The Longest Week of My Life: Part Two

On day four I returned to Duke hospital early in the morning for my angiogram. Dr. Alexander was doing this procedure, a catheterization with contrast dye, to get a more detailed "map" of my cranial circulation. It was a short procedure and while I was in recovery they checked me in for the long haul. I was transferred up to my room as soon as I was ready and started the long wait.

If I haven't given the impression, my neurosurgeon, Dr. Michael Alexander, was absolutely fantastic. A little while after I was in my room he came up and talked to my family and me about the procedure that we were expecting the next day. Clipping is an intracranial procedure, which means that I would be shaved and a piece of my skull would be removed, so Dr. Alexander could place a small clip at the base of the bulge to prevent blood from filling it further. It would take between three and five hours to complete the procedure and would happen the following day because the size of my aneurysm was of some concern of rupturing. Of course I was scared by this point (which is a contributing factor about why my memories are so fuzzy) because it was such an invasive procedure. He told me that with the map from the angiogram, he felt very confident in executing the procedure, so I had little doubt that he would do a good job. But of course there were great risks... there always are.

My sister was excited. Not about the procedure, but because she wanted to shave my head for the operation. That's what sisters are for, right?

But before that, the order of the day was more tests to get everything ready for the clipping. Blood tests. CT scan. I had to stop eating twelve hours before the procedure, as with any procedure of this caliber. It was a lot of being shuffled around and prodded. And a lot of waiting. I remember watching a lot of t.v. to get my mind off of things. Television programs that I could dissect for good and bad edit sequences and camera angles. This was the device, the deus ex machina in my story, that brought me to this place.

At about 9 pm, after test after test, a nurse comes in to give me some pre-op medication... an anti seizure drug through my IV since intracranial surgeries are more prone for seizure. It was for my protection. Up to this point I could tell you that the only things I was allergic to were pollen, dander, pine nuts, and dust mites. I don't remember the name of the drug (fuzzy memories strike again), but I remember my skin feeling like it was crawling with a thousand millipedes. Every piece of me itched so badly during the injection that I was standing on my hospital bed getting everyone in the room to help me scratch. I was in agony. So, taking pity on me, she checks with the doctor if I can be cleared for benadryl. YES! So alternating injections, I have anti seizure and benadryl in my system. When both were done, so was I. I slept hard and fast and before I knew it, the morning of surgery arrived.

Day five begins. By this time, everyone was by my side. My family, my boyfriend, and all of his family were by my bedside. I was so grateful everyone was here and as the orderly wheeled me down to the OR, I was tearfully saying my goodbyes. I was clasping hands, not wanting to let go. Because, for as confident I was in the precision of my surgeon's hands and skills, I knew these were my final goodbyes to my loved ones, because if I went in that OR, I wasn't coming out. Yes, my fear level was off the charts. And at the nth hour, a nurse comes through the OR door and tells the orderly to take me back to my room.

WHAT???

I just said my goodbyes. I was ready to meet my life's author. And I was denied entrance to the OR. A couple hours later (and let me tell you, by then, my hunger was extreme!) Dr. Alexander arrives and tells us what happened. The good doctor had ordered an extra test than usual, the CT scan, which revealed that because of my unique plumbing, removing the piece of my skull would have certainly nicked a vein and I would have died on the operating table. He hadn't been quite that graphic, but that was the message. So, I had been saying my final goodbyes, but that angel of a nurse saved me. So now what?

Dr. Alexander explained there was another surgical option that I was a candidate for. Endovascular coiling was a relatively new procedure that takes two to four hours where a catheter is run through the femoral artery to the site of the aneurysm. (Much like the angiogram I had the day before.) Once there, a thin platinum wire is coiled into the aneurysm, filling it, reducing the blood flow within, and promoting clotting around the wire. Because of my circulatory system issues, this was now my only option. I didn't like the word "new,"when this procedure was being described, but I understood it as a last chance before the estimated six month deadline. Sign me up. Again. 

And for goodness sake, take the razor out of the twitchy fingers of my older sister! I would not have to have a hair on my head touched, or a visible battle scar from an intracranial procedure. I could be happy about that.

The new procedure had to wait for a vacant spot in the OR... after lunch. I was starving when I was taken down to the OR, but otherwise feeling good. What were tearful goodbyes that morning were now warm see you laters. We were all joking and keeping good spirits, to the delight of the hospital staff. I can say that my family defies traditionalism and usually rely on humor when others would distress and worry. (That's not saying that the worry wasn't there.) I went into the OR and got all set on the table for the coiling. As I was drifting under from the anesthesia, the Latin beats of Sade crooning lyrics of "Smooth Operator" made me confident that I was in good hands.

I woke up in recovery in agony. When all other memories are fuzzy, this one remains clear. I woke, screaming from pain because two nurses were taking turns applying extreme pressure to my groin, the entry point for the coiling catheter. I wasn't clotting properly and they wouldn't ease up until I did. (Now they inject a collagen plug to mend the entry site.) Finally, my blood clotted and they eased back, keeping a wary eye on me. A very satisfied Dr. Alexander told me the procedure was a success and although I would have a slight headache, I would recover nicely. The only problem was getting the femoral artery to mend properly and stop bleeding. So I went back to my room after I'd stabilized and was kept overnight for observation and recovery.

On the sixth day I woke in the hospital, after poking and prodding from the nurses all night, to orders that I was being released later that day after being briefed on how to care for my headache, keeping my incision site clean and bandaged, and general limitations on my activities during the recovery process. I was scheduled to follow up with Dr. Alexander in a week and have an MRA shortly after, to be scheduled later, to determine the success of the procedure. I was rolled out of Duke Hospital on December 23, 2003, a new person with my whole life stretched before me. 

With platinum in my head after a week filled with strife, I could now live a long happy life.

But stay tuned for more!

The Longest Week of My Life: Part One

'Twas the week before Christmas and on Blue Ridge Road, a young lady was shaking from what she'd just been told.

After a barrage of tests with my ophthalmologist in November of 2003, he'd discovered that I had severe blind spots in my left eye. My left eye only. My camera eye. They were pinpricks of blind spots, enough to cause irritation if the left eye was the only one in use, but not enough to alter my vision. The doctor didn't know what caused them, and that bothered him. Like any great thinker, he was irritated that he couldn't give me a sound conclusion and he didn't give up on me. Instead, he scheduled me to go in for an MRI at Rex Hospital. I had no idea what to expect. Had I known, I would have been a lot more scared going into it. (Not that the unknown doesn't cause me slight panic, but I'm more at ease with it.) That seems to be a recurring theme in my story: "I would have been a lot more scared if I had known..."

So if you have never experienced an MRI, let me describe an example. Imagine you are laying in bed. Now imagine the bed is the bottom of a upside-down fiberglass canoe; narrow, hard, and slippery. But you manage to lay on it, imagining you're back in middle school playing "light as a feather, stiff as a board." No problem. But then someone puts a bottomless birdcage over your head. Okay, so that feels a little Hannibal Lecter-y, but fine. Then they shove that canoe into a hollowed out log that's wide enough for the canoe and the birdcage, but that's it. Your arms are pinned, you can't move your head, and if you try to move, they start over from the beginning. Stay completely still. Next, they (Whoever 'they' are in this analogy, I don't know. In reality, it's the machine. Maybe Sasquatch, since this seems to be an outdoor comparison.) start beating on the log with sticks. Sometimes instead of beating on the log, they drag a dagger across the bark. All the while, voices remind you to stay completely immobile... or else. This goes on for all time. Or 30 minutes to an hour.

Terrified? I was. I have since grown accustomed to the test and practice self-hypnosis techniques. The MRI is now shrouded in my happy place and the only reason they have to restart my tests is if I fall asleep in the tube and shift my head. True story.

Okay, back to the story. I finished my MRI and went home. It was early evening, so the order of the day was dinner, play around on my computer, read a little, then bed. At, we'll say, 9 pm, my phone rings and I assume I'll be chatting with my boyfriend instead of reading a book before bed. It was the doctor. And at that point I should have been scared... what doctor calls so late? But I've discovered I take life at an easy stride. Whatever will be will be, right? The doctor told me the cause of my blind spots was an aneurysm resting on my optic nerve and it was disrupting the signal to my brain. I understood about three of those words put together, but knew I needed to reply. My response seems so laughable to me now, "Is it moving?" 

So my friendly, ever-vigilant ophthalmologist started calling to set up an appointment for me to consult with a neurologist. (Didn't I say he deserved flowers?) I got off the phone and told my mom, my dad, my sister, and my boyfriend. I suppose they all understood the implications of the news, but I was still happily ignorant in my joy of life. Que sera sera. I should have registered the look of concern on my mom's face or the tone of slight anxiety in my dad's usually steady voice. That was day one.

Day two was like any other day. I went to work (as a file documentarian for a third-party information company) and let my manager know that I'd be needing some time for doctor's visits. Got a call confirming my appointment with the neurologist the next day. No biggie.

Day three. Here's where things start getting really fuzzy because everything started happening so fast. I call it the longest week of my life, but it was also the fastest (in kind of like "the days are long and the years are short" way.) I went to the neurologist with my mom, located at Duke Medical Center. For the first time, I understood what was happening. The neurologist, Dr. Michael Alexander, explained an aneurysm: It's a ballooning of the blood vessel wall where that part has grown thin. The pressure of blood flow expands that part of the vessel, causing it to extend out from the blood vessel. This can happen anywhere in the body, but because mine was in my brain, it posed a greater risk. The blood doesn't stop flowing and the balloon doesn't stop filling. I know what happens to a latex balloon when there's too much air... so I knew what would happen to me. If it ruptured I would have bleeding in my brain and I knew that could cause brain damage. Shit just got real. Dr. Alexander showed me pictures of my aneurysm and told me it was a saccular aneurysm measuring 7mm. He said given the location and size, he estimated I had six months before it ruptured. There was a procedure called clipping, essentially putting a metal clip around the base of the aneurysm, stopping blood flow into the balloon and drastically reducing the chance of rupture. Sign me up.

But wait... there's more! As if having an aneurysm wasn't enough, I had another circulatory anomaly. We'll pause here for some audience participation. Put the index and middle finger of your right hand on your neck, just to the right of your throat. Feel that? Yup... it's your pulse. Repeat on the left side. Still feel the pulse? Awesome! You're normal! As for me, when I repeat on the left, it doesn't matter how far I dig my fingers in, there's nothing. Maybe a ghost beat from my fingertip, but that's it. Dr. Alexander told me about my anomaly and then took out his stethoscope to double check. Gave a low chuckle and shook his head. "Niki, You don't have a left carotid artery. It just isn't there." Every doctor since then has done the exact same thing when I tell them about it. I agree, it's so incredible that it's impossible to believe without checking. Sometimes I double check, even now. (As an aside, I remember a time at Girl Scout camp when I was about eleven, we were talking about the circulatory system during a CPR class and they suggested checking a pulse at the carotid artery and I couldn't feel mine. Maybe I should have told someone?)

The office made my arrangements for me to have an angiogram the next day and get checked into the hospital right afterward. I took a deep breath and cried. Thank goodness my mom was there with me. I had just turned 24. I wasn't ready for life, or the risk of it ending.

And even now, this story makes my eyes misty, recalling all the what ifs and thanking God for writing the map. So in upcoming posts you can look forward to the rest of the story, the aftermath, and a little more information that I've learned about aneurysms in the 12 years since then. Stay tuned.

The Beginning

This My story begins when I was 7 or 8.

I go back so far only because I feel like everything seemed to lead up to the big event. If certain things had not happened as they did, I might not have been so lucky. I feel very strongly, looking back on everything, that God was writing my story from the beginning. I just followed the pages, willingly, and now have the ability to share the story of how it all happened.

So let's rewind to... 1987 or so. I don't really remember the exact date or year, as most things are fuzzy in my memory. I know that my sister was in high school taking classes in television production. She loved the school, she loved the classes, she loved her class mates, and she loved her teacher. I adored my sister; still do really. She's always been there for me. So seeing her passion for television production made me want to do it too. I was lucky enough to attend an elementary school that had, for lack of a better term, A.V. classes. They weren't really introductory television, but I taped student government speeches and school plays. My sister was right. It was fun.

I'll pause for a little background information. These were the days when video was captured onto VHS video tapes, before memory cards and the cloud. Most schools in those days were outfit with bulky camcorders that mounted on a tripod. They weighed in the neighborhood of 15 pounds alone and looked something like the one to the right.  If you weren't using a tripod, you hoisted the machine onto your shoulder and stabilized it with your right hand on the hand grip near the lens. Then you set up your shot through the viewfinder with your right eye while closing your left so the live image and the electronic image don't get interposed and give you a major headache.

I know first hand about the headache because I have a lot of trouble closing my left eye while keeping the right open. (From what I understand this is unusual for a right-handed person like myself.) But I can keep my left eye open while closing the right very easily. Luckily for me, camera manufacturers encountered this and most camcorders had a sliding viewfinder, so my left eye saw it all and my right eye got to rest.

Trust me, this is all important. Stick with me. 

 

I went to middle school and took more t.v. production classes, most of which focused on creating a video yearbook for the school. But by the time I got to high school I knew television was my medium for art. No, I'm not saying I was artistic. I still had a lot to learn. But I loved that I could get behind a camera and create something that could be meaningful... newsworthy or entertaining. And it wasn't all about camera work... I could write or direct. I could design storyboards and edit. There was so much I could do!

And so, my education brought me to the same high school my sister had attended, William G. Enloe High School in Raleigh, NC. And (lucky me!) the same video production teacher was still there! So on my first day of classes my teacher, Curry Leslie, made me realize how much I had to learn. He was a veteran of the television production field and had real world applications to teach us. We drafted stories and envisioned music videos. We aired live daily news shows for the school. I had the opportunity to wear so many hats... master control, director, editor, CG, camera operator, and the list goes on... and I loved it all. This was my calling. This is what I was meant to do. And Mr. Leslie helped me by providing boundless opportunity.

In my sophomore year, we were able to partner with a local t.v. station to air a for-teens, by-teens documentary program highlighting issues we face in high school and offered solutions. And it would be broadcast! So we developed a production company and planned our first episode of "On the Edge," focusing on substance use and abuse. I stayed behind the camera, planning and providing camera support. All with my left eye. Mr. Leslie even commented on it a couple times. It didn't matter because our work on getting that documentary aired won us a regional Emmy Award. And then we won another one the year after that.

I had two Emmys before leaving high school. Yes, it was a group effort and a group award. Yes, the documentary was what you might expect from high school students. But I was proud because of the work we put into it. This was going to be my career.

My mom, me, my dad and my sister after my graduation from WCU

So I went to college, pursuing electronic media. I had more amazing experiences (live data collection for election night coverage and camera work with a local news affiliate for their Friday night sports show, to name a few) and studied under fabulous mentors (thank you, Don Connelly). I graduated from Western Carolina University in December 2002 with a piece of paper that declared I knew all about electronic media! But WCU wasn't a hot program for that discipline (which Mr. Leslie had advised me of. But moving to California or New York sounded so scary to me.) and even though I sent my resume and demo tape to news affiliates all over the country, I didn't hear back from any of them. So I stayed home and got temp jobs until I could make my career a reality.

During that time my sister wanted my help taking pictures for her new side income: eBay sales. I was more than happy. I would set up the camera, frame the shot, press the button, then post the sale. Digital cameras still had viewfinders then. So I was still using my left eye to frame the shots. But I wasn't able to focus them to my liking. Something just wasn't right.

After, my dad suggested I go see his ophthalmologist to make sure everything was okay. I wish I could remember the doctor's name. I would send him a beautiful bouquet of irises (Get it? Har har!) because when it comes down to it, that doctor, a relentless ophthalmologist, saved my life.

Next came the longest week of my life. Which is, coincidentally, the name of the next chapter.