ELMS Puzzles

A few weeks ago, I was reading Architectural Digest in the waiting room of the Sports Medicine clinic and I saw an article about George W. and Laura Bush's home on their ranch in Crawford, Texas. When the author described a table that "usually had an ELMS puzzle" on it, I dropped the magazine and googled ELMS.

ELMS is based in Maine where they hand make wooden jigsaw puzzles. I was smitten. Instead of selling the puzzles, they rent them out for three months. I called up to find out more about it. I talked to one of the women who cuts the puzzles and we talked in the phone for forty-five minutes about their puzzles. I joined and ordered some puzzles for my recovery period. The puzzles come in a green cardboard box with no picture of what the puzzles is supposed to be.

"You are entering advanced puzzling territory," said Jack. "This is serious stuff."

Tower of London

I fell in love with wooden jigsaw puzzles a few years ago when I came across Liberty Puzzles at Card Kingdom in Ballard. Liberty is based out of Boulder, Colorado, and there puzzles are laser cut by a machine.

The joy of all wooden puzzles are the crazy shapes.  Instead of all of the shapes being close to similar like in a cardboard puzzle, each piece in a wooden puzzle is fairly unique. There are dancers and animals and objects that relate to the theme of the puzzle. I often will start one of these puzzles by looking for matching shapes instead of matching colors or themes.

Why do I love these puzzles so much? I am almost addicted. I get in a zen-like flow state, where my subconscious brain will pick a piece before my conscious mind knows what is happening. Jack commented that I am really good at this. I am. I hoping that when I fully recover from my knee injury, I can get a job in the lucrative jigsaw puzzle assemblers market.

Ha. I am not sure what transferable skills match up with solving jigsaw puzzles. Maybe I could become a maker of puzzles myself, or starting my own jigsaw puzzle company.

Today is the third day after my surgery, and my friend Lisa stopped over for lunch. She is a social worker who focuses on abused and neglected children. She reads about mindfulness, and she saw my stash of stuff to keep me busy during the acute phase of recovering from the surgery. I have coloring books, puzzles, quilting projects, Soduko puzzles, books, and the BBC's Pride and Prejudice.

Finding things to keep me busy during my post-surgery days is hard. My leg was too stiff to move comfortably this morning, so I took some oxycodone. After the oxycodone, I was too woozy and dizzy to move. This seems pretty much like lose-lose to me.

But I have my puzzles and quilts to keep me occupied.

Post-Op, Day 2

This is the second full day after my surgery. Today is the day that hurts. Yesterday, I was fine bopping around the house. I could walk without crutches, and I felt fine. I took one pain pill in the morning, and was fine for most of the day.  After dinner, I began to feel a little sore. I think the swelling my knee was starting to increase, which then caused discomfort. Last night, I couldn't sleep too well and got a pain pill in the middle of the night to help me sleep.

What is the point of this? I felt better the day the surgery and the day after the surgery than I feel today. Argh. I hope this is the nadir, because it isn't fun. I am not in pain per se, but my leg prefers to be still instead of moving. I hope this gets better soon, or I might go crazy.

Today was a pretty slow day for the family. Jack and I did a crossword puzzle, and the whole family watched The Martian with Matt Damon. It has been pretty much a sit around and do nothing kind of day.

Fox keeping me company.

Low Expectations & Post-Op

I had my surgery this morning and I survived! Here's a happy disco song with a survival theme, thanks to Gloria Gaynor. I am dancing in my mind. Or you could dance in your kitchen and I could vicariously live through you. Jack thinks I am dancing in my mind thanks to percocet or oxycodone whatever I am on. I also don't understand how Hemingway and Lewis Carrol wrote while medicated.

I am on narcotics while writing, so have low expectations. Speaking of low expectations, I had the worst expectations going into this. I remembered taking care of The Boy after he has his tonsils out. He was vegged out. I remember getting my wisdom teeth out. I remember child birth. Mostly, I remember the day of the injury and how incapacitated I was. My expectations were so low, that they have been greatly exceeded. I suppose that since I thought the worst case was death, being alive is a good thing. (Jack, The Boy and I are listening to disco while Jack reads The Martian by Andy Weir and The Boy is working on a Lego Wall*E.)

I did not want to be there this morning. I was in the pre-op room, and went to the bathroom. Even though I was in the hospital gown, I thought about making a run for it. The pre-op nurse was outside the door waiting for me on the pretext of helping me find my way back to my pod. I think he was checking on runners.

I have been surprised in many ways, and not pleasantly surprised in others.

• Pleasant Surprise: Dr. Tex was very kind and upbeat. He was in a jolly mood, like he was going watch (or play) in the big college football rivalry game and dammit, his team was going to win. I am glad this guy loves to cut. He is probably happier on OR days than on days when he has to meet in the office with middle age women who had skiing accidents.
• Pleasant Surprise: I was awake in the OR for about two minutes before I conked out.
• Mildly Unpleasant Surprise: Before I went into surgery, I was in the waiting room reading People. (Do people read this magazine outside of waiting rooms?) There was an article about Marie Kondo, the tidying queen from Japan. While I am attached to my clutter and I think there are thinks that don't bring us joy that we need, I recall the OR was like walking into the Room of Requirements storage closet in Harry Potter. Granted, I was starting the flow of narcotics. I might have been hallucinating, but the OR could have been tidied up. I could be wrong. Perhaps they could potentially need all of these million of tools close by. They probably need a surgical tool room librarians or a card catalog.
• Pleasant Surprise: I woke up gently, not in an altered state where I was rambling incoherently and thinking I had a dragon tale. It was like waking up from an awesome nap.
• Unpleasant Surprise: I think the team was very generous with the pain meds, which is good, except as soon as I woke up from this awesome nap, I my eyes slammed shut. I could kind of hear people, like I was in a half sleep state. I didn't expect to be so exhausted.
• Neutral Surprise: I could hear what was said during my half sleep state. I had a femoral nerve block while I was in a mild coma and the resident and anesthesiologist guided him through the procedure. They were very polite, not only to me, but to each other. "Move the needle to the left, a little deeper. Perfect. Perfect." Perfect is a great word to hear from a medical professional after surgery. Be nice and civilized to people who appear to be sleeping after surgery. If someone is asleep after surgery, make an assumption that they might be able to  hear you and remember what you say. Don't assume they will act on what you say, but don't be a jerk, i.e., "How soon do you think she will lose weight after this surgery?"
• Unpleasant Surprise: The narcotics make me nauseated. They gave me several of these rhino/hippo/elephant condom shaped things as a barf bag. I was not hungry or thirsty after the surgery. The good news is that it will be easy for me to lose the 10-15 pounds I gained since the accident if I can only manage to eat three bites of a croissant for lunch and a few tablespoons of rice for dinner.

• EXTREMELY Pleasant Surprise: I walked up awful 23 steps to my house using crutches and Jack standing behind me. I had a lot of practice after the accident, and watched a YouTube video. Up with the good, and use two crutches under the arm for support. All of my prehab paid off! I could bear weight on the bad leg and could hobble up the steps. It was raining and I was worried that I'd have to haul my drugged up, sleepy ass up those step,s the bane on my existence. Instead, I kicked it.* As Clare Adele would say, "Go me!"

I posted this picture of these horrible steps before, but here they are again. Imagine them wet and you have to crawl up them on your butt.  I hear you swearing.

• Unpleasant Surprise: They gave Jack pictures of my surgery. He keeps trying to show me. I don't want to see them. Do you? I thought not. Clare Adele is deathly afraid of vomit but looked at them the first time Jack asked to show them to her. The Boy is like me. "Do you want to see them?" No. I prefer seeing my body parts from the outside, thank you.
• Pleasant Surprise: Before I left the hospital, they gave me a nosegay/air freshener called "Quease | Ease" to wear on my shirt. It had a lavender and mint and chamomile scent and it is supposed to ease nausea. It also doubles as a deodorant since I can't bathe or shower for several days until they take the sutures out. I also have this awesome "Dry Shampoo" from my hairdresser. (I used it on the campaign trail when I didn't have time to wash my hair.) The good news? I don't care if I need a shower or not.

* While I am excited about this accomplishment, I never want to test how strong I am like this again. Just saying. And I'll probably have to go down the steps on my butt next time I leave the house.

NPO and the Beginning of the Beginning

In case I might forget, this is what popped up on my screen this morning when I opened my computer.

Egads. In case it might slip my mind that I am having my knee taken apart and put back together today. I suppose the best thing to do with surgery is not really think too much about it beforehand, but that is super hard when I am a blogger. It is my job, nay, responsibility to ponder everything, especially the largest and most obvious thing that will happen to me this week.

When I was a kid, I though it would be cool to break a leg or get my tonsils out. Many of my friends did, and they got to stay at the hospital and eat ice cream or lay on the couch all day, watch tv, and have their friends come over and sign their casts. Heck, I never even had the excitement of the chicken pox. I had my wisdom teeth out when I was seventeen, and the best thing about that was a lost five pounds.

I was talking to Gina the other day and saying how before the skiing accident, I haven't had anything bad happened to my body. I've had a few major tragedies in my life, like losing Ada, but aside from the stillbirth (which is horrible), I've never had cancer or some chronic health issue that impacted my life. Several dear friends survived cancer before I met them, otherwise I would have brought them soup and watched their ids. Another friend had an early hip replacement. I was counting my lucky stars.

Now it is my turn, and I am not looking forward to it. Jane from my PT team wrote in my notes that I was "looking forward to the surgery." I thought I'd make myself more clear yesterday at my last PT appointment before the surgery. Evan wrote:

Lauren is going in for surgery tomorrow, she is nervous but ready to get it over with.  She is curious about what to expect in terms of pain and what she should do following surgery.

That is right. I was slipping going up stairs, and I don't want to live with that for the rest of my life. Still, I think about the Boy when he had his tonsils out. I remember my friend Heather telling me how freaked out she was watching her son wake up from anesthesia. He was in an altered state, and it was scary. I remember the Boy lying on the couch, lethargic and unable to eat for a week. My empathy for him is much greater today.

I remember with my wedding thinking that it started with the dress rehearsal. Following that logic, the surgery really started last night. After midnight, I am NPO. I did my last round of exercises and then took a shower with some kind of chemical scrub brush/sponge to get rid of any bacteria on my skin. I can't wear lotion, make-up or deodorant today. (Beware if you see me this morning. You are not on the movie set for a zombie film.)

I am signing off until after the surgery. Have a great day! I know it will be better than mine. I am glad to be getting this over, so that is a good thing. I'll be happy for this day in two years when I am back at Whistler. I'll thank myself then for doing what I am doing today.

The (Second to) Last Supper

I had Jack take me out to dinner tonight. My surgery is Friday and I thought we eat at home tomorrow. I also figured it might be a while before Jack and I are go out and about when I am recovering from the operation. We gave the kids money for dinner and they found something to eat. I hate to think what the neighborhood take-out restaurants think of us as parents. I wonder how many twelve years old they see coming to dinner so often.

We went to Franks Oyster House and Champagne Parlor for dinner. We skipped the oysters and small plates and just had dinner, no dessert. But we did share a half bottle of champagne. Jack belted out in the restaurant that I can't drink while I am on narcotics. He said it when there was that magical moment of silence in a crowded place, where everyone pauses to eat or breathe at the same moment, expect for one voice which is then heard in the entire establishment. Only half the people in the restaurant heard. I don't think his voice carried into the bar.

Normally, I don't mind people overhearing what ever kind of raucous conversation I am having. I was slightly embarrassed by this, though. He also said I shouldn't drink tomorrow night so I am not dehydrated going into the surgery. The pre-op nurse recommended not smoking pot the week before the operation as it might mess up the anesthesia (not a problem here,) but she didn't say anything about alcohol. Still, Jack has a good point. No more booze for me for several weeks, at least until I am stable walking.

I am such a light weight drinker these days. I was slightly inebriated walking home. (My kids go to the take-out places while Jack and I hit one of the nicest restaurants in NE Seattle. I had better own this one before my kids write a memoir on their messed up childhood.)

Now I remember why I haven't been drinking while I've been recovering. I usually do one round of my exercises before I go to bed. It is absolutely zero fun to do 90 leg lifts and all of my other PT while mildly drunk. And I don't like counting my reps while I am sober. Infinitely less fun while intoxicated.

Friday and Middles

I am having a hard time knowing what day of the week it is. I am having surgery on Friday.

Friday.

Two days from now, not three weeks or two weeks but this week. I don't know the time of the surgery, but 48 hours from now I imagine I will be sitting around in a hospital gown waiting for my operation. Or, it might already be started or done.

I've tried to keep a busy schedule this week, having lunch or coffee with friends, plus making time to drive my kids places, go to soccer games and Lego Club parties. Given the schedule, I am having a hard keeping this week straight. Part of me is worried that I might be having cognitive decline like my mother, forgetting what day of the week it is.

More likely, it is denial, not really wanting to keep track of the days of this particular week knowing that the end is going to not be fun. Not only will the surgery suck, but I will be back to wearing a brace for six more weeks. Having to learn to walk again. Not being able to go up and down stairs, or take a shower. No, I am not looking forward to Friday, the beginning of the beginning again.

Why do we like beginnings? Some beginnings kind of suck. The start of a new school year is incredibly stressful. The first half of the first Harry Potter book nearly killed me from boredom. Dating someone new can be exciting, but it is also terrifying. Will they call back? Are they as serious as I am?

I much prefer soft and stable middles, which is where I am now in my physical therapy. I can move reasonably well and I can get around without crutches or a brace. I can even manage in a decent size crowd without worrying about getting plowed over. I can't run or baby jog yet, and that bugs me. "Baby jog" is the little sprint I make when crossing the street before a car comes or trying to catch an elevator. I can't do that yet, nor can I squat. Squatting is very useful when trying to get pots and pans out of a bottom shelf. I am expecting baby jogging and squatting to come at the end of my recovery, but as of Friday, I'll be going back to the beginning.

I talked to my friend Gina yesterday about my upcoming surgery. She had her ACL repaired six years ago. She told me that recovery was tough and her knee wasn't the same as it used to be, but she was glad she had the surgery nonetheless. Monday at PT, Jane wrote in my notes that I was "looking forward to the surgery," which wasn't quite true. Sunday night, my left knee was slipping as I was going upstairs. It was at the end of a busy day, and my leg was probably tired. Now that I am getting better, it is hard to think about going back to crutches and a brace for an extended period of time. After struggling to get up the stairs, I was glad I was going to go through with the surgery, which is very different from looking forward to it.

No, I am not looking forward to it, so much so that I don't want to know what day it is today, because it only means I am that much closer to the beginning again.

Yin, Yang, and Discomfort

As I mentioned in my previous post, I went to my pre-op appointment yesterday where I met Claire, the Physician Assistant who gave me a physical to make sure I was healthy enough for surgery and to see if there were any issues that might impact my care. Claire was the yin of the surgical team, whereas Dr. Tex is the yang, even though Claire possesses more the light and positive forces compared to Dr. Tex, who is not that engaging of a person. Not that he needs to be--I'd never hire a surgeon for his or her beaming personality. I'd hire them because they can fix what needs to be fixed. Dr. Tex needs Claire's brightness and sunny attitude in his clinic. Thankfully, he or someone else had the foresight to see what a great combination this would be.

My husband Jack is physician but not a surgeon. We were talking about customer service and compassion in the health care setting. One of Jack's colleagues is working on a customer service program for the docs at Jack's hospital. Of course, some physicians are skeptical of consulting programs, as anyone should be. Some consulting methodologies are brilliant (see W. Edward Deming.) Some of aren't (too many to mention.)

Jack had a different perspective when I told him I was not a big fan of Dr. Tex's bedside manner. As you may recall, when I asked Dr. Tex how long I will need to wear the leg brace after the surgery (6 days? 6 weeks? 6 months?), he said, "You have to earn you way out of the brace." Dr. Tex seems like the type of guy who would answer "yes" if his wife were to ask if this dress makes her butt look big. (Likewise, he seems like the type of guy who might not marry a woman with a large butt.) He stopped short of calling me "darlin'" or "Hon," that annoying shortcut many men use when they don't bother to remember a woman's name. (Thank god he didn't call me the dreaded "Ma'am.")

I know I shouldn't make fun of or publicly tease my surgeon the week before my operation. It seems like bad karma or something. Egads. What am I thinking? I hope he doesn't read. Seriously, I need to stop.

Jack thought Dr. Tex's bedside manner wasn't bad. "He looked you in the eye when he talked, and he answered your questions. Even stayed a few minutes later and explained everything."

You have got to be fucking kidding me. The guy basically passed the minimum standards for human communication, and my DH* thinks this qualifies as a reasonable interaction with a patient. When I told Jack what I thought about my interaction with Dr. Tex, he suddenly thought his colleagues customer service program might be necessary where he works.

I think this is a more complex issues about doctors, especially specialists, and their very lopsided lifestyles and personalities. Their lives become all about the technicalities of medicine, which is where so many advances come in to make all of our lives better. I saw an advertisement for a hospital about knee surgery. It said knee surgery isn't lifesaving, but it is lifestyle saving, and it showed a man jogging on a beach. The Boy argued that knee surgery could be lifesaving: "What if you fell down the stairs and broke your neck and died?" I was thinking of crossing the street, falling and getting hit by a car. Or starving to death because you couldn't get to the grocery store.

Perhaps these docs sacrifice their personalities and people-skills for the sake of their craft so I can walk across the street and not get hit by a car. Maybe "sacrifice" is too strong of a word--it is more likely that their people-skills are underdeveloped. Or, perhaps they had mediocre people skills to start, so surgery is a great place to be instead of a small town general practitioner who is probably close to clergy in terms of being most trusted.

In defense of Dr. Tex, he is not dealing with life and death. I can walk, and reasonably well. He is going to fix my knee so I can ski, play tennis and dance. I don't have a tumor or a problem with my heart. While I have a mild fear of death from surgery, I know it is very unlikely that my children will end up orphans after this. Dr. Tex doesn't need a box of tissues in his office when discussing these types of procedures.

To balance out the blowhard-ness of the surgeon, they hired Claire. Claire was painfully easy to talk to, which can be a bad thing if you are a big old blabbermouth like me. I once was interviewed by Danny Westneat of the Seattle Times, and he was the same way. I was really tired when he called me several years ago, so tired it was like I was drunk. He has a soft, smooth, easy voice. He didn't ask direct questions like a regular reporter. Instead, he was chatting like we were old friends and he really, really wanted to know what I thought.  There is nothing more intoxicating, and I was already half way there when he called. This guy would not have any problems picking up a chick at a bar. I have no idea what he would be like on a second conversation, but I'd be willing to engage after the first. I think my quote in the Seattle Times was something like "You've got to be kidding me." Jack and several other friends said "It sounds like something you'd say." Yeah.

Claire is like a girl friend version of Danny Westnest. I was yammering away, and I commented on the folks on my PT team. "I like them all and they are all super nice and none of this is meant as criticism or complaint. But... some of them cause more discomfort than others I've noticed, and I don't know why. They each seem to have a different style. Evan causes the least discomfort, which is fine with me. Jason and Jane cause me more discomfort, and they make me do things that I don't want to do. It turns out I can do them, but I am typically uncomfortable. What do you think?"

Claire smiled and paused. "Everyone on our PT is very well qualified and they do a great job.  They should be pushing you out of your comfort zone, and you should be feeling pushed. You don't want to be sitting there doing thirty boring leg lifts (she rolled her eyes) when you could be doing harder work. On the other hand, it shouldn't be too hard that you are suffering."

That was made sense, but it also kind of sucked. I like Evan because he has a gentle approach. In fairness to Evan, he saw me for my first physical therapy appointment, three weeks after the accident and I had very limited movement since then. My quadricep wouldn't flex, my leg and knee were super stiff, and I was afraid.

Today when I saw Evan, I told him I met Claire for my pre-op appointment.

"I talked to her about it," Evan said.

Oh shit, I thought. There go my easy PT appointments. I was hoping I was wrong, but I wasn't. The formerly gentle massage was now firm. When I got to the leg press, the weights were set higher.

"Do you need more weight?" Evan asked.

I laughed. "No."

 Damn, I thought. I should have kept my mouth shut.

I shared this cartoon with my PT team. Jason is talking about getting his "tools" to work on my knee. From The New Yorker, Feb. 22, 2016. http://www.newyorker.com/cartoons

* Dear Husband

Pre-Op, Baths and Fairy Dust

I had my pre-op meeting today for my surgery next week. I've decided that these people who are telling me how I will be tortured or who are doing the torture are super friendly and smiley and upbeat. This is not a bad thing. It is like I am at a Disneyland of Torture, minus the saccharin. Enter the Claire, the most lovely Physician Assistant I've met: perky, funny, great sense of humor and wearing a kick ass pair of boots.

She read my chart and saw I have a minor blood clotting disorder.

"Great! We will make sure you are on aspirin for the week or two after the surgery so you don't get DVT. You will have to flex and circle your feet twelve times an hour so you don't clot," she said in the same voice as if she were offering me magical* homemade brownies that had were both fantastically delicious and had no calories. I hadn't really thought of the risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis with this surgery.

"Aspirin -- sounds good. I'll get some before the surgery."

"And you won't be able to take a bath for six weeks. You can't submerge the wound," she said smiling as if she were a college admissions counselor telling me my daughter is a shoo-in for Columbia on a full-ride scholarship.

"Okay," I said. "I can see that." I nodded and smiled.

"And I recommend some laxatives to balance out the constipation from the narcotics," Claire said. "Get the generic Miralax. It is the same as the regular stuff but it is cheaper." It sounded like she could have said, "You know those rainbow Ferragamo shoes** you love? My cousin works for Ferragamo and I can get you a pair for free!"

You are welcome, Ferragamo, for the advertising.

She made a possible blood clot, constipation and not taking a bath for six weeks sound like dessert, shoes and getting my daughter into her dream school for free. This woman should be in sales. In fact, she is. She is selling me the surgery in a sense. I've already decided I want it. Her job is to close deal and make sure I don't change my mind when I realize what a nightmare this recovery is going to be. And this is elective surgery versus getting a cancerous tumor removed where they would be handing me tissues.  This was very different than when I had my mammogram at the Fred Hutch Cancer Research Center. (See my previous post, Lump.) It is not as elective as a nose job or a tunny tuck, but I could live without out my ACL. I wonder what the pre-op meeting is like for a boob job...

Twenty minutes later, I was out of the appointment at the grocery store buying aspirin and laxatives when it hit me: No baths for six weeks? You've got to be kidding me, I thought. I just started taking showers a week ago because I was afraid I didn't have enough stability. I have to take showers for six weeks, which means I'll have to stand in a slippery bathtub with a leg that doesn't move? Seriously, how can this possibly work?

The Sports Medicine Clinic I go to must be sprinkled with magic fairy dust, and it wore off once I left. I am not saying this is a bad thing. Perhaps I can get some of that fairy dust to get my kids to do chores around the house.

* Not that kind of "magical" brownie.  I do live in Washington but...
** I don't think my PT team would let me wear these shoes for quite a while.

Death and Taxes

Last Friday afternoon, I lost my will to live. I had a pleasant morning--I had a good workout and I went for coffee at Cafe Ventoux with my friend Ellen. Cafe Ventoux is named after a hill in the Tour de France. I had just rode more than ten miles on the stationary bike at the YMCA, so I figured they could handle a smelly biker.

After lunch, I called the cable company to cancel our service. We had just switched to a different internet service and need to cancel the old one. It took forty-five minutes and four phone calls. I wonder how long it would have taken if I had called and said I wanted to get the most expensive package with channels from every country on the planet. $1200 a month? I bet that phone call would have taken three minutes. 

After that, I had physical therapy. I felt sorry for Evan for having to deal with me in such a mopey mood. These poor folks on my PT team and the desk crew at the YMCA now make up much of my social life. I told Evan that after 45 minutes on the phone with the cable company, I had lost my will to live. I was kind of joking, but then I also said I now under the two week window for my surgery, and I was getting a little freaked out. This was his cue (bless his heart) to tell me his life story to distract me from my misery.

Later, Jack, Claire Adele and I went to dinner. We had a twenty minute wait, which turned in forty. I didn't bring my crutch to give people a visual cue that I am not fully physically capable. When a seat on a bench opened up, I took it. Sitting beneath Jack and Claire Adele, I started to think about what was bothering me. I felt this strong need to finish the taxes and a quilt I had been working on for several months before my surgery. Why? At first it was because I thought I might be too drugged up or out of commission after the surgery, but that didn't seem right.

I remembered back more than twenty years ago when my grandfather had his triple bypass surgery. I remember being outside of the hospital room when my grandparents were inside discussing final details about the wills and other assorted paperwork in case he died. I am sure they had a more meaningful conversation as well, but neither of my grandparents were the type to look at the glass half empty. My grandfather had one of the busiest heart surgeons in Chicago. We knew this guy had a great reputation, but this was still open-heart surgery. My grandfather was more than seventy years old, and he wanted to live to attend his fiftieth wedding anniversary. My grandmother was planning a big shindig, and she needed a living spouse for this to happen.

I thought of this as I entered the t-minus two week countdown for my surgery. What if I die?

I told Jack what I was thinking, and he said something along the lines of "Nonsense! People don't die during knee surgery."

But what if...I have a stroke or a blood clot or a heart attack? Bad things have been on a streak lately: losing the election, my mom going to the memory care unit, getting my knee banged up in the first place... I was not feeling optimistic.

The next morning, Jack and I walked Fox. I told Jack a list of things I wanted done in case I die. "You need to by nice to the Boy. I want a Catholic burial. See if you can find a church."

"I am sure I can find a church that will take my money if you die," he said.

I told him who to call in case I died. The best thing to do would be to scroll down my phone and make calls. Many of my friends are in different circles, and would probably need a direct connection. I gave him a list of five people I did not at my funeral or memorial.  They could be asked to leave, if they bothered to show up, which I doubt they would.* I told him to give Claire Adele my jewelry when she is old enough to take care of it.

I felt slightly better talking about it and making a plan. I am still not looking forward to the surgery, but I am looking forward to it being over.

* In case you are wondering if you are on this "Not Invited to My Funeral" list, ask yourself if you would be so sad if I died that you would need to attend my funeral. If the answer is yes, then you are invited. If you would gloat a little at my demise, forget it. You are off the list.

Dr. Who, Self-Flaggelation and Grocery Shopping

The Boy has been really cranky lately, especially in the morning. He comes down stomping and grumping to the point I'd rather eat breakfast with Donald Trump and Jeffery Dahmer than with my son. One day, he came down and said he was up until one a.m. the night before. Another day, he said he was so tired he couldn't go to school. This was coupled with super grouchiness, not a sign of sincere illness. I told him if he didn't go to school, I would not call it in and he would have to take an unexcused absences for the day. He then got his butt out of bed and to school, screaming on his way out the door.

Tuesday night, Jack and I were looking for the Boy's computer. He got one for Christmas so he could use it for homework instead of using my computer. In January, he had a six page paper due and it took hours. (Does the average twelve year old have six pages worth of interesting thoughts? I guess the Boy's teacher thinks so.)  I was glad my machine wasn't tied up for the better part of a week after school and into the weekend. After that, I was very glad we made the investment for the Boy.

We couldn't find the computer, nor could the Boy. We have a rule that computers are not allowed upstairs in kids' rooms. I found it a little incredible that the Boy did not know where his computer was and was not concerned about finding it. Mother's have this sense when their kids are totally full of bullshit. Then, the Boy's computer was found in the Lego room next to the Boy's bedroom where it was being charged. Hmmm. It wasn't there a few minutes earlier, but whatever.

Jack asked me what the Boy's password was for his machine, and the Boy gasped from upstairs when I said it. Jack checked it out. None of the content was too questionable. I wasn't a fan of the first person shooter game, even though it was more cartoonish than other games.

The big issue was the time the computer was being used. The Boy was watching Dr. Who at 10:00 p.m., 11:00 p.m., and 1:00 a.m.. No wonder he was psycho in the mornings. He was staying up all night streaming videos that we would otherwise allow him to watch during the day.

Jack and I decided not to wake the Boy about this, nor did we say anything when he came down the next morning for breakfast, remarkably chipper from probably actually getting a real night's sleep.

(The New Yorker has a hilarious article, "In Search of Forty Winks," on sleep and insomnia cures by Patricia Marx. She says that researchers think that getting nine hours of sleep every night has been slightly overrated. I think these same researchers would draw direct causation between when an otherwise reasonable twelve year old boy stays up all night watching videos and then is an asshole in the morning.)

Part of me was annoyed at the grouchy behavior in the morning, another part thought it was funny that my kid was watching Dr. Who in the middle of the night.

The next day after school, I broached the topic.

"Your father and I saw you've been streaming Dr. Who at 1:00 in the morning..." That was all I had to say before I had a half hour of self-flagellation from the Boy.

"My computer is ruining my life. I've gotten the worse grades ever since I got the computer. I hate it. I've give it back. I'll sell it. I'll smash it with a hammer. I'll pay you back for it. I'll buy a typewriter to do my papers." And so it went for thirty minutes. He was a runaway train.

I listened as he ranted, and then I told him I needed to do a major grocery shopping and needed some help getting around the store. He agreed, and we went. Once he was off the topic of his computer, he was back to being a regular human being again. He talked about his substitute bus driver and helped me pick out what to eat for dinner.

No one had done a major grocery shopping since my injury nearly two months ago. Most of the shopping has been for that night's dinner and a few lunches for the week. We were out of tortillas, lemons, milk, yogurt, granola and other basics that could cover a meal in a pinch. The Boy helped me fetch onions, bananas and hamburger buns. I let him go down the junk food aisle and get something crunchy for his lunch. He came back with a bag of Sriracha flavored popcorn. It was a small price to pay for a) getting my son to chill and b) help me with the grocery shopping.

When we got home, he carried almost all of the groceries up the stairs. He said, "You are so chill." I know he has a way to go to get over not using the computer all of the time, and I am not always chill, but it is nice to have days when difficult problems are handled without catastrophe. It probably helped that he had a good nice sleep the night before.

Online Dating and the Pursuit of Perfection

There was an article in Sunday's Seattle Times Pacific Northwest Magazine about online dating. More than 30% of people getting married now 2005 and 2012 met online according to the article, so I can see why single are going online because everyone else is going online.

I was dating before the internet was invented, so this perplexes me. It also begs the question: What are people doing in real life (IRL)? Back when I was dating, there were lots of parties and going out in groups of people with friends of friends of friends. Church was a major meet/meat market. The St. Pat's Picnic was known to be a great place to meet your future spouse. I'd meet a guy someplace and then if he were interested in me, he would pick up the phone and ask me to lunch, dinner or a movie. What a novel idea! A guy asking a girl out. Huh. How about that? Does that happen anymore, or is there an app for it?

In fairness, I have a friend who met her husband through a personal ad in the Chicago Reader. She really loved going to folk music concerts, and it was hard in real life to find a guy that would embrace that hobby. Through the Reader, she met a guy who would not only tolerate but encourage her habit.

I can see this being one channel to meet people but where can this go wrong? The tag line of the article is "Looking for love has turned into a data-driven quest for perfection." How much are people looking for carbon copy clones of each other, trying to find a match? I can see where someone who likes their steak rare might not be the best match for a vegan, but what if the guy likes rap and the girl likes Taylor Swift? Does that mean they are ruled out of each others' lives for something so seriously trivial? Don't people want to find someone who is different just enough to make life interesting? In the Seattle Times article, one women says that she never would have met her husband online--they are too different and never would have connected. I can see if someone can't possibly tolerate someone's favorite hobby, but wouldn't it be great for a musician to take a hike in the woods or a hiker to go to the ballet? What about that old Pina Colada song, where they list a bunch of things that they find fun versus giving a dating resume?

Or what life didn't end up like the Pina Colada song? What if those of us who met IRL had to go back in time and date over the internet? Would we be with our current partner or not? Would we get the wrong kind of swipe on Tinder, or would the profile not even show up because of major difference? Jack knew what he wanted to be when he grew up when he was 15. I am 46 and still don't know what I want to do when I grow up. Had I been the type of person who had a detailed life plan, I don't think I would have found myself running for office last year, for better or worse.

And how much do people expect perfection as the tag line reads? Elle magazine a few years back published an article about a rich bachelor who had a very long, possibly impossible list of things he would like in a mate, almost down to her shoe size? Perhaps he is right to list his desires and pursue them, but might he lonely for a long time looking for a golden unicorn? Good for him if he finds her, but what if then she doesn't want a guy who is looking for a resume instead of a person?

Mileposts (Yawn), Small Steps, and the Recovery Job

My life is so fucking boring.

I went to lunch today with my friend Sangita and had almost nothing to say because a vast majority of my time is spent getting ready to exercise, exercising, and resting from exercising. Here are some new highlights and mileposts I've made with my ACL injury:

• I took a shower for the first time since my skiing accident on Dec. 19. Since the accident, I've mostly taken baths. I was afraid of slipping. This is a great topic of conversation. (Not.)
• I noticed I am limping, and I told Evan, my physical therapist, that I thought I was taking shorter strides with my left leg. I told him I hate to limp and he said not limping is a good thing. He said I could a) increase the extension of my left leg (not gonna happen soon) or b) shorten the stride of my right leg. I choose b. While I don't limp anymore (yay!), I am taking freakishly small steps. Small steps seems to be the name of the game here.
• I wore jeans for the first time today since the accident. Prior to today, I wore exercise clothes, a pair of wide legged corduroy pants, or a pair of pants I made for myself. I went to lunch with a friend and decided to "dress up." Yay jeans!
• I did my knee extension exercise with the large rubber band right for the first time last night.  Both Jason and Evan from my PT team explained to me that I needed to flex my quadricep as I pull back the rubber band. I understood the concept, but my thigh did not. It was like trying to explain physics to a dog. No matter how well they described it, my thigh didn't get it. Last night, I did it! I felt how Anne Sullivan (me) must have felt when Helen Keller (my thigh) understood the symbol for "water." In that moment, Keller was able to communicate with other people. My thigh can now work with the rest of my body.
• I realize my favorite standing posture is similar to Michelangelo's David: standing straight on my right leg, bending the left. I wonder if David had a torn ACL?
• I went without crutches or a brace this weekend! My dear husband Jack and I have a mutual friend Daphne who tore her ACL a week after I tore mine. "Daphne isn't wearing a brace or using crutches..." he said two weeks ago. Fuck that. I like Daphne, but really Jack? Do you need to compare me to someone else? My friend Sangita tore her ACL years ago and she said I would carry a crutch when I am out in public so I can keep people away from me. After lunch today, she shooed a woman with a toddler away from me. Yay Sangita!

I felt better after my lunch with Sangita. She has a friend with MS who spends a decent part of her week in treatments and therapy. I guess having an illness or injury is a mini-job. I am lucky my injury recovery is a boring job-no chemotherapy or anything too complex--but it is a job nonetheless.

Woman of Privilege (WoP)

Thursday, I had a busy day.

• I went to the YMCA and rode the exercise bike for 50 minutes.
• I checked Facebook and contacted a friend who was giving away tickets to the Pacific Northwest Ballet's dress rehearsal for Romeo et Juliette. 
• The same friend contacted me and I learned her father died. Stopped at Trader Joe's to buy her snacks and flowers.
• Went to lunch with another friend.
• Came home to let dog walker and our house helper in, and got them organized.
• Went shopping with Claire Adele to get her a dress and shoes for the Winter Ball.
• Crammed in a quick round of my PT home exercises and ate half a sandwich.
• Responded to philanthropic luncheon invitation.
• Went to the ballet.

This is the busiest day I have had since my injury. All of this is fine and good, except I sound like the the biggest woman of privilege (WoP) ever when I have to list it out, which is what I was preparing to have to do at my Friday physical therapy appointment. I don't need to work and aside from not being able to walk properly, it would appear from the outside that I really don't have any major problems in my life. I was worried how vacuous I would sound to my physical therapy team, not that they care what I do every day. My PT team likely sees dozens of patients each week, and all have different backgrounds, form college athletes to elderly people, and everyone in between. I wonder what I look like to people outside of my social circle. This experience pulls into focus what my life is like as I have to explain myself to new people. I am seeing myself more from the outside. I could say my school board campaign did the same thing, but then I was trying to send a specific message to voters. Here there are seeing me as a person versus being part of a campaign, which is in many ways a public job interview.

Friday wasn't much different. After PT, I went to Nordstrom's Rack and bought a new handbag (okay, two) that can fit a water bottle, books, and magazines, in addition to the usual purse stuff. I "needed" a new bag because a) I need a bag to bring to the Y while I bike, and I figure I'll use this new bag daily for the next three months, at least, and b) I am stick of the green backpack I've been carrying since my injury in December. I put the new bag(s) on my Nordstrom's card, the card that carries pretty much luxury expenses, i.e., things I want but don't need, like the new dress for my daughter and a new purse. This card does not carry grocery or gasoline charges. When this bill comes, it screams "Time to pay for all of those fancy things!"*

My angst is exacerbated by reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me this week. I was pained to see how simple and safe my life is compared to Coates'. The worst part of my day on Thursday was shopping with my tall, thin and beautiful daughter and her equally tall, thin beautiful friend. I felt like a pudgy, limping toad standing next to them. I don't have to worry about my son getting shot for wearing a hoodie, or facing discrimination at school and around town.

Evan, my physical therapist, was looking at my knee Friday morning. He has digging into the back of my knee harder than last time I saw him on Tuesday.

"What did you do yesterday?"

Shit, I thought. "I worked out, brought stuff to a friend whose father died, went to lunch with a friend, took my daughter dress shopping and went to the ballet."

"Shopping with your daughter? Where'd you go?"

"Northgate," I said. "She is going to the Winter Ball Saturday and she needed a new dress and some shoes." Sure, I could have dropped her off at Value Village or Goodwill, but you need to start shopping at those places weeks before the dance and go often to find something good. We were looking at the last minute.

He thought for a few seconds. "Your knee must have a lot of load yesterday when you went shopping," he said and he dug further into my hamstring, trying to release this very tight and protective muscle. "What are you doing this weekend?"

Oh. He was asking me about my day not like my wonderful hairdresser who likes to chat with his clients.  Evan wanted to know what I did to figure out how badly I had abused/ignored my knee, and how badly I might abuse/ignore it over the upcoming weekend. Was I going to go hiking? Biking? Running errands? Or was my plan to be a couch potato and watch Netflix all weekend? His purpose was to assess my past and gauge my future activity levels. Perhaps part of his questions were social, but the main part of his job it to get my knee in good enough shape for surgery. He might need to be a detective to figure out why I am or am not making progress.

* Nordstrom's was very nice when I was looking for professional clothes for my campaign. I had a personal shopper help me select clothes and another woman in the handbag section helped me pick out a briefcase. In both cases, I needed the help picking things out and the level of service wasn't a luxury, but a necessity.  That might sound silly, but I was overwhelmed when I saw a hundred handbags to choose from. The handbag saleswoman helped me narrow it down significantly.

Allograft versus Autograft, and En Pointe

I was at physical therapy yesterday when Evan asked what I was going to opt for in my new ACL.  We had discussed this before, but I have had more time to think about it since our first conversation. There are three choices: the allograft and two autografts, one from the patella and one from the hamstring. The patella is considered the "gold standard" and is the most stable. The allograft has the fastest recovery time.

"I think I am going with the allograph," I said.

"Allograft?" he gently corrected.

"Yes," I said, "The kind from a cadaver."

"How did you decide on that?"

"My friend Michelle had one ACL done 18 years ago on her right knee, and had her left knee done last February. She had her hamstring on the first, and she feels like she isn't as strong as she used to be. She had an allograft this year, and her recovery time was much faster. She swears by it.

"Also Dr. Tex also suggested in not so subtle a way that an ACL from a cadaver would be younger than I am now."

The PT at the next table burst out laughing. I imagine he has worked with Dr. Tex and understands his direct manner. I told Jack and he said "Dr. Tex said the allograft would definitely be younger than you."

Allografts have proven not to be as strong or lasting for young athletes, but I am not a young athlete.  Theoretically, I don't need this ACL to last for 60 more years. Even if Tex's comment was true, middle age women do not like to be reminded of their age.

What is a little weird about the allograft is that the someone died and I get his or her leftover parts. Jack and I were driving down I-5 and we saw a motorcyclist weaving in and out of lanes with no helmet. Jack said, "There's your new ACL." Egads. I feel terrible that some family has to endure a tragedy for me to get a new ACL. The thought is a little creepy, especially if they are taking young body parts. There are 200,000 ACL surgeries a year. Surely there aren't that many deaths of people under the age of 30 in the US each year.

Nevertheless, if the ACL is there for the taking, and otherwise not needed, I can use it.

I decided not to comment on Dr. Tex's lack of bedside manner in the PT room. I wanted to keep karma on my side and accidentally piss of Dr. Tex before my surgery. I remember when I met him, I asked how long I would have to wear the brace after surgery.

"You've gotta earn your way out of the brace," he said.

What? I thought. I was almost in tears. I wanted a ballpark answer: two weeks, two months, six months? I am a middle aged woman who tore her ACL skiing. I am not trying out for the Navy Seals.

I thought about other things I've earned, and didn't feel so bad. Inspired by Lauren Kessler's Raising the Barre, I've taken to wearing my ballet slippers around the house and added modified barre work to my PT routine. (Shhhh.  Don't tell my PT team.) I thought about how I earned pointe shoes years ago. You can't sign up for a ballet class and go buy pointe shoes.  You need to be ready. You have to show you are strong enough to wear them so you don't hurt yourself. Rising in a toe shoe about having strong legs. If you do it right, it doesn't hurt at all. And it is glorious. I remember the magic I felt the first time I rose. I was at a ballet shop a while ago, and I saw a girl getting her first pair of pointe shoes. It is a big deal.

So, even if I am not trying out for the Navy Seals, I did earn my way into pointe shoes. Surely I can earn my way out of an ACL brace.

Grace

"Your range of motion is looking better today," said Evan when he saw me this morning. This was positive encouragement, by far. I came in wearing the brace but no crutches. I almost looked like a normal person. Almost. I was at a party last Friday and two people called me "crip" and "gimp." I gently corrected them and said "I am temporarily disabled."

Part of my goal of getting back to normal is getting back to normal for me. When I was in Ohio, my father pointed out that I was walking with a limp.  I was so happy just be walking that I didn't notice that I was dragging along. I slumped when he said this. This from the man who paid for years and years of dance lessons, drove me to dance every weekend for most of my childhood.

I want to be graceful. I don't want to walk with a limp.

Jack and I went for a walk this weekend. I walked without the brace and using the crutches for about a mile. I can walk without either, but I don't like the way I carry myself.  I feel like my right leg is doing more work to make up for my left.  Evan said I need to rebuild strength in my quads.  It isn't enough to be able to walk for a mile.  I could be using my hamstrings and glutes to compensation for my lack of quad strength.

All of those details are boring, but this is what is interesting: "You need to learn to do things that used to come to you naturally," Evan said. This is the hard part of my current life--learning to use my body again. It is not like I learning some thing new and fun, like when Clare Adele and I took tap dancing lessons two years ago.  This is learning to how reuse muscles to do everyday things, like walk, stand on one leg to put on my pants, and bend down to pick something up. This is not about learning new dance steps or a new ski turn.

In addition to learning to walking, stand and bend, I want to do this while looking reasonably good.  I want good posture again, and to float instead of hobble.