DOCTORS DON’T ALWAYS BURY THEIR MISTAKES
by C.J. Rock
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
CJ Rock on Smashwords
Doctors Don’t Always Bury Their Mistakes
Copyright © 2012 by CJ Rock
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Table of Contents
Introduction
A Simple Twist of Fate
My Legacy: Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy
The Butcher Operate
Living in Hell
A Little Bit of Kindness
The Human Pincushion
Help! Another Doctor Attack
A Move to Greener Pastures
Arrogance Personified
Another Doctor, Another Door Slammed
A Familiar Face
Just Another Quack
Dr. Ambrose’s Pain Clinic
A Little Help from the Orient
Spinal Adjustments
Desperation … Desperate Measures
A Cruel Slap in the Face
Medieval Torture
Under the Knife … Again
Just Cut It Off
Return to the Windy City
The End of My Rope
A Light at the End of the Tunnel
Grateful appreciation goes to:
My husband, my knight in shining armor
My daughter, a radiant star and my heroine; because of her strength I learned to be brave and move forward out of adversity
My artist, Theo Pace, for the captivating and beautiful cover (one picture really is worth a thousand words)
My mentors, Bev Walton Porter and Barbara Donohue, for their friendship, support,
and encouragement to find my voice and allow it to be heard
My editor, Erin Hogarth, for her talent and uncanny ability to make the editorial
process pain-free
My friend, Brittany Gastner, for her early encouragement and editorial guidance
Introduction
RSDS is a mysterious disorder of the sympathetic nervous system. S. Weir Mitchell and his colleagues first isolated this unusual complex of symptoms during the Civil War. Another name, causalgia, was given to this syndrome, meaning “heat and pain”—describing the peculiar burning sensation characteristic of the disorder. A network of nerves located alongside the spinal cord controls certain functions in our bodies, such as the opening and closing of blood vessels and sweat glands.
The syndrome can affect anyone, from children as young as two to some documented cases of people up to a hundred years old. There are an estimated 5.5 to 7 million women, men, and children with this disease, but women are more likely to become victims of the syndrome.
RSDS often follows an injury from a fall, an accident, an infection, radiation therapy, heat, electrical burns, heart disease, surgery, or broken bones. But in 30 percent of cases the cause is unknown. It often affects the hand or foot but may also involve the knee, hip, shoulder, or other sites. The main symptom of RSDS is severe pain, often burning in nature. The disorder eventually results in weakness or wasting of the area. Usually, in the first acute stage, which lasts three to six months, it is characterized primarily by pain, tenderness, swelling, and vascular disturbances. Changes in the temperature and color of the skin may occur, along with sweating. Other symptoms may include rapid hair and nail growth, edema, or loss of ability to move the affected joints normally.
As the syndrome reaches a second stage, the dystrophic stage pain is often made worse by changes in temperature or by other stimulation, such as breezes, air conditioning, or touch. The skin becomes cool and the nails become brittle. The area may become swollen and look pale and waxy. X-rays show thinning or damage of the joints or bones. Pain may spread, usually moving toward the center of the body, from the foot to the hip or the hand to the shoulder. Often the spreading pain affects the muscles, producing painful spasms. During the third atrophic stage of the disorder, the pain may remain severe, although some people may notice less discomfort. The skin becomes drawn, shiny, and cool, with the muscles and other tissues becoming wasted and tight.
By then the tissues have started to atrophy and reversal is rare. Joint movement is greatly impaired. Bilateral involvement is generally thought to be present in 18 to 50 percent of patients. This supports the idea that the syndrome is reflexive and is mediated by central neurological workings.
1
A Simple Twist of Fate
Suddenly, in one split second, my life changed forever.
One day in August 1988 shaped the course of my destiny—a day that would steer me into unfamiliar, uncharted territory, sending me into a world of pain and darkness for many years to come.
It was an ordinary day, one of those days I usually took for granted. Little did I know my life was about to change drastically. This unremarkable day would have a profound effect on me and would alter my life forever. Strange how unforeseen events sneak up on you when you least expect it.
It was a busy day. My mind and body were going full speed ahead, a hundred miles a minute, and in thirty different directions! There was just no time to stop and smell those roses I kept hearing about. This unbelievable day would be etched in my brain, body, and memory forever.
That afternoon I walked into my kitchen, oblivious to what would happen next. A large green trash bag with one empty bottle of Thousand Island salad dressing attacked me, or so it seemed. A little detail like this shouldn’t have a lot of impact on anyone, but it sure did on me. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.
The truth of the matter was I was a klutz. I had never thought of myself as a klutz until that day, though. As I walked past the trash bag on the counter, my clumsy fingers accidentally bumped it onto the floor and smack-dab into my right foot. I would spend many years of soul-searching asking this question: Was it an accident or a simple twist of fate?
There were no words to explain the intensity of the pain I felt. Hot, searing, sharp lines of pain started at my toes and rose through my knee. The pain shot into my thigh, through my spine, and into my brain.
It felt as if someone had taken a hunting knife—one of those big ones with serrated edges—and placed it into a fire with hot coals, then jammed it deeply into my foot, dragging it through my body. I immediately felt dizzy. The room started spinning, and I almost fell to the ground. My pain was agonizing, and I could barely apply any pressure to my foot. It was impossible to walk even a few paces with the pain I was experiencing. It was unlike any sensation I had ever felt in my life. At the same time, the agony engulfed my body, and I thought, “How can one small glass bottle hurt so much?”
At that moment my life spun totally out of my control. The aching became fiercer with each passing second. The throbbing was so strong that my heart beat rapidly. I was confused and frightened by its intensity, and my state of increasing agitation produced a severe anxiety attack. The more I panicked, the worse I hyperventilated. I could not stop quivering from the adrenaline surging through my body. My pulse raced, and my breathing became shallow and irregular. Sweat poured down my brow and my face flushed.
Suddenly I became sick to my stomach. I almost vomited from the aching discomfort my foot was producing. For an instant I became dazed and lightheaded. I was so dizzy I was afraid I would pass out. The room was so quiet. In my panicked state of mind I fell to my knees and clutched my chest.
I was unable to catch my breath because the pain had enveloped my entire body. I knew if I didn’t regain control of the situation immediately I would totally freak out. I needed immediate medical attention—something, anything, some kind of pill to make my pain just go away!
I dialed my trusted family doctor’s phone number in sheer desperation. The nurse answered the phone and acknowledged the panic in my voice. Finally my physician picked up the telephone. He told me to come down to the office. For one brief, shining moment I breathed a sigh of relief.
At the doctor’s office, once in the examination room, I mournfully wept. My agitated nervous system was working overtime because of the excruciating pain in my foot. Suddenly the doctor came in. He was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in his early forties. His wavy blond hair had a slight touch of gray at his temples.
His blue eyes stared intently at me through his wire-rimmed glasses. Dr. Granger had a strange sneer on his face as opposed to a friendly smile. He was short-tempered with me and pressed for time. His attitude was sarcastic, and his voice had a harsh tone. His demeanor was more abrupt than usual. Dr. Granger did not seem to be the slightest bit interested in my cry for help or my predicament.
After completing his examination on my foot, he prescribed painkillers, acetaminophen with codeine. Unsatisfied with that solution, I told him my pain was unbearable and constant, and it was impossible for me to function with the agony I was enduring. He took out his pad once again and wrote me another prescription for a muscle relaxant called Soma Compound.
“Your problem is merely a sprained foot,” he said. I was naive and trusting at the time, but I had the distinct impression that he was trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible.
After leaving his office, one thought puzzled me. How could he make a diagnosis of a sprained foot without an X-ray? Then I thought, Why should I question him? He was the doctor, and I believed he was a medical god. Wrong!
After a few days of agonizing torment increasing with each breath, it dawned on me that the time had come to seek out a specialist. The pain felt like a toothache. It was a constant pulsating feeling, but there was a strange icy coldness to it. My foot had turned the most interesting shades of black and blue. It was so cold, you would have thought I had immersed it in a bucket of ice cubes or kept it stored in a freezer for weeks! Pain was the only sensation I felt. I obsessed and panicked over what was happening to my body.
I decided to let my fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages to find a specialist. I talked myself into believing that if these doctors were skilled enough to get their names in the Yellow Pages, it was all the referral I required. I didn’t realize just how crazy that notion was at the time. I was desperate for some sense of relief from the tortuous pains. The pain was in my foot, so why not find a foot specialist? I needed instant relief without delay.
After telephoning a few different physicians, I finally found a podiatrist who was willing to take me on as his patient. I was thrilled that Dr. Dalton could see me immediately! I got into my car as quickly as I could hobble to the door and drove to his office.
I painfully limped into the examination room to await the new doctor’s arrival. A tall blond gentleman with deep blue eyes walked into the room. After recounting the story of my bizarre mishap with the trash bag, the doctor with his warm bedside manner and charming smile examined my icy cold black and blue foot.
He had a pleasing personality, and it was truly a welcome relief to be treated with kindness and concern for a change. Dr. Dalton took a series of front, back, and side X-rays to determine a diagnosis.
“Upon reading these films, I believe your foot is suffering from a fracture to the sesamoid bone in your right great toe.”
Personally, I saw nothing great about the toe. It was wreaking havoc upon my nervous system and causing my body to suffer excruciating pain.
After finishing his examination, the doctor placed my broken foot into an ugly brown bunion shoe specifically designed for a fractured toe. The shoe was wide enough to fit over my extremely swollen black and blue extremity.
“I am sending you home with a prescription for hydrocodeine with APAP 500 milligrams, to be taken as needed.”
I began to wonder if doctors purposely overmedicated their patients to shut them up so they would stop complaining. I wondered if there were enough painkilling drugs in the pharmacy to make my insufferable discomfort go away.
The thought of experiencing a fantastic release of discomfort was a blessing to my tired mind and body. If these pills could put me in a state of “La-La Land” and knock me out, my body could experience a few moments of relief and much-needed rest. And if one of these drugs actually worked, being high on pain pills would have a few other benefits as well.
The word relief sounded beautiful and blissful. My brain had forgotten what lovely sensations peace and calm were. I longed for those wonderful pain-free days of the past—the days when I felt great, the ones I had taken for granted.
My weeks from hell continued. The medication didn’t work. With each passing second, the pain in my foot increased with a vengeance. The emotionally and physically draining discomfort throbbed nonstop. My foot remained icy cold. There was a stinging and burning sensation inside, as if someone had lit a match to my foot, setting it up into a roaring blaze of fire.
I became confused and agitated because of the severity of the aching. It was difficult to believe a fractured toe could cause so much horrendous discomfort. As the days went on and the wretched spasms in my foot continued, I became incensed and utterly frustrated.
One distressing thought troubled me. Was there no end to my suffering in sight? It became painfully clear that I had to make a decision quickly. But where and to whom would I turn next? My ordeal had turned into a nightmare. The piercing, stinging ache in my foot was intense and unbearable.
The annoying anguish increased with a vengeance and was now overpowering me. Its constant pulsating forced my body and brain to become crazed and frustrated because of the maddening sensations. My nerves were frayed. I was a woman on the edge, with my body ready to collapse at any second.
My circuits were overloaded from the agony, and I wanted my suffering to stop! But I also discovered a new side of myself. Total survival instinct kicked in. I weighed my options. A decision needed to be made immediately. Would I stay with Dr. Dalton or find a different physician?
I opted for another search through the Yellow Pages, but this time it was for an orthopedic surgeon, in the hopes that he would have the magic healing potion, or at least an explanation as to why the aching in my foot was so relentless.
I was plagued with increasing fear and dread in the examination room. I shut my eyes, silently saying a prayer. My apprehension was building and cruising higher with each second. Questions replayed in my head. Would the doctor have any kind of solution to my problem or a pill to miraculously heal me?
Abruptly the door swung open. A slightly rotund older man with curly gray hair and intense dark brown eyes entered the room and sat down on a nearby stool.
“Hello. My name is Dr. Aston. Where is your pain located, and what are your symptoms?”
He listened to each of my complaints and glared at me with a curious stare. After some brief conversation, Dr. Aston examined my right foot.
“You have moderate tenderness in the area maximal through the mid-arch and also over the distal first metatarsal. These bones are between the toes forming the instep.”
He took new X-rays and confirmed Dr. Dalton’s diagnosis of a non-displaced fracture to my sesamoid area. It was decided that my dear aching foot would be placed in a large and clunky short leg walking cast.
“The fracture is healing at a slow pace,” he said. “Placing your foot in the cast will hopefully completely immobilize the area and grant the extremity greater support to assist in the healing process.”
Once again I was handed a prescription for more painkilling narcotics. Dr. Aston opted to start me on antidepressants for pain, a 25-milligram pill called Amitriptyline, taken with a tranquilizer called Tranxene. When I heard the word antidepressant I stared at him, wondering why he would prescribe this type of medication.
“Antidepressants can have a positive effect on brain chemicals,” he said, “thus altering and decreasing painful stimuli the brain produces, and in the process these medications will lesson the severity of your discomfort.”
I was alarmed when I discovered these drugs did not work at all to decrease my pain or grant me any sense of relief. They did, however, increase my depression!
Dr. Aston prescribed a stronger narcotic, Oxycontin. I was astounded at the various medications doctors used for pain control. My brain did not know whether it was coming or going from the hazed state of confusion I now lived in.
The cast on my foot squeezed my toes so tightly it began to create undue pressure, cutting off my circulation and increasing the miserable intensity of my pain. Nothing seemed to work, and the entire situation was becoming a tragic comedy. I could have started my own pharmacy with the amount of medications I had acquired! I would not have minded taking the pills if at least one had actually worked to release some of my pain.
I wondered what would be the worst-case scenario if I took all of these drugs. Would I become a junkie, hooked on pain pills for the rest of my life, or would someone read about my drug overdose in the neighborhood newspaper? It may have been funny if I could’ve located my sense of humor, but it was clouded from all the medications.
Was Dr. Aston merely placing a Band-Aid on my boo-boo? He didn’t know how to treat my medical mystery. I continued following his directions exactly as specified. Out of sheer desperation, I would try anything to get rid of my misery, but no luck! After ten days, the doctor became more baffled regarding my condition. My body was not responding to any treatment or medication he had prescribed.
So what was my problem? Had I become a curiosity, perhaps an unsolved medical mystery, a case to be written up in the medical journals? By now Dr. Aston threw his arms up in the air in utter frustration. It appeared his huge ego was being deflated.
He stared straight into my eyes, rudely informing me, “There is nothing I can do to help you. I’m removing the cast from your foot immediately.” I took this as his sympathetic way of distancing himself from me as quickly as possible. I was being dumped as his patient, and he could not push me out of his office fast enough. What did I have—the plague? He treated me with a total lack of respect and without the slightest ounce of compassion or dignity.
My desperation grew stronger by the minute. Why was it so difficult for these doctors to find something—anything—to ease my discomfort? Once again my fingers danced their way through the Yellow Pages on a quest for yet another orthopedic physician. If this kept up, I would run out of specialists to see. There had to be someone knowledgeable in the treatment of patients with difficult and complex medical problems similar to mine. Or was it possible that my situation was simply hopeless? I refused to believe my little foot was beyond all hope or help.
It was extremely strenuous and gut-wrenching to walk even a few paces because of the wincing pain that became maddening with each step. All I could do was limp, because it felt as if I were dragging along a numb leg. My body had overcompensated for the discomfort lodged so deeply inside my foot. Undue pressure was placed upon my muscles and joints, creating increased tension in my spinal column and neck, which threw my posture and balance totally off-center. My muscles were in constant spasm and tied in knots.
In yet another examination room, my entire body began shaking while I anxiously waited for the doctor. I stared at the door pensively. I was afraid to be alone, and my wait seemed endless. Then Dr. Melbourne, a tall man with a strong, muscular physique walked in. He was gruff in his demeanor.
“What are your chief complaints?” he grumbled. I looked up at him and jokingly asked if he had a few hours. Once again, there it was—the same odd gaze as Dr. Aston. He stared at me intently with his brown eyes, and he had the strangest perplexed look on his face as I explained the details. Explaining my story so many times was becoming old and boring. The story of my injury sounded like a broken record too tiresome to replay. But at least I had his attention and he was listening to me.
“Dr. Melbourne, my situation is exhausting and downright aggravating to endure.”
Once again I was treated as if I were some head case. Dr. Melbourne was arrogant in his tone of voice and in manner. He was rude and impatient but decided to take me on as his patient. I guess he must have enjoyed the challenge. Or maybe he felt sorry for me.
He added a few new medications to my long list of drugs, switching me to a stronger antidepressant called Elavil. “I feel this is a good medication with a successful track record in controlling chronic pain,” he said.
I, on the other hand, was skeptical, wondering if any medication was strong enough to control the aching distress my body was producing.
Shortly after the visit with Dr. Melbourne, my nine-month-old daughter, Jade, and I were home alone. She would be taking her nap shortly, so it was a perfect time to swallow the new pill, or so I thought. Jade was happily playing with her toys on the carpet while I rested quietly on the couch. I popped the pill into my mouth, thinking that my child would be safe and I would have enough time to lay her down for her nap before the effects kicked in. I was wrong! The pill was extremely strong, and I passed out within minutes of swallowing it.
Suddenly my daughter startled me with her touch. Thankfully I had not been asleep too long, but it was a welcome relief to see my baby’s smiling face staring up at me.
Still, I was so hung over from the effects of the Elavil I could barely keep my eyes open. I was terrified I would pass out again from the strong drug. This was not living—not even existing. My family deserved to have a wife and mother who was whole, not fragmented or in constant duress and chronic pain. I had become a shell of my former self, totally depleted both physically and emotionally. It would be impossible to live a normal life hooked on pain pills.
I called my husband, Ted, to tell him I was afraid for our daughter’s safety. I was afraid to be in the house with her at the moment as it could have been a dangerous situation. He immediately came home from work to help me take care of our little girl. I felt hopeless, dependent, and crippled. I hated having to rely so heavily upon this wonderful man for my survival.
The incident scared me so much that I never took the Elavil again. I had a little girl who relied on me for her survival. It was imperative for me to be coherent and strong to tend to my daughter’s needs. The effects from the drugs left me feeling dazed, confused, and hung over. It wasn’t as if any of these medications helped control my pain. They did, however, zone out my body and fry my brain cells.
Dr. Melbourne then prescribed Procardia, a cardiac drug, and a different pain pill called Naprosyn. These drugs sickened my stomach. Often I rushed to the bathroom vomiting from the medication. The intolerable pounding inside my head stirred up horrible headaches that lasted for hours. After the drugs wore off, I was hung over and extremely dizzy, with double vision.
Dr. Melbourne finally agreed to take another step. He decided to schedule me for a bone scan test
2
My Legacy: Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy
As I lay on the table, the technician prepared an intravenous injection of a radioactive isotope called technetium. The isotope would light up an area of activity near the base of the great toe. As the technician inserted the IV into my arm, I became dizzy and frightened. Suddenly a rush of tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m feeling faint,” I answered.
She tried hard to console me and gave me a cold compress for my head. After what seemed like an eternity, the test was finally over.
The bone scan showed a definitive fracture in my right foot, near the head of the first metatarsal area of the great toe. It revealed shattered fragments inside my foot.
Dr. Melbourne informed me that my problem was more complex than a simple fracture. “Your condition is known as Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome, or RSDS, secondary to the contusion on your foot.” He proceeded to explain that the RSDS had probably resulted from nerve damage resulting from trauma to my foot.
The name of the disease scared the heck out of me. Tingling chills radiated up and down my spine. What was he talking about? I freaked out at the prospect of having some weird disease. It was more than my mind could fathom, and my ordeal was becoming more bizarre with each passing hour. I wanted to run for the hills because it all sounded so strange.
“You must seek out a neurologist immediately,” he said. He was so arrogant in the way he spoke that it turned me off completely. I could feel my face turning beet red with anger. Being in constant agony didn’t help my moods, and all I wanted was relief from my torment, not more doctor intervention!
Had I only listened to him and made an appointment to see a neurologist, maybe it would have stopped my nightmare dead in its tracks and altered the course of events that would steer my life into a world of torture, darkness, and the incompetence of medical malpractice I would cope with for many years to come.
Although Dr. Melbourne had a cold bedside manner, he was knowledgeable regarding the syndrome I suffered from. But I panicked and walked out the door. Actually, I limped as quickly as possible back to my friendly podiatrist, Dr. Dalton, for a second opinion. The podiatrist was a compassionate man—or so I thought! Returning once again to visit Dr. Dalton would be a grave mistake, one I would regret for the rest of my life.
3
The Butcher Operates
Sure enough, Dr. Dalton disagreed with Dr. Melbourne’s diagnosis. “Your problem is chronic, intractable pain stemming from the fractured sesamoid bone fragments pressing on the nerves inside your foot.” We sat down and had a heart-to-heart chat to discuss my options.
“My dear, you have been through enough hell. Don’t you think it’s time to remove these bone fragments from your foot?” he asked.
I had faith in Dr. Dalton, and I trusted him with the most precious thing of all—my life. It was easier to believe in him than to accept the fact that I had some peculiar-sounding disease called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome.
Now I faced a new challenge and hurdle—surgery. Was the doctor taking my little piggy to be slaughtered? The answer was a rude awakening!
My surgery was scheduled for October 20, 1988. Dr. Dalton would be performing an ostectomy (partial removal) of the fibular sesamoid. I was ready to face my new challenge, and I welcomed the thought of the bone fragments being removed from my foot once and for all. If a surgical procedure could stop the bone fragments from rubbing on the nerves, then it was certainly worth the risk. Or so I assumed.
The big day came and off Ted and I went to the hospital to face my fate. Upon my arrival I was escorted into a beautifully decorated room resembling an elegant hotel suite. This chamber was cozy and for an instant made me feel serene. The walls were adorned with lovely mint green leaf-patterned wallpaper. Around the room were paintings of vivid red cardinals with thick bills and crested-ridged heads. The bed was covered with a cheerful floral comforter. I had the feeling I was communing with nature in the forest. There was a beautiful ornate mahogany armoire housing a television, with drawers to store my belongings. Everyone there was extremely attentive to my needs. I was so relieved to be in a private room, since I was not in the mood for small talk with anyone other than Ted.
The nurse asked me to put on a hospital gown and put my belongings in the closet. After a period of time Dr. Dalton cheerfully entered the room.
“Are you ready to head down to the operating room to remove those bone fragments?”
“What the heck! I’m already here, so why not get the show on the road?”
My foot was draped and prepped in the usual sterile manner. An incision was made in order to remove the four bone fragments wreaking havoc upon my body and making my life a living hell.
The surgery took approximately two hours. After the operation, Dr. Dalton told my husband and me that the procedure had successfully removed all of the shattered bone fragments. He predicted a quick recovery. I did experience some discomfort after the operation, but I was so relieved and grateful that my trauma was coming to an end. I almost did a dance of joy. Little did I know, in a short while my life would become helter-skelter because of that surgery.
Walking was difficult after the operation. The pain was tolerable, but there was still some residual discomfort in my foot. I assumed it was all part of the healing process. The week passed by quickly, and I was thrilled to get my stitches out. Now I would be able to place the entire aggravating scenario behind me and get on with the process of living.
When Ted and I arrived at Dr. Dalton’s office, we sat around making small talk. The mood was upbeat and cheerful. The big moment finally arrived for the unveiling of my foot and the removal of my stitches. As the doctor withdrew the bandages, my gaze was glued to the incision site. I couldn’t help but notice an ugly-looking black thing imbedded in the scar inside my foot.
You didn’t need a medical degree to realize something was wrong and this was not a normal occurrence. Dr. Dalton told me it was a cyst. With a bewildered look he said, “You will need to have another surgical procedure to re-examine and biopsy the black cyst in the incision site.” It needed to be performed immediately. But he seemed to think it was nothing serious to be concerned about. The cyst consisted of a rubbery semi-solid mass just beneath my skin on the first dorsal web space by the base of the big toe.