Wahoo Doray, Dahoo Doray, Welcome Christmas!

Last night the Schwartzes came over and we had a low-key but warm-hearted Christmas Eve celebration. We enjoyed: 

1) Cheese and crackers and fruit and cookies sent by my parents.
2) Intensely fantastic apricot jam sent by Melissa and John.
3) Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies made by Kate McD.
4) Tempting and delightful veggie dishes from La Cuisine, courtesy of my coworkers.
5) Hot chocolate and sent by my parents.
6) A few sips of red wine courtesy of Kate McD.
7) Opening the last advent calendar window that Melissa C. sent us from Hawaii.


Later today our Christmas dinner will feature tamales sent by David and Heather.

In other words, we are having a fantastic Christmas. It's a lot like Christmas morning in Whoville after the Grinch tried to steal all the Christmas stuff : we have no tree, no stockings, no roast beast. And yet our home is filled with Christmas spirit, thanks to the kindness and love of all of our family and friends.

Walking, reading, beet salad and other pleasures

Robert and I just had a delicious dinner,  an array of yummy treats from Branford's La Cuisine, a cafe that does catering and sells prepared foods. Robert ate more food than he has in days because it was all so yummy and varied: Beet salad, Moroccan carrots, wild rice/orange pilaf, roast pork loin, a meringue cookie.  This is thanks to my super-thoughtful co-workers at the library who gave me a gift certificate to La Cuisine to help out with Robert's recovery.

Robert is still spending much of the day in bed, but he's breaking it up with a few hours a day sitting in a chair reading. The elegant wooden rocking chair he got for his 30th anniversary at Yale is the most comfortable chair for him right now. He sits in it and looks all librarian-ish with his reading glasses and the tall stack of last week's New York Times newspapers that he is determined to catch up on.

He's doing laps around the house without a walker. Today he added an additional "speed lap" to his routine. I think tomorrow I'll suggest we add stairs to the routine.

Everything seems to be going pretty smoothly, thank goodness.  Meals and insulin shots happen in good time,  the laps around the house take place, pain meds are taken at the right time, tooth brushing happens at least once a day. It does take a full time assistant to direct all that activity (me) , but I'm really pleased that all those daily routines are happening without a great deal of trouble.

Things are good and there are frequent smiles in the house. The cat has gotten over his fear of the walker.

The shortest of updates, but positive.

Fortunately there hasn't been as much to report for Robert while he's at home -- less drama = more healing. His pain meds are getting more widely spaced, he's taking laps around the house with no walker, he's eating better, life is not too shabby. THANKS to everyone for your cards, calls, presents (!) prayers and thoughts!

Home!!!

Here are the simple thoughts of a very sleep-deprived blogger.

HOME HOME HOME.
GET ROBERT INTO BED.
ARRANGE PILLOWS.

Now it's my turn:  SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP HERE I COME.

Oh, no, I have to go to the pharmacy to fill Robert's prescriptions first... maybe I should tell people on the blog that we're home.... then,

NAP NAP NAP.

With the cat.

There's no place like home... there's no place like home...

We just got the word that Robert can go home this morning-- what a blessing. The rest of the morning seems to be a whirlwind of activity as all the staff members whiz through the room and give us their instructions for how to continue to care for Robert. After all the long stretches of time where nothing much seemed to be happening at the hospital, the discharge process seems like a "so long, been good to know you" flurry.

An ambulance company is taking Robert home, "bed to bed," so I don't have to worry about getting him up our long, steep walkway to our front door.

Home this afternoon, we hope! A good long nap is what we have planned first.

Lots and lots of details about why we are still in the hospital

Good news! Robert was up and walking today, on his own, without the walker, and even up and down stairs! In fact, he was better at going up stairs this morning than he was before the surgery. We had both sort of forgotten that that was the point of this whole thing, to improve his physical functions.


The physical therapist has more or less convinced us that we would be better off bringing Robert straight home rather than going into rehab. Yes, I've been wishin' and hopin' for the move to rehab, but the physical therapist pointed out that the exact things that are hindering Robert from getting better at the hospital will also be true in rehab. Just like the hospital staff, the rehab staff will manage his insulin in the same one-size-fits-none approach. He'll be woken up every 45 minutes by his roommate, the cleaners, cell phones going off, and the staff yelling pleasantries to the more hard of hearing customers. The risk of infection will be much greater around other patients.She convinced us both that home will be a much better environment for his well being. He will get assistance at home from a physical therapist and home health aid, so professional care will continue.


Seeing him walking around -- standing straighter and walking more briskly than he did before the surgery -- was a revelation. "Rehab is supposed to get you to this point and then send you home,' said the physical therapist. "Robert did all that work here, with you, and he's ready to go home."


Yet another hematology doctor wants to look Robert's blood before giving him the okay to go home. This after two hematology doctors gave the thumbs up. I'm starting to think that they view his blood as an especially tantalizing mystery they look forward to examining each morning, and they are loathe to let this source of excitement leave their lives.

More background for those who like this sort of thing: What is the big mystery about his blood? His platelets dropped dramatically after the surgery, gradually bounced back, and they can't figure out why. In a practical sense, the reason why matters because they don't want it to happen again-- low platelets means increased risk of blood clots. But I am starting to think that the wizards of hematology are so fascinated by Robert's humours that they have conspired to strengthen the spell of hospitalization and thwart the lovely princess who gallantly tries to free him (that would be me).


Okay, not really.

And the final problem -- managing his blood sugar -- I think I finally figured out a way to deal with that problem. All along, Robert has been ordering meals based on what he feels like eating, and then eating more or less of it depending on how yummy or ghastly it turned out to be. Meanwhile, the nurses have been giving him insulin based on a one-size-fits-all scale, like "Dinner is 15 units of insulin." I'm oversimplifying, but that's the problem: they use a math formula to figure out his insulin before anyone has a good idea of what he will really eat. His food and his insulin have not been coordinated well, and it's made for a roller coaster of glucose highs and lows.

As of today, I am testing his blood hourly with our tester kit and cracking the whip on how much food Robert eats. At home, he would give himself the right amount of insulin for what he knows he is going to eat. Here, we can't do that. So he'll have to do the opposite, and eat the amount of food that is appropriate for the insulin the nurses have already given him.

I started this blog entry at about 10 am this morning and I have been writing and erasing and writing all day. I hope we've settled down for the evening.  It's been a busy day: I've counted a lot of carbs, advocated for my patient like a fiercesome warrior,  and gleefully jumped up and down when I saw Robert walk up the stairs.

Great news -- the human mind is pretty resilient

Robert had about five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night, and when he woke up this morning his hallucinations were gone. He didn't know where he was or why he was in the hospital, but it was a normal kind of not knowing; he could look around and observe that we were in a hospital. He just didn't know what we were doing here.

"You had surgery on your back on Monday," I said. "Oh, that would explain why my back hurts so much more than usual," he said.

As soon as he woke up from that sound sleep, he knew what town we live in, who the governor of Connectiut is, ordinary stuff like that. It was like his brain had rebooted and gone back to factory settings.

As the mornng wore on he was recalling the days of hallucination like you would remember a dream. "I kept thinking we were in a bookstore, or a library, right? And did I tell you there were a lot of animals around? And that I was surprised you were here, because it was the 19th century?"

The brain is a weird and wonderful thing.

Here's the real proof that Robert is feeling normal again: he told me to squirrel away all the plastic cups he's been using this morning to take home and recycle. "You could recycle those!" he said optimistically. That's my Robert.

What we're still waiting on is an official report from the hematology docs that it's safe to discharge him. I met with them yesterday -- they were a pleasant, scholarly, mildly befuddled bunch. They reminded me of the professors in the movie "Ball of Fire," who respond with pleasure to every one of  Barbara Stanwyck's practical questions because it lets them take some time to enjoy a leisurely review of the literature.

Yesterday, the hematology docs said that they like how Robert's platelets were bouncing back. I look forward to their report, which may say, "Robert's platelets have earned our confidence and may be set free to contribute to society once again, alongside other platelets with similarly vigorous constitutions."

The inmates stage a minor riot

I am so tired, I will just be informative and not witty. If I can. It's hard to suppress the wit.

1) Robert had a very bad night. In brief, the overnight pain management care stank. Stank with far-reaching, stankonian stankitude. I discovered I had untapped reserves of gumption, at least when it comes to protecting my husband. Doctors were summoned. Firm statements of expectations and consequences if expectations were not met were pronounced. Common sense prevailed once I had taken on all comers with my fierce wifely ju-jitsu.

2) Robert's lab reports look good. Platelets look good, blood sugar looks pretty good. So it sounds like those factors won't be keeping him in the hospital much longer.

Wish I knew when we were wrapping all this up and heading out to the wider horizons of rehab, but.... it seems doubtful they will organize us to leave on a Sunday. Too many different doctors have to give the thumbs up. Maybe they'll surprise me and coordinate like the Rockettes! That would be a festive surprise.

More hospital haiku.

Then: John and Yoko,

Sleeping at the hospital.

Now: Anne and Robert.

Twenty feet away

A man gets an enema.

Sure glad I'm not him.

The cat goes hungry

Back at home. So does the fish.

Don't eat the fish, cat!

Blue Laz E Boy chair

Disinfected, with pillow,

For me. Thank you, nurse!

Hey, let's make eyeshades
From surgical masks and string.
No string? Try Band-Aids.

Deep breathing. Lights out.
The nurse's monitor bongs.
Night night, hospital.

Friday afternoon : nobody here but us chickens.

• Short version: I think we're staying in the hospital for another couple of days at least.
• Long version: Platelets, chickens and high blood sugar conspire to keep us in the hospital.

After Robert's spectacular walking demonstration this morning, the afternoon has been more of  a downer. I've learned from the physician assistant that they are still not happy with Robert's numbers. His sugar is still way too high, his platelets are too low, and they don't want him to leave the hospital until he stops seeing cows, dogs, cats, and parachuting chickens going through his room.

I haven't written in the blog about Robert's hallucinations, because they have seemed relatively minor and don't upset him. But although the staff has changed up his meds yesterday to try to eliminate the "visual disturbances," the strange visitors remain. Robert has let me know that the hospital is overrun with cats, dogs, cows, chickens, small children, and "women in mufti." The staff wants to make sure they are gone before he is discharged.

The question of why his blood platelets are so low is rather complicated because they have to figure out whether he is simply lost a lot during the surgery, and is on his way back to normal, or is something else going on that is preventing them from re-forming as they should. The bigger picture here is that if his platelets don't bounce back, he's in danger of getting blood clots. They can keep giving him transfusions of platelets in the short run, but they need to know that he is making his own again.

So that means the hematology fellow and the attending physician are drawing more blood, pouring over his medical history to look for clues, and doing an ultrasound on his legs to look for incipient clots. They assure me that the most likely explanation by far is just that he's taking a little longer than most people to bounce back with his own platelets. But because blood clots are so serious, they are looking into this energetically.

With all this going on, the physician assistant tells me that "It's still possible he could be going to rehab on Saturday," which I think is hospital-staff-speak for "We're trying our best to get all this under control but we just don't know how long it will take."

New horizons on the Neuroscience floor

Big success -- Robert just walked a loop around the neuroscience floor with a rolling walker. This is the first time he's walked farther than 15 feet. And he looked so much better! Faster steps, looking up as he walked, commenting on what was around him.

Robert's comment: "That went surprisingly well. Not that there was no pain. I don't want people calling me up and asking me to run errands for them just yet."

Still no word on whether he's moving out today. There is such a strange disconnect between what the staff says and what actually happens, it's almost like Hollywood studio-talk. Apparently when Hollywood people say "This project is definitely a go, the studio head loves it, clear your calendar for the next six months," it actually means "This project is not only dead,  if you mention later that I ever liked it I will swear on my grandma's grave you're lying."

Simiilarly, if the staff here says "Robert's almost certainly going to rehab tomorrow," that really means "Robert may go to rehab at some point in the next three days." Or "The hematologists will give you the results of the blood work later this morning," that actually means "Right now, somewhere, someone is doing a test on a vial of blood, and it may be Robert's."

But since he is clearly getting stronger, walking and getting out of bed more easily, eating fine, and mostly acting like his Roberty self, I'm reasonably pleased.

I discovered yesterday that the gift shop here has a really good selection of candy. It's calling to me now. Yesterday I had some Gummi Bears and I thought, "These would make really good earplugs!" You see how I am adapting to the hospital lifestyle.

Hospital haiku

Dinner, they promise,
Will come in sixty minutes.
We live in the now.

Drip goes the I V.
Visitor plays Angry Birds.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.

A nap! Sleep at last!
Oh no, here comes the P A
Time for a blood test.

Instant coffee: free.
Diet jello: also free.
Patients are not free.

Wash your hands, wash them.
Frequently, with hot water.
Everyone obeys.

Sink handle, door knob.
Rolling walker, telephone.
MRSA lurks.

Thursday -- more of the same.

Well, here we are still in the hospital, instead of on our way to rehab. The doctors do not like how high Robert's blood sugar is and they do not like how low his platelet count is. Both the tests and the treatments  involve fluids going in or fluids coming out. Between all that inflow and outflow and the gobs of hand sanitizer everyone uses all the time, we could float away.

Robert is markedly better today at manuevering himself in and out of bed. He can do both without assistance now, though it does take him a long time and he's leaning on a walker. And it helps if someone is coaching him about what to do next. But just yesterday he couldn't put both hands behind his head at the same time, so it's clear he's getting better day by day.

I wish I had more exciting news -- like that Robert had started his road trip towards rehab -- but instead it's another day of listening to other people's televisions,  cell phones, and video games-- while staying close to Robert's bedside where he can hold my arm. Or if I'm blogging, he likes to hold onto my bare foot.

One of the painkillers that Robert was taking made him hallucinate, and even though they stopped that one, he's still seeing cats up on the ceiling. This morning he said to me, "Does that pen on the table look like a doctor in a lab coat to you?"
I said, "No, actually, it looks like a Magic Marker."
He said, "Well, yeah, that's what I mean, a Magic Marker in a lab coat."

Of course, despite all the minor setbacks and the cats floating on the ceiling, there is an enormous amount to be grateful for here. The bed that goes up and down is a minor miracle. The hospital gives me free coffee. The blue jonny coat looks nice with Robert's eyes.

I hope this narrative can take a more exciting turn tomorrow and I can reveal to the reader that our hero is indeed off to rehab. Otherwise, I may have to resort to writing haiku about Robert's platelets just to keep things fresh.

5 pm Wednesday: I hope I have taken my last nap in the hospital chair

Another day where the doctors, nurses and physical therapists all assure us that Robert is making great progress. They say he will probably be discharged to rehab tomorrow. This is a bit hard for me to imagine because he still can't get out of bed without assistance,  but apparently if your internal organs are working that is all is necessary to ferry you over to rehab. If the external parts don't work as well as they might, the Rehabbers will deal with it, I guess.

So perhaps I have taken my last afternoon nap in the hospital waiting room -- perhaps we are about to leave hospital food behind and learn what rehab food is like.

I am pretty tired right now, so I think my prose sounds as if I am a bit depressed. But truly, everything is fine, in the big picture.

We can put a man on the moon, but we can't make a salad dressing packet that a hospital patient can open safely.

Dinner time in room 42. Robert is feeding himself for the first time. He doesn't really feel hungry, but he's been told to eat protein and vegetables and he's being a good patient.

Robert's having a green salad with grilled chicken on it, which I mention only because the episode of trying to open up the plastic packet of Italian dressing was one of those Laurel and Hardy moments you would think the hospital would have figured out how to avoid. Don't give a disoriented, feeble person a Kevlar-like plastic packet of Italian dressing that leads to frustration, excessive force, and finally an explosion of oil and vinegar all over the bed. It seems like a basic principle of healthcare: don't let the patient get Italian dressing on his surgical dressing.

Today has been a long day of doing breathing exercises, drinking water, being filled up with various fluids through an IV and having other fluids drained off. The nurses and physicians' assistant are happy with what's going on with the routine processes of the human body called Robert.

Meanwhile, the person called Robert has had a pretty chatty day. Here's a selection of some of today's observations and questions so you can get an idea of the mood of the room.

"All in all, I feel much better than I would have expected."

"Is there any black pepper on my dinner tray?"

"The people who move you around overnight seem to have been selected from a pool of former longshoremen."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Bunny? this must be no fun for you."

"Why are they projecting words on the wallpaper? Oh, I guess that must be the Valium."


Now it's 7 pm and we're watching Jeopardy. Robert is simultaneously answering questions about prime ministers of the world correctly and asking me where his glasses are, which are in his hand. I guess that must be the Valium.

Tomorrow: Walking down the hospital hallway. Stay tuned.

Things are hopping at the hospital

Well, I've been at the hospital for almost three hours and I literally have not had a chance to sit down and write anything! Robert is wide awake, more or less alert, but feeling a bunch of pain from the incision in his back. Which is, by the way, about 14 inches long. All the staff that are helping him are saying what an unusually long specimen of a back incision it is. He seems pleased that he's causing comment.

The high point of the morning was that Robert did get out of bed with the help of two physical therapists and walked about 15 feet with the walker. The PTs were really happy with what he was able to do. When the PTs are happy, I'm happy.

Dr. Abbed, the surgeon, just dropped by. It was the first time Robert had seen him since the surgery. Dr. Abbed reiterated that he was very pleased with how the surgery went, that he was able to achieve all the goals for the surgery. He radiates confidence and good cheer. He said in particular that a couple of Robert's vertebrae were essentially packed solid with bony growth, so that the nerves were jammed together with no breathing space. He thinks the space they were able to create for those nerves is going to make a big difference to Robert's overall sense of ease and comfort. When he recovers from the surgical incisions, that is.

The hospital staff are really friendly and helpful and good about discussing everything that's going on. The one thing we don't have here is space. Everything is wedged together like a puzzle, and in order to do one thing (like roll in an IV stand) then other things (the dirty linen bin, the rolling food table, the wife) have to be shifted around to make a path. Every free surface is storing something, whether it's spare towels, a jug of water, a fruit cup, the buzzer to ring the nurse.

Midnight on the Neurology Floor

Robert came back to consciousness about 8:30 pm tonight so I made the trip back into New Haven to visit with him. Post-surgery, he's a funny combination of being just like himself  and still being mentally out of it. A perfect example is how he answered the nurse's question "What month and what year is it?"  He said it was 2012. When the nurse told him that wasn't right, he said rather stubbornly, "It's almost 2012, isn't it? It's practically the same thing."

I stayed with him a couple hours feeding him Jello and ginger ale because the nurse wanted him to get some food in his stomach. He said he felt pretty good, all things considered, but the incision in his back is definitely causing a lot of pain when he lifts his right arm. "Guess I'll be a lefty for awhile," he said. He made jokes and wanted to hold my hand, so that seems like the real Robert is making his way back from the anesthesia.

I left him as he was starting to doze off at 11:30 pm. He was equipped with an eyeshade, earplugs, a Time magazine in case he can't sleep and a small stuffed buffalo for company.

Recovery room ho!

5:15 pm

I just spoke with Dr. Abbed, the surgeon, and he said he was very pleased with how the procedure went. He said "Robert was so tight when we opened him up, I could barely see the nerves, but we cleaned him out and put in the screws and now his back looks like a baby's. I really think he's going to feel a big difference once he heals from the surgical incisions."

Robert is going into the recovery room now. 

Dr. Abbed says he thinks Robert will probably spend a couple of hours in that recovery unit (possibly with some time in the ICU). Apparently spending time in the ICU can be a typical part of recovering from such a long episode of anesthesia. It doesn't mean anything went wrong. Dr. Abbed said his best guess at this point is that Robert won't spend any time in the ICU, but it could happen and it's not worrisome.

Dr. Abbed said I may as well just go home now and telephone later, instead of returning in person, because Robert probably won't remember talking to me anyway this evening... but if he gets into a regular room while visiting hours are still in effect, I think I'll come back down just to see how he is situated. 

It's been a long day but not a terrible one. I had an excellent chicken curry sandwich. I worked on some projects and listened to an online class on "living in the now." And the whole day was delightfully punctuated by short bursts of emotional support coming at me from my entire social network -- the real social network, the one where people care about you and are nice to you. Thanks, folks.

Going well

The nurse just called me in the waiting room to tell me that they are about halfway through. "His vitals are good," she said cheerfully. She also said my next update will be from the doctor when the procedure is over. So I think this is good time to put a couple of upholstered chairs together and try to grab a little nap.

Monday morning

They are operating on about a quarter of Robert's back today. Maybe it's as much as a third. 

The procedure is supposed to take 6 or 7 hours, plus another hour or two for him to wake up from the anesthesia. If all goes well, I won't have any news to report until 5 pm or so.

He is the only surgery Dr. Abbed will do today. We just got him admitted, IV'd up and he's been wheeled off on a rolling bed. I'm spending the day in the pleasant "family waiting room" where they give us caffeine and carbohydrates and wireless access. That's just what we family waiters need.

The best possible outcome is that 6 months to a year from now, he will have less pain in daily life and be able to stand up straighter than he can now. But even if the operation doesn't manage to lessen his pain (which it may not -- the doctors can't promise that) he will still have a straighter back and a more protected, more stable spinal cord. So the game is worth the candle.

A couple of weeks ago I sent an email to our family explaining the Robert's procedure. I'll reproduce it here now as a fact sheet for those who are interested.

Robert's diagnosis: spinal stenosis and degenerative scoliosis.

Why they want to do surgery: Three reasons.

· His spine is so unstable it is not protecting his spinal cord well anymore, and he's at risk for serious spinal damage if he were in a minor accident.

· The deteriorating spinal column is gradually damaging nerves that control functions like balance and walking.

· The problems in the spinal column are causing pain.

Date of the surgery: Monday Dec. 12

What is the doctor going to do?

· Laminectomy -- removing a portion of the spine's structure to create a larger space for the spinal cord and lessen the pressure.

· Fusion -- because the laminectomy removes some stabilizing structures from the spine, screws and rods are used to restabilize the vertebrae. Eventually some of the bony vertebrae will fuse together also to improve stability.

· Insert disk spacer at least one place to improve the "hinge" between his lumbar (mid-lower) spine and his sacral (lower-lower) spine.

Why is Robert's back in such bad shape? Just bad luck genetically. His spine got dealt a bad hand, so to speak. He didn't have an accident, he doesn't have an infectious disease.

Is this a big deal? Yep.

The doctor is operating on 6 or 7 vertebrae. The surgery will take something like 6 hours. The recovery from the surgery is complicated by the fact that they have to cut a bunch of muscles to reach the spine. So the recovery process is not so much recovering from what they do to the spine itself as recovering from the incisions that cut the muscles. This will take a long time. He will probably be walking slowly and not enjoying life much for at least 3 months. At 6 months he may seem normal. It may take 12 months for the full benefit of the surgery to be apparent to Robert.

Will he go into rehab after the surgery? They don't know that until after the surgery. After he's been in the hospital for 2 or 3 days, they evaluate whether he can do basic things on his own: walking, going to the bathroom, bathing. If he can do those things with assistance from me, then he goes home. Some people do go home two or three days after this kind of surgery. If he needs professional help with those things, then he goes into rehab. A lot of people do go into rehab.

Do I know what rehab facility he would go into? Not yet. Have to research the ones that are near us.

Do I want him to go to rehab? Well, yes. Most people seem to think that rehab facilities are great, caring facilities. I would love to get extra help taking care of Robert. So we'll see.

Will we have someone come into the house to help out? If necessary. I'm very open to the idea. Apparently I have a reputation as someone who tries to do things on her own without any help. Not in this case. I will seek out help!

Will Robert be in less pain after the surgery? Not right away. He will be in much more pain because of the incisions to the muscles. But as those heal, he should be in less pain, over time (8-12 months). The pressure on his nerves that causes pain should lessen, and the muscle spasms that are caused by his scoliosis could be addressed by exercise, massage and ultrasound.

Is pain the main reason they are doing the surgery? No. The main reason for doing the surgery is to prevent Robert's basic lower body functions like walking from deteriorating any further. Improving his pain is really a side issue for the surgeon, although he says that 80 percent of people who have this surgery do in fact have less pain once they have fully recovered from the operation.

Are there any special concerns for Robert as a patient?
1) Since he is diabetic, he supposedly heals less well than the average person, but in fact we haven't seen any sign that Robert's healing powers are diminished. He healed very nicely from the neck/cervical spine surgery he had in July, which was a smaller version of this surgery up in his neck.
2) When Robert had the cervical spine surgery in July, he definitely suffered from the "brain fog" that can follow general anesthesia. He was confused and his memory was poor for several weeks after that surgery. That "brain fog" is supposed to be worse as the time under anesthesia increases, so we expect that he will suffer from that confusion even longer this time.

How much time am I taking off from work? The doctor told me to expect to take off at least 2 weeks full time, possibly going back to work part time after 2 or 3 weeks.

How do we feel about all this? Robert feels anxiety and dread and is unhappy that he will be giving up the next 8-12 months of his life to being in even more pain, not sleeping well, and not being able to go out much. On the other hand, he thinks that this has to be done, and he expects that if he does this now he will be in better shape in the future. He is hopeful that he will have less pain when he is fully recovered. And he is very motivated to hang onto those functions that your lower spine controls: walking, balance, etc. Anne feels like this is the right decision and although it will be hard for both of us for several months, the long-term benefit makes it worth it.

I got so much support and kindness from our friends and family over the last six months while Robert was recovering from the smaller neck surgery. That makes us both feel much better about going into this second surgery. We know we have lots of dear friends and loving family to lean on. Thank you for understanding that we are not going to be as active or social for the next few months. It may be hard for me to do things that would have been routine in the past (remember birthdays, go to concerts, cat sit...) Please don't feel slighted if we seem out of touch, and we and we both hope to be back to normal (or better) later in 2012.