Recently Karen and I returned to Carle Hospital in Urbana, IL, for a followup visit with Dr. Michael Neuwirth, the brilliant surgeon who performed the catheter insertion for my dialysis. I know he must be brilliant because every health care professional I've met with since the operation – and I've met with a mess of 'em – refers to him and his work in hushed tones of reverence. That makes for one contented patient.
Actually, I didn't meet with Dr. Neuwirth in person (brilliant people are often busy, too), but with his physician's assistant, who asked to remain nameless here for professional reasons. Henceforth we will call her Unidentified Physician's Assistant, or UPA, which is not to be confused with "Yooper," the slang term for a native of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Which, as it just so happened, is where the UPA was from.
The UPA was extremely pleased to see that, as she told us, my surgical wound showed no evidence of dehiscence, which from this point on will be our Word for the Day.
(de • his • cence, (de-HISS-cents), n.: a bursting or splitting along natural or sutured lines; a splitting open. Separation of the layers of a surgical wound. "We may have to suture him again, Al; the blood indicates his incision is showing signs of dehiscence.")
She didn't stop there, however. UPA went on to gush over how beautifully the edges of the incision were coming together, and that the healing process looked "awesome." By my count, she used the word "beautiful" or a variation seven times during our brief visit, along with "awesome," "perfect" and "excellent" once each.
Well, let me tell you, it's been a very long time since any person of the female persuasion looked at me and said "beautiful" that many times, even if it was in regards to the two-inch slit in my belly.
Leaving the hospital that day, I kept hearing the voice of Natalie Wood in West Side Story sounding in my head: "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty...." UPA made me so proud, I could have just dehissed.
Showing posts with label Dr. Michael Neuwirth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dr. Michael Neuwirth. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wanna See My Scar?
Well, you can't. I haven't even seen it yet, and probably won't for at least a couple of weeks.
Here's what we all can see, the surgical dressing placed tightly over the site where my dialysis catheter was inserted, then taped down tighter than an Adam Lambert liplock. If you look hard, you can see the outline of tube that's now sticking out in the suburbs of my belly button.
The whole procedure went very well (or so I was told; I was out like a power shortage) and thank you all for your prayers and support. I could feel your encouragement.
I had to wait more than two hours in prep before finally being wheeled into the coldest operating room I can ever remember. Surgery in a meat locker; how invigorating. The delay did give me time to watch "Divorce Court" and "The People's Court," however, and allow me to extol the virtues of Xanax as a quality mood relaxer!
Dr. Neuwirth, the surgeon who implanted the catheter, said he was going to put me into "twilight" for the operation. It might as well have been "midnight." I remember remarking to him that his "third cousin," actress Bebe Neuwirth, is playing Morticia Addams opposite Nathan Lane in The Addams Family musical in Chicago through January. We chatted about that briefly; the next thing I knew I was in recovery. I love it when operations go like that!
So, like Uncle Joe, I'm a-movin' kinda slow, but I should be able to sit upright and take nourishment – especially with Thanksgiving just two days away! The tube is inside me now. The adventure continues.
Here's what we all can see, the surgical dressing placed tightly over the site where my dialysis catheter was inserted, then taped down tighter than an Adam Lambert liplock. If you look hard, you can see the outline of tube that's now sticking out in the suburbs of my belly button.
The whole procedure went very well (or so I was told; I was out like a power shortage) and thank you all for your prayers and support. I could feel your encouragement.
I had to wait more than two hours in prep before finally being wheeled into the coldest operating room I can ever remember. Surgery in a meat locker; how invigorating. The delay did give me time to watch "Divorce Court" and "The People's Court," however, and allow me to extol the virtues of Xanax as a quality mood relaxer!
Dr. Neuwirth, the surgeon who implanted the catheter, said he was going to put me into "twilight" for the operation. It might as well have been "midnight." I remember remarking to him that his "third cousin," actress Bebe Neuwirth, is playing Morticia Addams opposite Nathan Lane in The Addams Family musical in Chicago through January. We chatted about that briefly; the next thing I knew I was in recovery. I love it when operations go like that!
So, like Uncle Joe, I'm a-movin' kinda slow, but I should be able to sit upright and take nourishment – especially with Thanksgiving just two days away! The tube is inside me now. The adventure continues.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Hole Truth
OK, I've really been obsessing over the implanting of my dialysis catheter. I didn't want to annoy anyone – especially you – by whining and wailing about it the past few weeks, but I've really been able to think of little else.
This morning at about 10 a.m. EST, Dr. Michael Neuwirth, chief of interventional radiation at Carle Hospital in Champaign, Ill., (doesn't that sound impressive?) will cut open a new hole in my midsection, stick a wire inside it and use the wire as a guide to insert a tube into my peritoneal cavity. The tube eventually will carry fluid to cleanse my blood the way my kidneys would if they were working properly.
I realize I'm probably making a mountain out of a meatball, and the reality of the operation likely will be far less ominous than the horrors I've concocted in my mind. But I'm extremely sensitive to the fact that after today, my body image will be altered for a long time – possibly forever. And having a tube sticking out of your side changes the way you do almost everything, from taking a morning shower to getting dressed, to exercising – I'm not even sure I'll be able to sit the same way anymore.
I guess one fortunate thing is that I do have some personal history to refer to here. Back in 2002, my family doctor detected a lump in my neck during a routine physical and recommended I get it checked by a specialist. A year later, during my annual physical, my doctor asked, "Whatever happened with that lump?"
"What lump?" I asked, channeling the comedic timing of the late Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.
(Those who know me recognize that I have a memory like a sieve.)
This made the doc pretty steamed, and he insisted I make an appointment with a specialist while I was sitting in his office. A week or so later, the ear, nose and throat surgeon gave me the news: He was going to have to operate and cut the lump out of my neck for examination.
I remember looking in the mirror the night before the surgery, staring at my face and thinking, "I will never, ever look this way again." The eight-hour operation went smoothly, the growth turned out to be benign, and the recovery process was painful but brief. I had a tube coming out of my neck and into a small bag at my side for nearly two weeks to collect excess blood and fluids while the healing took place.
Eventually, though, the tube came out (with a large sucking sound, as I recall), and today the scar behind my ear is virtually invisible. So as horrible as I thought having neck surgery was going to be, time truly does heal all wounds.
One unusual side effect remains, however: During the operation, surgeons had to remove my saliva gland along with the tumor. Now my body has never recognized the fact that the gland is no longer there, so every time I eat something particularly spicy or flavorful, the "ghost" gland on the left side of my neck begins to sweat. (Someone once said my neck is spitting, but that seems a bit distasteful.) I asked my doctor about it and he says he's never heard anything like it before.
So that operation made me unique long before the procedure I'm having today. If you think about it, though, send up a prayer or a few good wishes for today. And if I'm ever having a meal with you and you see my neck begin to perspire, you'll know I'm really enjoying my food.
This morning at about 10 a.m. EST, Dr. Michael Neuwirth, chief of interventional radiation at Carle Hospital in Champaign, Ill., (doesn't that sound impressive?) will cut open a new hole in my midsection, stick a wire inside it and use the wire as a guide to insert a tube into my peritoneal cavity. The tube eventually will carry fluid to cleanse my blood the way my kidneys would if they were working properly.
I realize I'm probably making a mountain out of a meatball, and the reality of the operation likely will be far less ominous than the horrors I've concocted in my mind. But I'm extremely sensitive to the fact that after today, my body image will be altered for a long time – possibly forever. And having a tube sticking out of your side changes the way you do almost everything, from taking a morning shower to getting dressed, to exercising – I'm not even sure I'll be able to sit the same way anymore.
I guess one fortunate thing is that I do have some personal history to refer to here. Back in 2002, my family doctor detected a lump in my neck during a routine physical and recommended I get it checked by a specialist. A year later, during my annual physical, my doctor asked, "Whatever happened with that lump?"
"What lump?" I asked, channeling the comedic timing of the late Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.
(Those who know me recognize that I have a memory like a sieve.)
This made the doc pretty steamed, and he insisted I make an appointment with a specialist while I was sitting in his office. A week or so later, the ear, nose and throat surgeon gave me the news: He was going to have to operate and cut the lump out of my neck for examination.
I remember looking in the mirror the night before the surgery, staring at my face and thinking, "I will never, ever look this way again." The eight-hour operation went smoothly, the growth turned out to be benign, and the recovery process was painful but brief. I had a tube coming out of my neck and into a small bag at my side for nearly two weeks to collect excess blood and fluids while the healing took place.
Eventually, though, the tube came out (with a large sucking sound, as I recall), and today the scar behind my ear is virtually invisible. So as horrible as I thought having neck surgery was going to be, time truly does heal all wounds.
One unusual side effect remains, however: During the operation, surgeons had to remove my saliva gland along with the tumor. Now my body has never recognized the fact that the gland is no longer there, so every time I eat something particularly spicy or flavorful, the "ghost" gland on the left side of my neck begins to sweat. (Someone once said my neck is spitting, but that seems a bit distasteful.) I asked my doctor about it and he says he's never heard anything like it before.
So that operation made me unique long before the procedure I'm having today. If you think about it, though, send up a prayer or a few good wishes for today. And if I'm ever having a meal with you and you see my neck begin to perspire, you'll know I'm really enjoying my food.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tube Stake
Well, the die officially has been cast: After considerable negotiation (and a bit of whining on my part), we have set the date and time for the operation that will insert a permanent catheter through my midsection and into the peritoneal lining of my abdomen. It's 9 a.m. Tuesday, Nov. 24, and if you'd like to send up a little Thanksgiving prayer about that time I certainly wouldn't oppose it.
My nephrologist, Dr. Attia, assures me that this doesn't mean dialysis will begin right away. But my kidney function continues to deteriorate, he says, and when the time does come he wants the dialysis port to be fully healed and ready for operation.
I think it never actually dawned on me that my recent consultation with Dr. Michael Neuwirth, the surgeon who's going to do the implant procedure, would mean plans were in place to do the operation so soon (see "The Doctor With X-Ray Eyes," Oct. 30). I'm not ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready.
When I got the call from Dr. Attia's office, I was told they wanted to do the operation next week. Whoa, too quick! Besides, I plan to be out of town on business next week. I suggested the week after, but Dr. Neuwirth is on vacation. (Whew.) That pushed the creation of my second belly button back to our current compromise date of Nov. 24.
If I've learned anything over this past year or so of infirmity, it's that the body is nothing more than a housing for our soul and spirit – and not a particularly sturdy one, at that. We spend so many years of our youth protecting it and pampering it, trying to keep it smooth and sleek, yet as we grow older we end up patching holes and replacing parts anyway. But there's something about this catheter that really has me rattled.
I think it's because an appendage sticking out of my gut might make me feel weaker, or sicker, more vulnerable – less whole. I had a very soft and intimate conversation with Karen the other night before we went to bed and suggested as much to her.
She looked me in the eye and said, "That won't matter, Jimmy. It'll just be something different. You'll always be sexy to me." What a magnificent life partner I have.
My nephrologist, Dr. Attia, assures me that this doesn't mean dialysis will begin right away. But my kidney function continues to deteriorate, he says, and when the time does come he wants the dialysis port to be fully healed and ready for operation.
I think it never actually dawned on me that my recent consultation with Dr. Michael Neuwirth, the surgeon who's going to do the implant procedure, would mean plans were in place to do the operation so soon (see "The Doctor With X-Ray Eyes," Oct. 30). I'm not ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready.
When I got the call from Dr. Attia's office, I was told they wanted to do the operation next week. Whoa, too quick! Besides, I plan to be out of town on business next week. I suggested the week after, but Dr. Neuwirth is on vacation. (Whew.) That pushed the creation of my second belly button back to our current compromise date of Nov. 24.
If I've learned anything over this past year or so of infirmity, it's that the body is nothing more than a housing for our soul and spirit – and not a particularly sturdy one, at that. We spend so many years of our youth protecting it and pampering it, trying to keep it smooth and sleek, yet as we grow older we end up patching holes and replacing parts anyway. But there's something about this catheter that really has me rattled.
I think it's because an appendage sticking out of my gut might make me feel weaker, or sicker, more vulnerable – less whole. I had a very soft and intimate conversation with Karen the other night before we went to bed and suggested as much to her.
She looked me in the eye and said, "That won't matter, Jimmy. It'll just be something different. You'll always be sexy to me." What a magnificent life partner I have.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Doctor With X-Ray Eyes
No, he's not a mad or evil doctor, although in keeping with the eerie and bloody theme of my Halloween week that certainly would be appropriate.
Actually, Dr. Michael Neuwirth is a very friendly and forthcoming fellow – and since he's the man who someday will insert a semi-permanent tube through my belly and into the peritoneal lining of my abdomen, his cheerful personality makes me happy, too.
Karen and I met recently with Dr. Neuwirth (no relation to the actress Bebe – I know because I asked, which should give you an idea of how our conversation went), the chief of interventional radiology for Carle Clinic. I'm not sure, but I think "interventional" in this case is medical-speak for "I'm gonna stick something in ya."
This meeting was simply a consultation, a "how you doin', glad to meet you" session. None of us have any idea when I will need to begin dialysis – the kidney function numbers will tell us that – but people around here are big on preparation and information, so my nephrologist, Dr. Attia, set up this get-together so I would have an idea of what to expect.
Whenever it happens, the operation will be an outpatient procedure performed while I'm under heavy drugs (yay!) and take about two hours to complete. I get to pick the side where the catheter will live, but Dr. Neuwirth says most people prefer the right side. (Which makes no sense to me, since most people are right handed.)
"I go in four fingers to the right of the belly button and two fingers up," he explained. "That's where I do it. I use ultrasound to look for the entryway in. I insert a needle and watch the needle the whole way, as it goes through the skin into your abdominal cavity. Then I insert a wire and the tube goes in over the wire.
"This is all done with image guidance, so I see what I'm doing the whole time. I don't just open you up, stick a tube in and close you up. I do this with X-ray vision."
He's done this procedure hundreds of times, he says, and I feel really good about the fact that when the time comes, Dr. Neuwirth will be performing the surgery. I don't know, I guess you could call it....
Wait for it....
A gut feeling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)