OUR STORY

The Road To Recovery – Part 3

Here we go again

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Here I was, writing about Brettanomyces for my latest post, all hyped up on “British Fungus” and horse blanket, when I received a call from an unknown number. “Mr. Heuff, you are on the trauma list and your surgery will be tomorrow morning” and just like that, once again the rug was pulled from underneath me, as I prepared myself to go under the knife. I’ve been hoping for the surgery to be as soon as possible so that I can continue my recovery and get back on two feet but I wasn’t completely prepared for this sudden call to action. As you may know, the damage to my left tibia was extensive. Much of my bone was either unsalvageable or lost in the accident (maybe stuck in the car) so they had to replace the upper part (about one third) with a block of cement which couldn’t be in my leg permanently. The plan was to take out the cement brick and then get bone from my left femur to replace it. There was the possibility that there wouldn’t be enough bone in my femur for the procedure and they would have to go into my pelvis to get the rest. There was also the possibility that because of inflammation, they would need to do another skin graph (which I really dreaded because I was still having a tough time with the first graph donor site, 3 months later).

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That morning

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We arrived at the hospital at seven AM on April 13th. An emergency surgery came in and pushed us back to about 3 pm. The whole while, the butterflies continued to flap their little wings in my empty stomach (you need to fast before surgery). They wheeled me into a hallway where I got to talk to my doctor, whom in my opinion, is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. They told me the surgery would be around three hours and that they would give me an epidural which would numb the bottom half of my body. At this point, I asked them if they could go the whole nine yards and put me out completely. The idea of lying there for several hours, listening to them drill into my bone sounded dreadful, even if no pain was involved. I got a big needle in my spine, felt my legs fall into complete numbness and they moved me to the operating room where everything went black.

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Post-surgery

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When I woke up, I was in the PACU (Post-Anesthesia-Care-Unit) and felt cold but not in pain. They piled warm blankets on me and gave me some water. One of the doctors came by and told me that the surgery went well and that they had already called my wife. I checked my body and in my confused state, found no second skin graph donor site. A sign of relief and a smile on my face. Hopefully, the worst was over.

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Some of the nurses in the PACU recognized me and we went through the pleasant smiles and explained to the other nurses that I am someone who, by all logic, should be dead. One really sweet nurse said to me: “it just wasn’t your time”. I’m not sure I know exactly what that means but I understand the sentiment and responded with “I’m so very lucky to be here”. Sometimes I feel like that answer may be disappointing to some and that I should have some sort of deeper wisdom on the subject considering the events I’ve lived through, but I don’t. What I do know is that after this surgery, I spent two nights in the hospital in a lot of pain. After my next appointment with the doctor, I will know more about where to go from here. Hopefully, the next post will not be titled “The Road to Recovery” but just “The Recovery”. With all the uncertainty in this world, the only thing I really know is that after everything, for some reason, I’m still here.

The Recovery Part 1 – Perspective

When it gets dark

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Some days are harder than others and for a brief moment, I think that maybe I might still be stuck underneath that truck, cold, confused and scared. Then, I open my eyes and hear the breathing of the woman who has one hand on my heart and I hear mine beating just as I can hear hers. I relax; the storm is over. But there is, what seems like, endless amounts of road ahead of us, twisting and turning through the mountains as the wind pushes, reminding us of our fragility and insignificance on this planet. Sometimes I get tired. My brain goes to fantastical places where I’m the new shooting guard for the Toronto Raptors and I’m bringing my team back from a 10 point deficit. Then I wake up and my legs don’t walk and my left arm still won’t do what it’s supposed to. All of this self pity is so very disappointing and for that, I apologize. Yesterday I was doing exercises at rehab when a man pulled up next to me, missing his entire left leg. We crossed paths and he had a big smile on his face and now, I sit here complaining and losing patience.

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What brings me back

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Some days are easier than others. Saturday, I brewed a beer with my family and it was the nicest gift I’ve ever received. There I sat with the people I love, sun in my face and the smell of fresh grain in the air. We brewed an IPA and being able to crack open and smell a bag of Simcoe again was truly remarkable.

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St-Hyacinthe

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I am very bad at telling people what to do and not being able to help was tough but the experience of being able to do something you love and everyone being together was very heartwarming.
The seasons seem to move with my recovery. February in Quebec is brutal and so is being stuck in a hospital bed and unable to move but as my wounds continue to heal, the sun comes out and warmth follows. We took advantage of our fortune: ate an amazing BBQ with excellent cheese and for dessert, I had apple pie with ice cream and a tall pint of Porter. It was rare that the smile slipped from my face.

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The beat goes on

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I’m now on crutches and am using my wheelchair less and less. I spend most of my days reading, writing and doing exercises. The routine can become dreary but the goal is clear, and my eye is on the prize. I have to tell myself often not to beat myself up and to stay focused. Yes I’m broken, but that’s okay. I’m going to get better. I have to get better. There is no other option. Grab hold of what is important and hold on tight. Yes the road is long but you are alive, able to brew a beer and say “I’m still here!”

The Recovery Part 2 – Progress vs. Patience

Progress

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It truly is remarkable how the human body heals. I cannot express how good it feels to be out of the chair and on crutches. Like everything, it’s a lot of work but being back at my height is fantastic and allows me to do things like go on my terrain by the campfire and enjoy the outdoors with ease. Every step I take with crutches feels like a workout and progress.

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I started to drive again. At first, there were moments of instability. Almost like my newly founded sense of caution was causing me to anticipate danger from other cars that wasn’t really there. It’s an odd feeling because I was always a very confident driver, often relying on what I considered decent instincts. Now I feel more like a fresh driver, eager to earn my stripes but hesitant to make an error. Feels great to be back on the road, sun in my face, windows down and riding past the fields on a beautiful day.

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I am back on a bike and I couldn’t be happier. My father loved to bike, and I’ve always enjoyed it too but I would use it more as a means of transportation and less as a hobby. When he passed away, his bike was a left unused and in storage. Then, I started to use his bike and everything changed. I found a new passion for pushing my endurance while in amazement at the beauty around me. Before long, my wife had bought a bike and we were both riding through the massive vineyards, with the weeping willows above us and the mountains in the background. I am far from getting back there, I know, but this step is one that signals the eventual return of things that I love and I think would have made my father proud.

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Patience

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So I count down the days. I continue to move and time follows but it feels like we are at a very different pace. My longing for my brewing comeback and fast bike rides and camping and walking down the stairs to my basement and….. and…. my impatience just doesn’t seem to match the hands of a clock or their inability to move at the rate that I wish they would.

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But I digress. Things are moving in the right direction. Couple months ago, I was just in awe that I was alive, now I’m back driving and training on my bike. The warm wind blows as I pedal with a big smile on my face and say “I’m still here”.