My Night of Insomnia

I had a lot of time to think while I was waiting. I looked around the sterile, cold walls of my surroundings, and I was numb and emotionally spent. The news of the previous day, coupled with all of the other crap, was more than I could deal with. I had been here too many times before--or rather, I had been to places like this before. I was weary of it all, and I just wondered when it was going to be someone else's turn. I was tired of being the guy that was always in the hospital.

Normally, I loved Christmas, but here it was just a few days before Christmas of 1990, and I was angry, frustrated, and very depressed. I had been through so much in the four years prior to that moment, and I could feel the my psyche was teetering dangerously close to the edge.

I had been from doctor to doctor, all the while hoping to find someone who would be able to fix my problem. The standard operating procedure for my life from 1986 to that very point, followed this pattern: I would go to a specialist, and he would tell me that he “thought” that he could help me, and he would “try” his best to fix it. Then, I would have a painful surgery, which was ALWAYS followed by a painful and long recovery. After a couple of months I would come to the disheartening realization that this operation hadn't worked, and then I would either have another surgery with that same doctor, or I would start the process again with another doctor. At this moment in my life, I was on my 5th doctor.

My newest doctor was an arrogant and cocky jerk. In fact, I couldn't stand him. But, he had assured me with his unmitigated smugness that he was going to be able to fix me. He didn't use words like “try” and he didn't tell me that he “thought” he could help me. I appreciated his confidence, but I wasn't convinced. I had trusted doctors before, and it had only led to more pain, both physical and emotional.

So why was I in the hospital in the first place? It all started with one of my favorite activities in the world—swimming. One summer day in 1986, I went swimming at my grandparent's pool at the Lake of the Ozarks. I had spent countless hours of my youth in that pool without incident. But, one seemingly insignificant occurrence was to forever change the course of my life.

I am a “monoplegic,” and that means that one of my limbs is paralyzed. So my right leg is essentially useless to me, but I have perfect control of my left leg. But the great thing about the water is that I don't need crutches or a wheelchair, because the water keeps me buoyant.

That's why my love of water is almost spiritual in a sense. It allows me to be just like everyone else for that brief moment that I am in that aquatic dreamworld. But as soon as I get out of the pool, I'm back to reality.

So that day, I was swimming in their pool, and I ended up dragging the top of my left foot on the bottom of the pool. I'm not sure why I did that, because I usually walk with a normal gait when I am in the pool. But I happened to drag my foot this time. The bottom of the pool happened to be a little rough, so it gave the top of my foot a mild abrasion. My left foot is actually my “good” foot, so I did feel it when it happened, but it didn't hurt. As I said, it was merely a little scrape.

The next day I made a horrible decision, and with hindsight being 20/20, I can only imagine what my life would have been like had I not made this error in judgment. My family and I went swimming again, but this time we went swimming in the actual lake, itself. We put a band-aid on my scrape, and we enjoyed our afternoon in the water.

About a week later I noticed that my foot was starting to hurt, and that my scrape was not healing. In fact, it looked like it was getting worse. Then soon after that, I noticed that I was developing the signs of infection.

I'm going to gloss over and consolidate the next part, because it is quite detailed and graphic. But, this tiny little scrape grew into a RAGING infection in my foot, and I had a very serious nonhealing wound. So, I went to see my first doctor.

This just started the chain of events that I referenced earlier. I went from specialist to specialist, and I endured some very severe surgeries. I am so thankful for my parents, because most of the post-surgical care that I had to do could only be done with the help of my mom and dad. With my limited mobility, they were able to do things to my foot that I could not do, and I'm so thankful that they were there.

It was at that time when I transitioned from being ambulatory and on my crutches, to being in the wheelchair. It just hurt too much to walk on my foot. Besides, the doctors wanted me to keep weight off the foot, if possible. I would still use the crutches from time-to-time, but the switchover had essentially begun.

So back to me waiting in the hospital room. I had been waiting for some important news from the doctor. His plan to “fix” my foot included doing some intensive vascular surgery on my foot. He had me come into the hospital a day early so I could have a medical test done to assess the circulation and blood flow in my foot and lower leg. So the results of this test were very important to me and the success of the surgery.

When the doctor finally entered my hospital room, I could tell that something was amiss. He didn't have his usual swagger. In fact, he was very close to showing actual human compassion. He said the words that I still remember, 18 ½ years later. “Kevin, the results of the test aren't good. Your blood flow is not what we were hoping for. I'm going to do my best to avoid this, but I wanted to let you know that there is a possibility that I'll have to amputate your leg, below-the-knee during the surgery.”

I felt that I had been kicked in the chest by a team of mules. I didn't know what to say. I mean, this was my GOOD FOOT and GOOD LEG. I did everything with this leg, and my independence was clearly dependent on it.

My parents also had a stunned look on their faces, and the doctor assured us that he didn't think he would have to amputate. He was going to do everything in his power to keep that from happening, but he wanted us to know that there was a chance. He then left the room and went home.

We sat in stunned silence for awhile. Collectively, my parents and I had been through so much during those last four years, and we didn't quite know what to say. My parents said that they were sure that everything was going to be alright, and I really do think that they believed that...but I didn't.

They stayed until visiting hours were over, and then they said their goodbyes. Thus began, the worst night of sleep that I have ever had. I started thinking about how my life was going to be so different, if I didn't have my left leg. I used my left leg for driving, and really everything as far as my mobility was concerned. I tried to think about how I was going to transfer in and out of my chair without using my legs..and only my arms. Try it yourself, it's close to impossible.

Besides that stressor, I was still reeling from some news that I had heard the day before. I was extremely involved in my high school youth group, and the people in the group were some of my best friends. I got a call from one of my friends in the group, and he asked if he could come visit me in my hospital room. I told him that I had a medical test scheduled for later on in the day, but he was welcome to come before it.

I was extremely surprised when EVERYONE from my youth group came streaming into my room....everyone, save for one. My friends went on to tell me that my friend Beth had died in a house fire that morning. Her parents and brother had made it out alive, but she couldn't get out of her room. I didn't know what to say, but I cried and shared the moment with all of my special friends that were there.

After they left, I had a strange realization. Everyone that I loved was in my home, while I was stuck in this hospital room. I felt utterly helpless. I started to think about how something awful could happen to my family, and I was going to be left alone. The mind plays tricks on you when you have too much time to think.

So that night before the surgery, my head was full of worry. I was worried about myself. I was worried about my family's safety. I was worried about Beth's family. You name it...I thought about it that night. I think I drifted off to sleep at about 4:30 that morning.

I was woken up early, because my surgery had been scheduled for early in the morning. I remember kissing and hugging my parents goodbye and being whisked to the operating room.

I was still very nervous, but fortunately the anesthesia did its trick, and I was able to start to relax. I drifted off to sleep, and then I awoke to choking. I had a very hard time waking up from the anesthesia and my oxygen level got a little low, so they kept me in recovery for a long time.

Once the cobwebs in my head started to clear out, I realized that I needed to find out about my leg. I had a sheet covering my lower half and through the sheet I saw the outline of TWO legs. I lifted up the sheet and saw a glorious sight...my leg. The foot and ankle were heavily bandaged, but it was there! And I was thrilled.

When I got back to my room, my parents were happy but they looked like they had something serious to tell me. They proceeded to tell me that the infection was too bad in parts of my foot, and the doctor had to amputate three of my toes. I was a little bit shocked, but only for about five minutes. I could live with the fact that I could no longer count to 20 on my fingers and toes. I had two legs...that's all that mattered.

I went through another long and arduous recovery, but I had a different result this time. This surgery actually worked!! I had finally found a doctor, cocky arrogant asshole that he was, that was able to help me.

It's now 18 years after the surgery, and I can honestly say that it feels like it all happened yesterday. I have had a few MINOR issues with my foot since then, but everything has been great.

I'm still a little self-conscious about my foot, and there are only a few select people in my life who have seen it. But, I can live with a deformed foot. I take care of it, and I will NEVER go swimming with bare feet again. I always wear a swim shoe or boot.

This was honestly one of the worst times in my life. But all of the pain and tears were worth it. This one incident has served as a reminder to me to always keep searching. If I would have been content to live with an infected foot, I would have never searched for a fifth doctor. So, that's what drives me. It's this moment in my life that I call upon to keep going.