Human Anatomy at Colby

Entries Tagged as 'Personal Story'

Pilot

January 27th, 2018 · Comments Off on Pilot

A lot of my work is done quietly, in a coffee shop, with lots of books, thinking… That’s kind of a given for philosophy majors. Do I only think? No, sometimes I doodle:

Over this month I contemplated somewhat seriously dropping out and raising sheep in New Zealand. Dissecting pig hearts and the functions of hemoglobin are processes a little outside my comfort zone–I’m not a biology or chemistry major, I’m not premed… I’m a philosophy major writing a thesis on time.

I knew this course would be incredibly challenging when I signed up for it, not only because of the subject but because of the long hours that included both lecture and lab, one after the other, and all the work outside of class I needed to keep up. This is NOT an easy JanPlan, this is in fact a very challenging class that tested way more than my academic abilities. At times I found the subject hostile, like the cells inside my body were laughing at myself and my inability to comprehend my own inner workings. As if my brain were somehow smarter than me and had a sort of biological awareness of what it’s doing while my conscious self was completely in the dark. Most of the time we aren’t aware of what we’re doing anyways.

Eventually I made peace with the fact that drawing was the best way I related to anatomy, and I dedicated a lot of time to it. I took comfort in the words of the great designer Milton Glaser: “the great benefit of drawing … is that when you look at something, you see it for the first time. And you can spend your life without ever seeing anything.” So I drew on pretty much any surface, from chalkboards to notebooks to the little placards they have in Dana announcing new courses. However, I was very conscious that drawing by no means was an excuse not to know what was happening. In fact, I felt even more pressure to understand what was happening precisely because I was taking the time and care to render an image as close to the actual thing as possible. And I understood, eventually. Maybe not everything, but at least some parts of it.

– Amanda Sagasti

Tags: Personal Story

Rachel Bird: The End of My Gymnastics Career

February 23rd, 2015 · Comments Off on Rachel Bird: The End of My Gymnastics Career

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I used to be squeamish. I was the kid who’d cover their face during movie fight scenes and feel nauseous at the sight of a bloody hangnail. Then I hurt myself — badly — during gymnastics practice, and I realized that as queasy my innards made me, it was worth it to understand them. When I fell on the trampoline during a routine in April 2012, I shattered my left radius and ulna. The repeated bouncing after the initial fall damaged the soft tissue and left the bones in a compound fracture, puncturing my skin halfway up the forearm. Although the initial reconstructive surgeries were able to salvage some of the bone and repair the structure of my arm, the massive soft tissue damage made my arm swell under the surgical dressings. My fingers grew so puffy with edema that they pressed together, despite the dressing that kept them spread as wide as physically possible. My elbow swelled to the size of my knee, and the staples holding the skin on the inner side of my forearm split open and the wound started oozing.

Rachel2

Eventually, the doctors diagnosed me with compartment syndrome, a condition that is common in crush injuries, but not frequently found in the type of break I had. Because of all the damage to the muscle tissue, my arm had swelled so much that the blood vessels were squeezed almost shut, preventing oxygen from getting to the nerves and muscles in my hand. Unfortunately, by the time I was diagnosed with compartment syndrome, the damage had already been done. The typical treatment for compartment syndrome is a WoundVac, which is essentially a vacuum that attaches onto an opening in the dermis and sucks out all the excess fluid before it can cause a problem. However, by the time the nurses had removed my surgical wraps and determined the cause of the swelling and burning sensation in my arm, the swelling had already begun to subside. Initially, the doctors believed that the nerves would be able to regrow, and most of the damage could heal on its own. However, after two months of daily occupational and physical therapy, I still had no sensation in my wrist, palm, or fingers. Even worse, the build-up scar tissue had cemented my fingers into a fist, and I only had roughly 15 degrees of mobility in my elbow and even fewer in my wrist. My hand was so stuck that I was unable to open my hand to trim my fingernails, so they were starting to grow into the skin on my palm. I didn’t even notice until it started bleeding, because I had no functioning pain nerves in my hand. I also had no proprioception, so when I wasn’t looking at my hand, I would have no idea where it was. This led to some funny encounters, because I would all-to-frequently end up with my hand in my food, or touching a stranger’ back!

Rachel4

After visits to numerous specialists, Dr. Barth, an orthopedic surgeon who specialized in hand and foot injuries suggested an unusual fix. He planned to surgically open up my forearm and scrape the scar tissue off of the joints and tendons in my hand. He would also remove the dead muscle tissue, but leave the muscle bellies (the central portion of a muscle), in the hope that the few remaining muscle fibers would be able to grow. Hopefully, without all the scar tissue blocking blood flow, some of the nerves in my arm would be able to grow back.

Luckily, the surgery was mostly successful, and I was able to open my hand. Less than two weeks after I was discharged from the hospital, I was able to feel deep pressure in my wrist and in parts of my palm! Nerves regrow at approximately five millimeters per day for larger nerves, so as my median nerve inched up my palm, my occupational therapist could track its growth with touch charts and a photocopy of an anatomy textbook. However, so much muscle and tendon was removed, that even though I was slowly able to feel the proximal areas of my fingers, I didn’t have the strength to move them. My arm was so weak that I had to wear a sling for most of the day because I couldn’t support my hand. Even worse, because I couldn’t feel scratches or cuts, two small paper cuts on my fingers got infected.

Dr. Barth proposed another surgery. He wanted to transfer a tendon from my upper arm into my forearm, in the hopes that I could “retrain” my brain to use one tendon for a different purpose. The surgery transferred the brachioradialis tendon and attached it to my extensor pollicis brevis, so when I wanted to move the distal joint of my thumb, I would have to think about bending my elbow. He also transferred the flexor carpi radialis and attached it to the flexor digitorum superficialis, so when I wanted curl or flex my fingers, I would use the muscle that had previously bent my wrist.

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Although the process of recovering from this surgery and relearning how to use my hand to nearly two years, I am now able to type this paper using both hands (admittedly, it’s kind of awkward)! Unfortunately, having blood flow cut off to my nerves for so long had left me with permanent nerve damage, and I deal with chronic nerve pain and pretty limited strength and mobility. However, I can tie my shoes, dress myself and function in a classroom setting in ways that I couldn’t have dreamed of in the months following my accident, and I am so thankful to modern medicine for that!

Rachel5

 

Tags: Human Health · Personal Story

Rebecca Gray: Substance Abuse Isn’t F*cking Funny

February 23rd, 2015 · Comments Off on Rebecca Gray: Substance Abuse Isn’t F*cking Funny

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I swear like a sailor around my parents. And I always have. Because my parents pick their battles, and the battle they picked was substance abuse. Substance abuse is not a joke to them. To them, impersonating the voice of a chain smoker is not funny, and the incoherent ramblings of a drunk friend are not comic storytelling material. My mother lost her brother to a drunk driver when she was thirteen, and my father lost all four of his grandparents to tobacco-related illness. Thus, they’ve always been strict with me, and the overwhelming message under their roof remains: the use of alcohol, tobacco, and other illegal, mind-altering substances is absolutely, positively, unacceptable. They spent so much time enforcing this rule and communicating its importance. Not only did I never get away with drinking in high school, I never had the inclination to; I knew how hurt my parents would be if they were ever to find out, and I couldn’t put them through that. And so, in return for 100% sobriety and transparency about where I was, who I was with, and how I was getting there, they let me swear.

I am glad this was the hill they chose to die on; I believe that I am a healthier and happier (as cheesy as that sounds) person for it. That is why Colby surprised me. The idea of drinking to the point of memory loss every weekend freaked me out. Did my friends not get that when their blood alcohol level rose too high, their brains actually couldn’t form long term memories? That when they woke up feeling like they couldn’t remember the night before, their brain in fact hadn’t truly experienced it at all? I couldn’t believe how many people my age smoked. Did they not know their skin was yellowing, wrinkling? That their lungs were turning black and their bodies becoming reliant on nicotine to function comfortably? I’ve had many a conversation with a fellow Colby student who is not familiar with the physiological effects their substance use has on their body. It is surprising and saddening to see.

Specifically, I recall a weekend last spring, during which a friend drove home with me to meet my family. That Friday, she consumed a lot of alcohol–too much– and vomited. A lot. Saturday morning, she awoke, hungover as all get out, and we trudged through the March sleet to my house. As my mom served us some soup, we chatted and caught up. It was around this time that I swore. My friend audibly gasped. “You can say that in front of your mom?” she asked.

Yeah. I can. My mom doesn’t care. What she does care about is that I don’t try a cigarette, that I don’t use marijuana without first understanding the side effects it might have on my psyche, that I don’t drink more alcohol than my liver can handle, and that I don’t rely on any mind-altering substance to feel happy. This brings me to BI 265. Having learned about the intricate system that is my body, I am even less inclined to mess around with its equilibrium. While cigarettes never tempted me before Jan Plan 2015, my newfound knowledge of arterial disease has made sure I will never get near one. I wish more parents choose to battle substance abuse with their kids, because it is so important and valuable. But even more so, I wish more people would choose to know about how their bodies work. How the things they put in their bodies, the things they do with their bodies, the things they let their bodies get near, affect their mental and physical health. Because only with this knowledge can we change substance abuse culture, both on Mayflower Hill and in general.

 

Tags: Human Health · Personal Story

Rebecca Gray: Healthy For All The Right Reasons

February 23rd, 2015 · Comments Off on Rebecca Gray: Healthy For All The Right Reasons

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I love infomercials. I know it’s weird, but really I don’t think it’s any more shallow than tuning in to E! every week to see what the Kardashians have been up to. I remember being eight, and waking up at 5:30am to catch the Magic Bullet program on channel 8, which aired just before the Shark vacuum cleaner, which came on at 6. I’ll watch any infomercial–a brownie pan that cuts the brownies for you, a humidifier that cures asthma, a bra that somehow fits everyone. But what I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around are the fitness oriented ones: zumba work out tapes, overcomplicated pilates machines, a CD that somehow makes you lose weight if you fall asleep listening to it. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think there are two reasons why I don’t find fitness programming engaging.

First, I’ve always felt generally okay with my body. I eat when I’m hungry and stop when I’m full. I eat leafy vegetables every day and drink mostly water. Throughout high school, I was always an athlete, and even now, I get outside pretty often, whether to ski or run or walk around a bit. In general, I’ve always been okay with my body and pretty proud of what it could do. These fitness programs prey on insecurity. People who feel okay about how they look aren’t going to spend money on a 30-day-shred work out DVD, and people who enjoy their exercise aren’t going to invest in an extravagant treadmill with separate tracks for each foot–they’re just gonna throw on their sneakers and head outside.

But second, and I think more importantly, I’ve never thought of eating or training as something I do for appearance. When I dragged myself out of bed at five in the morning to lift in high school, it was so I could shred my next ski meet. When I took up running last year, it was so I could get fast enough to train with my dad, who’s a speed demon, and spend time with him.    One of the most important principles I learned in A&P is that there is more to health than looking the right way or weighing the right amount. Getting enough sleep, exercising the right amount and in the right way, eating the right things at the right times, drinking gallons of water, and limiting stress are all key. But attitude is also important. Worrying night and day about whether you’re eating the right things or running enough miles is not healthy. Obsessing over ever calorie or every hour of sleep lost is not conducive to a well-rounded life. What I’ve learned is to aim for a sustainable lifestyle of health. This includes being aware of things that are good for me (skiing and hearty, unprocessed meals) and things that are bad for me (pumpkin-chocolate chip cookies and staying up all night watching Friends on Netflix), but also being gentle with myself when things don’t go perfectly. Sometimes I’m going to have weeks where I don’t get to exercise, or nights where I stay up until 3 in the morning, contemplating the universe with friends. This is okay. It doesn’t mean I’m terribly unhealthy, and it doesn’t mean I’ve doomed my body. It means I’m human.

So yeah, I love infomercials. And I’m okay with that, even though I know TV is basically melting my brain and there are more productive, fulfilling ways to spend my time. I still find solace in the fact that I can change the channel when vapid fitness programming comes on, because I am happy with my health, both physically and mentally. I am confident that I can live well, doing the right thing for my body for the right reasons (health and fun, not aesthetic), and be gentle with myself when I am not perfect. Because let’s face it, the only perfect thing in this world is the Magic Bullet, which chops a whole onion in less than 20 seconds and is still on my Christmas list.

Tags: Human Health · Personal Story