little journey. It had to come out -- and rather quickly I might add -- after the ERCP journey. Surgery would take place less than 24-hours after the ERCP procedure.

There was a point in medical history, not all that long ago I might add, when surgeons sliced open a patient like a freshly caught fish to remove a troublesome gall bladder. Though this sometimes still happens, most of the time a gall bladder can be removed through a Laparoscopic procedure. Though less invasive, three or four small holes cut into the stomach still leave you feeling like a wildfire has raced through your belly. I still can't begin to describe the level of pain I woke up too, despite repeated injections of Dilaudid and other painkillers.

NEEDLES!

That surgical pain would persist through most of the night before finally abating the next morning. And then? As soon as your treating physician sees you up and walking around? The journey is over. It is time to go home. And, on Day 8, mere hours after gall bladder surgery, the IV needle that had ruled my life for what seemed like forever and a day was removed. I don't miss it.

I suppose I could tell you about my various roommate adventures during this time, my experiences with Methadone Mitch, Mentally Retarded Randy, or even Lucky Bob (a 76-year old patient stabbed by his 36-year old girlfriend). But I'll save those stories for another time and day.

For now, I sit at home and look at the weeds slowly taking over various garden beds, waiting for my first opportunity to attack the dirt and finally declare that "life as normal" has returned. But that's for another day. For now? Gardening has stopped. But this is a temporary break at best. The desire to dig in the dirt has returned, but those troublesome scars aren't ready to be pulled in this or that direction just yet.

For now? I mark the days. The fun and joy that comes from digging in the dirt will eventually return.

THE END? My thanks to Doctors Andrew Bozdech, Renee DeBose, Ben Hunt and the numerous nurses and other care specialists who I irritated to no end during my one-week plus stay on the second floor of Mercy General Hospital in East Sacramento. Without you, without all of your efforts, I probably would not be here. Thank you for saving my life.