Hitting Bottom

Warning: The images in this post are graphic and might be disturbing from some readers

I’ve been sharing my story about my accident and my recovery on the blog for a while now. While some of the images might be hard for people to see, I decided to include them because I want to be honest. I also hope that maybe my story might be helpful to someone else who is going through a similar ordeal. Click here to view my story from the beginning.

Falling towards the bottom

In my last post about my accident, I spoke about discovering that my bone had become infected and that it had to be removed. I also mentioned that after my course of antibiotics via PICC line that the plan was for me to have my prosthesis surgery before Christmas 2013. That might have been the plan, but that was definitely not the reality.

The bone was removed for the second time in July of 2013. At this point I was being treated and cared for by a neurosurgeon and an infectious disease specialist who was in charge of my treatment for the infection. The PICC line was in for six weeks, and I was due to come back for a follow up appointment to see the infectious disease specialist six weeks after the PICC line was removed.

Six weeks. This time marker shows up a lot in my story. At this six week follow up appointment, in October 2013, I had a small scab (again) on the back of my head on my incision line. Not exactly where the other one was, but pretty close. Again, the doctors weren’t concerned about it. In fact at this point it had just appeared. My blood work had come back fine and with the high dose of antibiotics I had been on, everything should be fine. Of course, life does not always follow the road map.

The scab on my head continued to grow. It got bigger and opened up more. It was at this point that things really started to get difficult for me. My doctors had a hard time healing this wound. They tried everything. I was placed on another round of oral antibiotics – nothing. They ran tests and did scans but they couldn’t figure out why this kept happening and why it wouldn’t heal. What they did know was that I wouldn’t be having my prosthesis surgery until the wound was healed.

The Bottom

So they can’t operate until the wound heals, but they also don’t know why I have the wound or why it won’t heal. They also have NO idea how to treat it and so at this point we start getting mixed messages and advice that doesn’t seem to make sense. At one point I was told to leave it alone and to not get the wound wet. This lead to a great big nest growing over the wound as seen below.

This wasn’t working, so the next step was to cut off the nest and see if that would work. I was given a medicated shampoo to use in addition to the antibiotics. The meds were making me dizzy and tired and led to me fainting again, so I hated being on them, but if they worked I didn’t care.

But nothing was working. The wound wasn’t healing and all that I did know was that I wasn’t getting my surgery. I had a big indent on the side of my head where there was no bone which left me vulnerable at all times. I wasn’t able to move on with my life and I had no idea when or if I would ever be able to do so.

I remember leaving one of my (many) appointments, going to Tim Horton’s for lunch and bursting into tears at the cash register. This reaction seemed to be happening more and more as I struggled to get something or someone who knew how to treat and heal this wound.

I was starting to become depressed so I took action. I left Tim Horton’s and I went straight to one of my other doctors at the hospital who worked at the Head Injury Clinic. She could see that I was in rough shape. I couldn’t stop crying and even though I was seeing an amazing social worker and had a great support system in my family and friends, I needed more. So, right before the Christmas holiday’s I started on a course of anti-depressants.

I realized that I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own. That I was out of my depth. I had no control over my life and I didn’t know how to get the answers I needed. I needed additional help which I got from a short-term dose of anti-depressants. It was what I needed and what worked for me. I continued seeing my social worker and contacted every department at the hospital that I could think of in my efforts to get help with my wound. This time was the lowest of my life but I discovered how much strength I actually have and that I am a fighter.

Charlene xoxo