The next morning I called my family doctor and was told the next available appointment was next week. NEXT WEEK! My heart jumped in my chest. How in the heck was I supposed to even function with the ‘knives’ buried in my spine? Take Tylenol for the pain they said, it would hold me over they said. Over the next week I ate a mountain of Tylenol and am not certain how much of my liver I donated to the Tylenol corporation. It did not help with the pain. At all. That was my first indication something was very wrong.
The day of the appointment finally arrived and I walked, stood, sat, stretched, walked, and tried to make myself comfortable in the waiting room. The family doctor saw me, and ordered more tests, x-rays, and something called a CT scan, which I was later to discover involved drinking some dye, and having some injected into my bloodstream, and which of course, also would make one very sick. Yay! Oh, and then there were the medicines - Darvon for the pain. No work until the doctor diagnosed the problem. Darvon was good, very, very good.
The x-rays and CT scans confirmed what the doctor has suspected, and it was not good news. Two broken vertebrae and two ruptured disks. My heart sank to the bottom of my shoes. The doctor was very supportive, and quite honest with me. This would mean a major lifestyle change - no running - at all; no heavy lifting - at all; no archery or hunting or carrying deer or any game - all; taking medicine which would numb the pain and my mind, and maybe not working for the rest of my life. This doubled the blow and I was devastated.
My wife, Leigh, was not happy with the news either. We had 1 almost teenage girl and 4 boys. How was I supposed to manage the pain, help with the children, be the provider for my household and be a husband to my wife? These were not easy questions to answer at thirty-two years of age, but I doubt anyone of any age could easily manage these as well. We prayed and prayed, and asked the Lord for guidance.
Finally, my family doctor sent me to see an orthopedic surgeon, who reviewed all the test data, and then gave us the real bad news. Surgery wasn’t possible, it was too risky, and the outcome may result in worse pain than I currently had. Time and love would maybe heal my back, and oh, by the way, you need to see a physical therapist to help strengthen your back. What? My back needs strengthening? This sounded a little strange to me. At that time in my life, I weighed one hundred eighty pounds, was very physically fit, had a regular yoga routine, and I needed to have my back strengthened? There are those whom physical therapists have helped over the years, and I’m glad for them. Of the multiple times I’ve seen a physical therapist, the main outcome has been they have hurt me worse. The spine is such a marvelous mechanism, providing support to the entire body. When it is damaged, it is also one of the most difficult systems to rehabilitate. No fault to physical therapists, but they did not help me with my back pain, at all, ever.
After the failed physical therapy sessions, and the continued pain, my orthopedist suggested cortisone shots into the nerve complex at the fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae to relieve the swelling. He helped me onto the stretcher and told me ‘this may hurt a bit’. The Novocaine numbed the site where the needle went in - and who knew that needles came in six inch sizes? Not me for sure. My eyes bugged out in my head and I firmly grasped the side handles on the stretcher. The doctor proceeded with the injection. About half-way in I felt the needle slide past the bone, held my breath, and proceeded to bend the heck out the side handles on the stretcher. One minute later, we were done. He asked ‘did that hurt’. I showed him the bent handles. ‘Just a little.’ He looked at the handles, and at me.
The cortisone helped a little, for a short while, maybe two days, and then the pain was back in double force. Meanwhile I’m still off work, on Workman’s Compensation, and wondering if I will ever work again. I still had not seen the bottom, and the pain kept escalating. Depression set in and my thoughts ran to ‘this certainly isn’t any way I want to live for the rest of my life’. I couldn’t drive while taking the pain medication, and the pain on a scale of one to then was fifteen. There wasn’t any comfortable position, sitting, standing, laying down, or kneeling. Relief was found in the nightly Darvon and a hot bath, where I could rest for a few moments, and finally sleep a little through the night. Soon, though, one Darvon wasn’t enough. I took two and that helped me to sleep at night. Soon, two Darvon wasn’t enough. I did not take three.
The next visit to the orthopedist was very disturbing. He was shocked when I told him I could not live like this anymore. I told him about the Darvon and the failed physical therapy. I was at my wits end. I truly believe if it were not for the grace of God, I would not now be writing this. He looked at me, and said ‘don’t do anything rash. Let’s get you into the Pain Clinic at Strong.’ Maybe, just maybe there would be some hope.
Workman’s Compensation had other ideas. Certain charges were not covered, certain medicines were not covered, and certain individuals were seen outside our home, taking pictures of me walking outside. Just because you are not paranoid doesn’t mean they are not really out to get you. I hired a lawyer to represent me to Workman’s Compensation, and that took care of that. It really is amazing how the tone of some of these agency staff change when they receive communication from an attorney who knows the system. My attorney represented me until the final adjudication in the case – a permanent partial disability, of which I never took any undue advantage.
Speaking of attorneys: my employer decided after four months on Workman's Compensation that I was ready to return to work. Never mind that the Doctor said I wasn't ready, and would be more at risk. My employer knew what was best for me. We held a meeting, and a Union Steward represented me to the employer. It was a pleasant chat – not - and although I wasn't naive, my eyes were opened to the fact that this agency was not as altruistic as they lead others to believe. During the give and take between the employer and the union steward, I did not say a word. The employer told me I would be returning to the day treatment program, or else lose my job – nice. I looked him in the eye and told him straight up it was not my fault I was injured, there were two other staff who were responsible for my injury as well who had not been held accountable and would they care to lose their licenses for their conduct (as in conduct unbecoming), and I had been very faithful to the program, always at work, always on time, and had given them one hundred and fifty percent - perhaps I should have a further discussion with my lawyer about my options? It has never failed to amaze me since how often people's tone changes when you use the 'L' word. It wasn't any empty threat – I had an attorney, and in fact, this could have been a fun expose on the agency and how staff were being injured through their negligence. After suggesting a conversation with my lawyer, my employer's entire attitude changed. 'Oh yes, we can find a place for Chuck where his risk of injury will be radically reduced. Oh yes, he's a valuable employee.' Would you put that in writing? 'Oh yes.' They did. The rest is history.
Next installment: the Chronic Pain Clinic at Strong Hospital.
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