Thank You Jefferson First-Years!

Mile Marker 12,050:

New students.
White coats.

So much hope and promise in one room!

At Jefferson University, Medical School begins with listening to patient stories.  

It's hard to express how much this means to me.  

There's nothing quite like a doctor who listens.  (I learned this from my own medical team!)

It eases pain and anxiety.  

It builds relationships and trust.

It makes all the difference.

I've been a "patient speaker" in this class for several years, yet it always has an impact on me.

I admire the journey of these "first-year" students.  I'm amazed by the questions they ask.  I'm awed by their insight, not as doctors (just yet!), but as fellow humans with their own life experience that inspired them to take this path. 

It's a full auditorium today.  

Dr. McNett interviews me.

As I look out across that sea of white coats, I imagine my story landing gently -- like a small stone -- and rippling outward, as if the care I received from my own doctors could touch future patients and families.

It's an honor to share my story with these students.

Especially because they're listening. 

Thank you for the warm welcome, Class of 2027!  

I know you'll make a difference in the lives of your patients.

You've already made a difference in mine.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Stop the Bleed

May is National Trauma Survivors Month -- and guess what...

You can learn to help someone survive a traumatic injury like mine.

(Yes, really!)

It's called Stop the Bleed.

Now I know what you're thinking.  I, too, sat through middle school health class in the 1980's.

Back then, tourniquets were a big NO.
And dealing with blood??  
That was an even bigger NO.

But you should know (see what I did there?) these important life-saving measures aren't NOs anymore.

First aid and trauma care have evolved since then.  

I have it from a good source  -- actually the best source -- my Jefferson Trauma Team.  

It's okay to help in an emergency.  

In fact, it's RECOMMENDED.

And EVERYONE should know how!

Stop the Bleed is a nationwide campaign to teach ordinary bystanders how to help someone who's bleeding out.  

Maybe you're out hiking or rock climbing.  

Maybe you're walking through the city.  

Maybe you're waiting at a bus stop.

With a little knowledge,
YOU can save the life of someone who's injured.

First -- CALL 911.  Make sure YOU are safe.

If the person is bleeding, apply pressure to the wound.  Both hands.  Shoulders strong.  Get down on your knees if you have to.

If the wound is wide and deep, pack it with gauze -- or whatever fabric you might have handy.  

Even a t-shirt will work.
(Trauma Nurse Nora taught me that!)

For arm or leg wounds, a tourniquet might be necessary.  Learn to use one. 

If bleeding is forceful or continuous, apply a tourniquet 2-3 inches above the wound or above the nearest joint.  (You can even make one from a cloth or belt.)

Then, stay with the person and wait for help to arrive.

As as a traumatic injury survivor, I know what it's like when bystanders don't know what to do.  My accident occurred next to a bus stop with many commuters on their way to work.  Everyone watched.  

NO ONE stepped off the sidewalk to help.

I know what it's like to lie in the street, bleeding and frightened, waiting for an ambulance to arrive. 

In 3-5 minutes, a person can bleed out from a serious wound.

It can take an average of 7-10 minutes for first responders to arrive.

I have no way of knowing if my outcome would have been different if a bystander had stepped in to stop the bleed.  

But perhaps it would have been worth a try.

We can all learn the basics. Check out Stop the Bleed Project for more information.  

You can view a short video here.  
Or a longer video here.

This month, I learned the basics and joined the Jefferson Team to help educate the public. 

It was just my first step into this important cause.  More to come...

ANYONE CAN BE A HERO.

P.S.  Stop the Bleed Kits and other first aid supplies are readily available - even on Amazon.

Happy 13th Riley!

If you want to measure time and distance, just watch a child grow up.

In November 2010, when my sister Sam got the call that I'd been critically injured in an accident, she plopped my then 8-month-old niece, Riley, into a car seat and embarked on an unplanned 400-mile road trip from Vermont to Philly.  

In the months that followed, they retraced that trip together many times.  

Riley became quite the seasoned traveler.  She even sneaked into the hospital to keep my spirits up.

Back then, she was nowhere near the minimum visitor age of 13.  

What a rebel!

As I made progress, we wondered who'd walk first -- me or Riley.

At Mile 15, it was too close to call.

Riley grew up with me as an amputee.  

She was perceptive.  No one had to tell her.  She just figured it out on her own.

In preschool, her class learned about the human body.  You know how that lesson goes...

Everyone has two eyes,
two ears,
two arms,
two hands...

But when the teacher got to the part about "two legs," Riley piped up.

"Not everyone has two legs," she announced.  "My aunt only has one."

The teacher was a bit embarrassed.  

I was thrilled. :)

Today is Riley's birthday.  She's 13!

She is smart and sarcastic and all the things a brand new teenager should be.

She plays basketball.  Wears makeup.  Loves hanging out with her friends.  

Shopping is her favorite pastime.  (She gets that part from me!)

At 13, Riley is way cooler than I ever was.

And I'm just fine with that!

We've crossed a lot of time and distance together. 

I don't think about it everyday.  Usually I'm just her aunt.  And she's my niece.  But once in a while -- on milestone days like today -- I stop and take a look around.

Watching Riley grow up has been like a measuring stick for my own journey.

It's amazing to look back at where we've been.  

But it's even more fun to look ahead -- and imagine where we might go.

Are You on Volume Two?

 Greetings from Mile Marker 10,960...

...where HOPE never gets old!

It's the season of cooler nights, fallen leaves, and vaccine boosters.

Flu shot?  Check.
Covid shot?  Check.

Not sure why, but I'm feeling especially hopeful this time around.  

It starts when the CVS pharmacist hands me a brand new Covid card.  There's no more space on my first one. 

Onward to VOLUME TWO!

For some reason, this triggers a good feeling.

A sense of legitimacy, 
and expertise, 
and entering the home stretch.

I accept the new card proudly, like a medal of honor.

This isn't my first rodeo.

Once upon a time -- before hospitals used electronic records like EPIC -- medical charts and test results were stored in giant hardcover binders.  (Yes, really!)

And some patients, like me, had so much information in theirs, they filled up more than one binder.

During my time as a patient, I earned not one, but TWO super-sized, mega-stuffed medical binders! 

Those two binders traveled with me wherever I went.  

To ultrasounds,
and x-rays,
and CT scans,
and surgeries...

Each time I left my hospital room, those two heavy binders were loaded onto the gurney with me.  Volume One and Volume Two. 

They creaked against the metal bedrails.  Tugged tightly at the sheets.  Rode shotgun at my left hip.  

Good thing I was small.  

And missing a leg. :)

I haven't thought about those binders in more than a decade.

But when the pharmacist hands me my 2nd vaccine card, I get a wave of deja-vu...

VOLUME TWO.  

It's nothing bad.  Sort of the opposite, really.

It feels familiar.  Symbolic.  Hopeful, even.

Like I've put in my time.

Like maybe these tentative, directionless, up-in-the-air years might finally be coming to a close. 

Like maybe, just maybe, a New Normal might come next.

A few miles later -- a.k.a. the next morning -- I force myself out of bed, despite feeling a bit achy from the vaccine.

It's minutes before sunrise.  The moon is high over Arch Street as Donna leads me on a new route.  It's still dark, so I didn't want to walk alone.

I'm determined to meet my long-time PT, Julie, for an early morning coffee.  Julie helped me recover from those volumes of care.  And today, by chance, she happens to be at Jefferson for an EPIC training.  (Kind of ironic, huh?)

As Donna and I cross Independence Mall, we catch this stunning view.

Volume Two looks promising so far!

Have you found a New Normal?
Are you on Volume Two... too?

Wishing everyone a HEALTHY and HOPEFUL season ahead!

I'm pretty sure we've earned it.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Love Is Blind (and so is my digestive system)

Cheers from Mile Marker 10,530...

...at the Outpatient Imaging Center.

It's not the best selfie, but when you toast with a supersize of contrast solution, you get what you get. 

The guy next to me (which by COVID standards means down the hall) is drinking two tall bottles of what looks like Muscle Milk.  

"It's a bit chalky," he says.

"Mine's kind of minty," I shoot back.  It tastes like water mixed with toothpaste.  You might even call it a Crest Cocktail.  

Between sips, we yank our masks up and down.

The man tells me he has a test at Nuclear Medicine tomorrow.

I tell him that one time, they had to put this drink down my NG tube.  (TMI?)

It's like an awkward first date at the worst restaurant ever...

10 Blocks Away

Hello from Mile Marker 10,544...

It's a beautiful morning in Philly.

The neighborhood is quiet.  A young couple snaps wedding photos in the sunlight.  When I walk by Old Christ Church, a choir sings on the breeze. 

My new foot feels especially springy.  

People smile.  Say good morning.  Breathe the fresh air.

The humidity has somehow vanished overnight.

Also overnight, my phone tinged with this text message:

2 AM:  There was a shooting incident in the vicinity of 4th and South Streets.  The Center City ED has received multiple victims.  There is significant police presence around the emergency department.  The ED is on divert...

What takes you back?

Bon appetit from Mile Marker 10,347!

Many miles ago, I wrote a little post called Back to Bacon. 

Back then, I was celebrating the Big 3-0.    

Mile 30 on this journey.

It felt like I had come a long way.  And also, not far at all.

I wobbled on the treadmill.  My prosthetic fit was iffy.  I was never sure where the next step would take me.  It was just too much to talk about.

So I talked about bacon instead.

Bacon took me back!

Fast forward many miles.

Mile 10,347 isn't about bacon...

Have Heroes

Long awaited greetings from Mile 9,449...

Ever have a moment where you just don't have the words?

Or possibly, a year??

At Mile 9,449, I take my first steps inside Jefferson Hospital since before the pandemic began...

Rigged

Mile Marker 8943:

In early September, my friend Amy sends me this birthday card.

Yes, I think.  I am going to live life as if everything is rigged in my favor. 

It seems like a perfect plan. 

Some Kind of... Cookies

Mile Marker 8460:

Don't just sit there, do something.  But what about when there's nothing we CAN do?

Mile 8,460 starts with a text from Nurse Deb, on the front lines. 

What's your story?

Mile Marker 7816:

Stay calm, breathe; you're in good hands, competent hands; these hands can save your life; they've saved others' lives, applied bandages, hooked up IV lines, removed pain; relax, that one drip will bring relief; inhale the tingling that feels like fireflies in your head; lie back on the clean, sterile sheet, newly spread across the gurney just for you; stay calm, breathe; relief is just moments away; brace yourself for the long haul; inhale past the tube in your nose and throat, scratchy and hard-to-swallow; embrace the heartbeat of the hospital; bandages on and off; new IVs every three days; nurses in and out, 7 to 7, like sunrise and sunset; stay calm, breathe; lie back against the raised head of your bed; press a button, help will come; the days will start and end and start again; time will crawl by; keep your eyes on the second hand of the clock, the one that hangs on the blue wall across from your bed (a blue darker and more muddled than the sea or sky); count the minutes, the hours till morning; watch the tiny DVD screen; stare out your doorway into the dim light of the corridor; close your eyes; stay calm, breathe.

Whew.  

Inside Out

Mile Marker 7650:

I'm on one foot, balancing my hip along the edge of a boulder.

My backpack is sprawled on the rock next to me, its insides spewing out everywhere:  harness, climbing leg, shoes, socks, towels, liner, alcohol spray, and more.  It's all I can do to keep from dropping my Allen wrench into the ravine 100 feet below.  

Trauma Survivors Day

Mile Marker 7395:

Cycling with surgeons?  Yes please.

On the heels of Nurse Appreciation Week comes Trauma Survivors Day.

Coincidence?  I think not.  

Nurse Appreciation Week

Mile Marker 7377:

Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always.

--Hippocrates

I don't remember the first week after my accident.  

Note to Self

Mile Marker 6975:

Everything will be all right in the end.  
If it's not all right, it is not yet the end.

--Simit Patel, Hotel Manager,

 The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

I'd like to write a letter to that girl in the wheelchair.  

Thanks JT!

Mile Marker 6575:

You never know when you'll meet (or need!) an emergency physician.

I met Angela at Jefferson's Trauma Survivor Cycle-A-Thon last spring.  She'd just become Chief Resident in Emergency Medicine at Jefferson Torresdale Hospital, a Level 2 Trauma Center in northeast Philadelphia.

When we started pedaling, we didn't know much about each other, but as we rode...

Brick by Brick

Mile Marker 5,655:

When the going gets tough, the tough get small.

At least I do anyway.

On my morning walks -- which have been a struggle lately -- I focus on bricks.

Why bricks?

Unexpected Blessings

Mile Marker 5248:  

"Be sure to tell them about the challah," my dad says.

When I was in the hospital, every Friday afternoon, a challah -- the traditional Jewish Sabbath bread -- was delivered to my room.  From November through December, those loaves of bread measured the length of my stay more accurately than any calendar.

Lucky 13

Mile Marker 5200:

My niece Brianna just turned 13.

At Mile Marker 5200, I trail behind her through the narrow aisles of Primark, her favorite store in the mall.

C'est La Vie!

Mile Marker 4946:

Your sorrow will become smaller, like a star in the daylight that you can't even see.  It's there, shining, but there is also a vast expanse of blue sky.

--Alice Hoffman, Survival Lessons

"You've been busy."

That's what my surgeons said when they walked into my hospital room the day my mom hung the article on the wall...