Pessimista!, Can and Can't, and Squat

Bike Time: 2 x 10 minutes

Distance:  1.83 for   one ride!
Other: The leg press is the bane of my existence. I loathe and despite it.

Yesterday, I was making some breakfast sausage for the Boy. I had to bend down below the cooktop to get out the skillet I usually use for cooking sausage.

I wish I could squat, I thought to myself. It would be so much easier to reach the bottom cupboards in my kitchen if I could squat. Instead, I bent down with my legs straight and spread apart with my butt in the air. This was not pretty.

This wasn't the first time I had this thought about squatting. This is one of the many things I can't do (yet) during my recovery. I am in this weird middle ground where I can get out and about, but I am nowhere near as functional as I want to be. What should I be: an optimist or a pessimist? (Spoiler in the title above.)

Writing a blog like this is like writing a memoir before I know how it ends. I hope that I will get better, that I will return to skiing and dancing and squatting, but I don't yet know for sure. I don't know if it will have a good ending (picture of me having successfully reached the bottom of Dave Murray Downhill) or if something bad will happen. And my definition of optimism and pessimist might vary from the dictionary's. I am thinking critically of my present situation more than my future situation.  Pollyanna or Candide would be my optimists. I think of pessimism as being unhappy with the status quo, and thinking it won't change without a miracle or, in my case, a ton of work. Perhaps I am more like a curmudgeon than a pessimist. But I digress.

I can walk, which is good. I walk very slowly and I can't go very far. I have to think about each step so I can have a decent gait. My son said yesterday afternoon, "You are walking like a normal person!" In a way, this is a happy milestone, but this "normal person" walk requires almost all of my attention. Extend my leg, plant my heel, roll through my toes and lift the heel again, runs through my mind with each step.

I have to make decisions about things that I didn't have to think about before. Yesterday, I was picking up a book I reserved at the NE Library. After I got the book, I thought about going to Top Pot Donuts to get a decaf mocha. I had to decide if I should walk the half of a block to and from the library to Top Pot through the gravelly alley or if I should drive there. I decided to drive, which if I had a fully functioning knee, would have been crazy. I tried to rationalize driving there by saying I was opening a space in the always crowded library parking lot, but it takes less time to get coffee than it takes to roam the stacks.

I also want to go canoeing. I could go down to the aquatics center, rent a canoe and paddle around Lake Washington. The weather is warm and sunny--it would be awesome to spend it on the water. Plus, I could use my upper body and not my legs. As soon as I think about this, I think my physical therapist would have a cow. "Nooooo!" he might say if I told him my plan. When discussing where I should take the family for Spring Break, he said I couldn't play in the waves of the ocean as they might knock me over and damage my new ACL. A similar logic might apply to getting into a canoe. I don't know how I could get into a canoe from the dock. To get down stairs, I have to think "down with the bad" and lower my injured leg first. My injured leg would not be stable in a rocking canoe in the water. Plus, I can't submerge my leg in water--even a bath!--until six weeks after the surgery. Lake and river water are fully of all kinds of microscopic life that can cause infections in wounds.

Long story short--I can't squat, I have to ponder every step I take, it takes me forever to walk half a block, and I can't canoe. But I can walk! Yay?

I am going to be a pessimist and embrace my inner Debbie Downer. I will relish in the fact that is sucks that I can't walk far. Why? Why choose to be miserable, gaze at my navel and write lists of the things I can't do?

Years ago, I read Barbara Ehrenreich's Bright Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking has Undermined America. Her basic premise (if I remember this correctly) is that looking at the bright side of life* brushes off problems like poverty and disease. She isn't necessarily advocating for pessimism, but you first need to identify problems before you can solve them. I want to be able to squat and look in my kitchen cabinets. I want to be able to walk from the library to Top Pot to get coffee, and I want to canoe. These are little milestones that I should be able to make before the end of my nine month recovery. This little bit of grumpiness makes go to physical therapy and do my exercises, and that is a good thing. I don't want to be content just walking "like a normal person."

As I was driving home after my trip to library with my decaf mocha from Top Pot, I felt like Frodo and Bilbo Baggins. They went on a big, scary adventure that made them uncomfortable at best and in fear of their life at worst. Bilbo and Frodo didn't get second breakfast, but at least they didn't get eaten by trolls or spiders, cooked by a dragon or killed in battle. They prevailed, but they were not the same. My battles are with canoes and getting to coffee shops, instead. Still, I was feeling Tookish enough to want to go to the library, go to the coffee shop.

* Here is your ear worm for the day, thanks to Eric Idle and Monty Python from The Life of Brian.

"When chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle..."

Drama v. Blog

Alfred Hitchcock once said, "Drama is life with the dull bits cut out." I feel like my blog is life with the boring parts left in, examined, and then blown up to ten times the size it would otherwise appear in real time.

I love drama. I used to have season tickets to two theatres (Goodman and Steppenwolf)  when I lived in Chicago before I had kids. I love movies. Hitchcock's Rear Window is one of my favorites. And yet...

Small--and perhaps dull--moments make up the drama of my days, and likely the drama of many people recovering from an injury with a long-term healing process. We need the written word to describe those smaller moments that fall between the cracks, the moments that wouldn't make the cut for drama.

As I am experiencing, life can be duller, duller than we expected or hoped for. How do we survive those moments, or in my case and the case of many people recovering from injury--months of dullness while healing? That is the point of my writing for the past few months. How does one cope with and survive recovering from an injury. I don't need extra drama in my life right now. Dullness and predictability is helping me heal.

Drama may be life with the dull bits of life cut out, but these small moments need a place to be celebrated, too. In dance, small movements matter. In writing, small moments matter.

Heal well.

29 and the Plum

Bike Time: 13 minutes

Distance: meh

I have a plum inside my knee cap. If my knee were a jelly doughnut, instead of having jelly inside, mine has a plum. (I am assuming this plum is some form of swelling and excess fluid. Plum sounds better to me.) When I bend my knee/jelly doughnut, it feels like the plum is going to explode. I really don't want it to explode. It doesn't hurt, as plums can't feel pain. It does cause the rest of my knee/jelly doughnut some discomfort. The plum has been there for about five days. I am kind of starting to hate it. It hangs out at the flexion point of about 30 degrees* which means it pops up when I bend my leg to walk. Evan, my physical therapist, is trying to get me to correct my gait so I walk like a normal person and not like a peg-legged pirate. The plum is blocking my knee from bending which in turn prevents me from having a normal gait. I am afraid if I bend my knee too much, plum sauce will explode all over the gym. I imagine taking a kitchen towel and cleaning it up, as if it were a sweet sauce instead of the inside of my knee.

Yesterday when I was riding the stationary bike (not to be confused with "biking" which means ride a bike on a real road outside), my knee popped and I thought the plum had defeated my jelly doughnut, and broke free from its oppression. I kind of freaked out and thought "This can't be good." I feared the plum might have taken out the screws that were holding my new ACL in place.

I texted Jack who was out skiing with the kids. He replied if I pulled out the screws, I'd be in pain. He said if I did tear something, I'd like be unstable. So far, none of that has happened. Riding a stationary bike is supposed to be safe and beneficial. Moving my knee is theoretically supposed to shrink the plum to perhaps the size of a grape or get rid of it all together. But I am always aware of the freak accident and the things that happen outside of the norm.

Looking at the bleak side, it would be incredibly depressing to mess up my knee four weeks after the surgery. Recovering from an ACL repair is a long slog. Do I want to be left home alone every weekend in the winter for the next five years while Jack and the kids ski? I want my knee fixed not so much because I want to ski; rather, I don't want to be left home alone because I am an invalid. I'd like to have the chance to join them. I have one friend who has had two ACL repairs that were almost two decades apart. She was glad enough she had the first one fixed to go through it again to have the second one fixed. She completely knew what she was getting into with the second one. Not many people (thank god!) would have that experience. Nevertheless, I just want to move forward in all of this, not backwards.

* I am making a wild guess here.

+ + + + 

Twenty-nine is now my least favorite number. I used to not think much of twenty-nine before, it was just sort of there--nothing special, noting bad. Charlie, my kindergarten friend, used to ask our teacher, Mrs. Newkirk, how old she was.

"Twenty-nine and holding," she'd say. That was my first experience with twenty-nine. It is a good age, perhaps the perfect age.

Now I hate it. I have to do three reps of thirty legs lifts several times a day as part of my physical therapy. I can do an infinite number of leg lifts when I don't count. "But how do you know how many you can do if you don't count?" you ask. Trust me--I know. I was once doing leg lifts while watching The Bletchley Circle and I did legs lifts for ten minutes. If it takes three seconds per leg lift, that is about two hundred leg lifts. Even if I were to slack off and take five seconds a leg lift, that would be 120 leg lifts.

The problem is when I get to twenty-nine. There is something psychologically awful about it, and my leg gets tired thinking about it. It knows it is close to the end of the line, but not quite. Please stop, my leg says. I do one more, and rest for about ten seconds and start on my second rep. When I start with "one," my leg is perfectly happy when twelve seconds prior it was having a cow. Seriously leg? Are you a toddler or a dog that can so easily be tricked? What's up?

I remember when the Boy was just over a year old. He was complaining he wanted two cookies when he already had one. Jack and I were trying to explain to him that he could only have one when Claire Adele came up, took the cookie out of his hand, broke it in two, and gave it back to him. Problem solved. He toddled happily away. Jack and I were dumbfounded.

"He wanted one for each hand," Claire Adele, then four years old, said.

My leg is like the Boy when he was one. The same cookie broken in half made him happier than when it was whole. Using the same bad logic, the twenty-ninth leg lift doesn't bother my left leg when she don't know it is the twenty-ninth leg lift. Logic fails when emotions are involved.

I told Claire Adele about my problem and how I dislike twenty-nine.

"Trying counting backwards," she said. "Or in French. When I have to keep track something I don't like, I count in Japanese."

Of course. I should have asked her first.

Staying Home, PNB and Member of the Club, Part 2

Since my injury and the subsequent surgery, I haven't been getting out much. Here are things I've missed recently due to my injury:

• The Washington State Democratic Caucus. Glad I missed this one. Jack stood in line for two hours before he got in the middle school where the caucus was held. My left knee would have been furious. She might have gotten up and left after putting up with that abuse.
• Political Rally with Claire Adele. My daughter wanted to attend a political rally this week with one of the Presidential candidates. I didn't want to go (see "Annoying Knee") and Jack was on call. The rally was on the other side of town on a school night. She could have taken the light rail down there, but I didn't want her trying to take the train back home at 10:00 at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood. The trade off was listening to her mope half the night. She was asleep before the main speaker took the stage. Clare Adele would not have made it inside the venue anyway. I had a friend who got there four hours ahead of time and didn't get in.
• The Cool Jazz Hot Java concert at the Paramount Theatre. Jack and the Boy went. I didn't want to sit still that long.
• Rocket Launches. The Boy is in Rocketry Club, and I've missed all of the launches so far. One of the members of my PT team recommended not hanging out in a muddy field for hours. 

I did make it to my son's band concert this week. Yay! I ran into a bunch of friends. It was good to get out and be social. One friend asked she could come over. Seriously. Asking a borderline shut-in if she'd like company is a no-brainer. Right now, my best friend is my dog, bless his little heart. (No offense to my human friends.) I wonder if I'd get out more if I didn't have a dog. Would I just be so fed up with hanging out alone that I'd get out? Maybe.

Jack and I got out again last night. We went to the Pacific Northwest Ballet. We had been to the dress rehearsal last week. I am not that much of a shut-in, but thank god for ballet otherwise I might not have an excuse to leave the house ever. I wore my brace and crutch as my insurance policy against the crowds. Crowds actually have a dance and rhythm all of their own. You don't notice it until you can't play along with everyone else, and you stand out. My daughter's high school newspaper had an article about this phenomena. They did an experiment where girls walked down the hall and did not change their trajectory. Usually, girls move out of the way of boys passing in the halls. Boys barrel down the halls like they own the place. No one sees the dance until they tried to change it. Wearing a brace and crutch changes the dance. Not being able to move about freely also changes the dance.

Jack and I got there early so we got a glass of wine and sat down. Three women and a guy were sitting next to us, and we could hear their conversation. The three women were friends from a dance class. They looked at me with my brace and crutch. It was hard not to notice. They sort of looked at my like I was some scary thing they wanted to ward away, as if knee injuries were contagious. I heard them talk about their knees aching, arthritis, and not wanting surgery. One of the women said her daughter had surgery, but we never found out what kind. The other women wouldn't let her finish her story. I am sure they didn't want to hear about torn ACLs, bad ankles, or other maladies.

I settled into the show. Before it started, I took off my brace so I could stretch my leg more. I loved "Little mortal jump" by Alejandro Cerrudo. He is a choreographer from Hubbard Street Dance Chicago. My friend Cork used to work at Hubbard Street, and we used to get tickets to their shows. Seeing this reminded me of my old life back in Chicago.

As I was watching last night, I began to take an inventory of steps I could or could not do, based on my current condition, not based on how well I could do them normally.

• Stand on my right leg with my left leg in the air: Sure.
• Walk across the stage: More or less, as long they didn't want me there by any specific time
• Jog: Nope
• Turn: Nope
• Leap: Nope
• Walk in slow motion: Sure.
• Jump off the stage into the orchestra pit: Hell no.

Soon enough, I started watching James Moore and forgot about my inventory. Moore is the best contemporary dancer at PNB. He makes it look so effortless, as if he doesn't have to concentrate or strain as he moves. He is like Baryshnikov where I was too busy watching him and not anyone else on the stage. Other dancers look as if they are trying to remember an upcoming sequence or recall an instruction from the director. Dancing looks as if it just flows out of James, no effort required. You can tell he is working hard, though, because he sweats like a pig, bless his heart. To be clear, James does not resemble a pig in any other way. PNB went to New York in 2013 and The New York Times called Moore "hunky." The official paper of record for the U.S. said James Moore is hot. I cannot argue.

At the intermission, Jack and I headed to the lobby, me without my brace. I was going to brave the crowd with just a crutch. People looked at me and whisper "surgery," "arthritis," and "knee pain," trying to avoid my glance. I was mildly paranoid, thinking I was freaking everyone here out.

When we got to the lobby, I saw I woman with two crutches, a leg brace and a bandage around her knee. She was standing by herself. I went up and said hi.

"You only have one crutch!" she said.

"I tore my ACL," I said.

"Me too!" she said. Another member of the club.

"I am four weeks out of my surgery," I said. I wasn't sure I wanted to tell her. What if she were six weeks out? Would I make her feel bad? There is nothing worse than competitive recovery.

"I had my surgery Tuesday," she said. "I am not supposed to be here."

Wow. She was getting out and about, far more than I was. I was impressed.

"Heal well!" she said. "Heal well!" She tried to give me a fist bump, but I had to hobble close enough to her. She was looking a little bleary and wobbled a bit when I realized she was probably still on the oxycodone. But at least she was out. On second thought, maybe the oxycodone is what helped her get out. Not that I want to go back on the oxy, but maybe I would if it improved my social life.

Dreams

In physical therapy, my goals are to return my extension (straightening of the leg) and flexion (bending of the leg) close to my healthy leg. I went into PT Friday morning. I initially had figured that morning appointments might be better since my leg would be theoretically fresh. In the afternoon, my leg is tired from being up and about. I was wrong. I woke up and I was stiff. When I sleep, my leg bends. When I went in PT, my extension was horrid. I told Evan about bending my leg while I sleep, and he said to keep it straight when I sleep.

"How can I do that?" I asked.  "I am asleep and I don't know I am bending it."

"It is really hard for people to change the position of how they sleep," he said. "When you wake up in the middle of the night, make sure it is straight."

Last night, I was thinking about keeping my leg straight. Every time I woke up, I adjusted the position of my leg. Keeping my leg straight became part of my dreams. I dreamt I was visiting a distant corner of the earth, and we had to fly to get from one place to another. Instead of being a usual airline where you have to get folded up like an accordion to fit into the seats, this airline required me to keep my leg straight. Egads.

Member of the Club and Sadness

In the past two days, I've met four people who have torn their ACL. Two people I mentioned in my previous post. The third was a guy carrying out my groceries at Trader Joe's. The fourth is a friend who tore her ACL a few weeks ago. Hers is more complicated than mine. She doesn't have a complete tear, which puts her in limbo as to whether or not to have surgery. We talked on the phone this week about the challenges of recovering from the surgery. It was interesting to ponder--especially at this stage of not being fully recovered--if I would recommend to someone else to have the surgery. I guess the best answer is "I don't know yet." On the other hand, this club is pretty large as I am discovering. Everyone I've me seems to have come out of this fine, or at least close enough to where they were to start. I have one friend who said her knee is not the same, but it is good enough.

I was at PT yesterday and was talking to another patient next to me with an ankle injury. At the end of my appointment, I saw him laying there with his foot propped up and his ankle bagged in ice. Yesterday was a day of super fit people working out, probably working on the end of the physical therapy term of treatment instead of being in the acute phase like me. Seeing someone iced up really stood out to me. I felt sorry for him, wondering what happened to him, thinking How unfortunate. Then I realized I was in the same spot only with ice on my knee. 

He hurt his ankle plain basketball. He was probably in his thirties, and would get back to playing basketball again. This made me think about my mom, and I became the Debbie Downer of the PT room.

Sadness from the Pixar movie "Inside Out."

My dad told me my mom was recently moved to a wheelchair in her Memory Care Unit where she gets treatment for her Alzheimer's. She has a difficult time walking due to spinal stenosis, which is problem with spine. She did go through physical therapy, and they did evaluations. My mom can walk when she takes bigger strides, but she can't remember that how she is supposed to walk, making this not very effective. My dad is glad she is in a wheelchair so she doesn't fall. If she fell, I could see that being a disaster, especially if she broke her hip. She would have a difficult time coping with injury. My biggest fear is that her legs will atrophy and then walking would be completely out of the question. I thought of how atrophied my left leg became after I didn't use it for three weeks, and how hard I had to work to get it to function again. I hesitate to say back into shape, because it wasn't even close to being able to go downstairs on my bad leg, walk for long distances, or jog.

Oy. I at least feel glad that the goal of my therapy is to get me back to skiing again eventually. I feel bad for my mom, whose condition right now doesn't permit her to recover back to a point where she previously was.

Maybe I am wrong about my mom's decline. Maybe it won't be as bad as I think it might be. Maybe the reason my leg atrophied so fast was because of the injury more than the lack of use. Evan said my quads stopped firing in part of protect my wounded knee. I asked my dad if my mom will need someone to push her or if she could get around in the wheel chair by herself.

"The people in wheelchairs move around like ducks," he said. "They paddle along with their feet and slowly move their wheelchairs forward." He laughed. There is one part near the dining room that has a low wall. "You can see their heads gliding along."

Nest

Back in a writing class years ago, we were asked to jot down on a piece of paper what our private obsession, not what we were writing about in class. I can't remember what I said, but I do remember what I wanted to say but didn't: money. I don't consider myself greedy or materialistic, but I like to have my money in order. I like to track how much interest I am paying on my mortgage. I save money so I don't need to borrow when it comes time to buy a new car or get a house repair. I make sure my extra money is well invested. Before we bought a house, I went to the library and checked out a handful of books on getting a mortgage. After we got a house, I read a dozen books on investing. Andrew Tobias is my favorite financial planning writer and I love his The Only Investment Guide You'll Ever Need. (He also wrote the memoir, The Best Little Boy in the World, about growing up gay. I read it in college, but then it was under Tobias' pseudonym, John Reid.)

I am reading novel Nest by Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney. I read some great reviews about it, and since I am reading a ton lately, I though I'd get it. This is a book about money and family, and so far I love it. The four siblings were set to inherit a modest sum when the youngest turns forty. One daughter is banking on this money to fund her kids' college educations. Another hopes to use the windfall to spare his flailing business. A crisis arises and the money is in jeopardy. What are these people to do when then money they had been hoping for disappears?

Money is intimate. People don't talk about to their friends, neighbors, kids and other family members about how much money they make or the overall picture of their financial situation. I think some people would rather talk publicly about their sex life instead of announce the balance of their checking account.

Why hasn't anyone written a novel about money before? I am not talking about Jane Austen discussing Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley's fortune, nor the poverty of Oliver Twist in Dickens. What about the modern middle ground? This book seems to fit the gap. I am curious how it turns out.

Cozy?

Bike Time: 20 minutes !!!
Distance: 2.79 miles

Today I rode twenty minutes on a stationary bike at the YMCA. It was a miracle I rode so long and with such not crappy form. I was able to get moving easily and my toes were not pointed down to the center of the earth as if the world depended on it. I didn't twerk my hips (twerk here meaning a cross between twist and jerk), either.

I went to the YMCA right around lunch time, and crossed paths with a young woman. The cardio room was busy, and three of the five bikes were being used. I snuck in between two people, and took my brace off. As I got on the bike, the young woman looked at me and said, "Knee surgery?"

"Yes," I said. "ACL repair."

"I am eight months out," she said. She looked like she was in her early twenties. She was clipping away on the bike next to me. I never would have guessed she had been injured. She was wearing shorts, but I didn't notice a Frankenleg.

We sat and talked about recovery. It makes me wonder how alcoholics do it, discuss their recovery. I guess that is why they have meetings. With an ACL repair, you don't need meetings. I wear my brace in public, and those who have been initiated tell me their stories and offer commiseration. I was shopping for fabric early this week with my friend Fiona. We stopped in Designer Fabric Liquidation* and the guy at the store told me about how he tore his ACL years ago in Vail.

"I was skiing in the back country with a member of the US National Team," he said. "I wanted to impress her and try to keep up. There were lots of bumps and I crashed. The best part was the Ski Patrol who picked me up was absolutely gorgeous! I kept looking up at him from the sled as he carried me up the hill and then back down to the main mountain." Fiona and I laughed.

"I think my Ski Patrol team were just regular people. No Ski God carried me down the mountain," I said.

"I never saw him again," he said, trying to make me feel better about the average looking team who helped me out. 

Back at the YMCA on the bike, the woman I continued to chat. She asked me how my physical therapy was going. I asked where she had her PT, and I told her about mine. I said I was grateful that my PT team was connected with my surgeon and vice versa. Sharing information between the two was not an issue, and there was a connected responsibility.

"I have a friend with a torn ACL whose physical therapist is one of her friends," I said. "I am not sure that would work for me. Your PT has to kick you in the butt and get you to do things you don't want to do. I am not sure a friend would be able to do that."

The woman opened her eyes super wide. "I had to switch physical therapists after six months," she said. "I had been seeing this person twice a week for six months. We got to know each other and became friends. And then the same thing you are taking about happened. My PT stopped giving me new things to do, and didn't adjust my program."

"Did you get too cozy?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said. "I needed someone who wasn't so close to the situation to step back and change directions."

"I can see how that can happen. One minute you are talking about your leg, and the next about your dog and kids." Part of the chatter is to distract the patient from the discomfort, but over the course of weeks, the conversation continues from appointment to appointment. In some ways, this makes PT more bearable -- you get to talk to someone who knows you. The same person can also measure and notice your progress from session to session which is good. They can also see your lack of progress from one session to the next, which is not so good.

"How did you sleep?" I asked.

"Sleeping pills for two months," she said.

We carried on like this for twenty minutes. The riding came easy today, and the conversation kept me going beyond my ten minutes.

"You look great," I said. I was impressed with her stories of her six mile runs. She wasn't back to her main sport, soccer, because of the stopping and cutting, but she was in good shape.

"You look great, too," she said.

I went out and rewarded myself for a twenty minute bike ride with a bowl of pho for lunch.

* The name of this store makes sounds like it would be in a giant ugly warehouse with dim lighting. In fact, it is a super cute shop on Stone Way that sells upholstery fabric.

Mirror, Mirror, in the Hall

At my PT appointment Tuesday, I was a cranky old bat, whining and moaning about my aches and pains. I felt sorry for Evan, my physical therapist, for having to listen to me bellyache. On the other hand, if I was lithe, lively and spry, I wouldn't be in physical therapy. He knows the drill: you are supposed to hate your physical therapist and they are supposed to cause you pain. If they aren't causing discomfort, they aren't doing their job. Nevertheless, I feel there is somewhere in the patient job description that I should be stoic and uncomplaining. According to the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer, the root word for "patient" and "patience" is "suffering." According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary on my phone, the definition of "patient" means "bearing pains or trials calmly without complaint." Perhaps I should call myself a client instead, which just means I am paying for a service. Does that give me permission to roll my eyes like a teenage girl when he asks me to ride the stationary bike and then corrects my crappy form?

"You need to watch the angle of your ankle as you go around," Evan said. "And you are twisting your hip."

I think, I know my form is abysmal. Thanks to a childhood of dance, I am painfully aware of how my body looks as it moves through space, even though my dancer's body started to leave when I got a job after college in cubicle land. Any hidden vestiges of that life completely left after my son was born. But I am not thinking about how I look. I am thinking about how I feel. I feel like a small plum is going to pop out of my knee each time it goes around, but I am going around anyway.

I don't say that. Instead, I grunt and roll my eyes like the teenager and pre-teen who live in my home.

This day was the day of the bombing in Brussels, and the footage was playing on CNN in the rehab room. Usually, the television is turned to a sports channel. I think the television is used as a distraction so people can tune into a sports game and tune out their body aches. While CNN is on, Wolf Blitzer interviews an expert on the use of torture with terrorists. While I complain about being tortured, I am not in fact being truly tortured as defined by the Geneva Convention. I freely walked into the sports medicine clinic, and I could leave at any time. The people who work here are kind, and they are doing this for my benefit, not theirs. The goal is to improve my dignity, not take it away.

But then Evan and I walk to one of the weight machines.

"You are walking with your leg straight," he said. "You need to bend it when you walk. You want to walk so that people don't think there is something wrong with your leg."

Fuck. I should have warned him I am high maintenance and sensitive. My imprinting was such that I was trained to be graceful, or at least to try to appear to be graceful. I really don't care how fast I ski--looking good while doing it is more important to me than being the first to the bottom of the hill. So here I am, having to learn to walk properly. Walk.

"I suppose all dancers have to learn to walk at some point," I said. I've seen dancers walk across the stage, and there must be a dozen different ways to do it. I channel some inner patience until he bring out the mirror and makes me look at myself as I walk forward.

I crumple and whine and thrown a mini-tantrum. "No, don't make me do this." I was more patient when he was bending my unbending knee ten minutes earlier. Mirrors were a major part of my childhood. Every dance class I took had mirrors on the walls, as do most yoga classes. I remember one awesome experience where I took a ballet class at my health club in Chicago. I was in my twenties, and three of us had to leap across the room. I was in the lead, and the other two flanked behind me like geese in a vee. We all leapt in unison at the same height. We were all wowed by our coordination. It triggered some happy endorphins for all of us, as we were in the flow or zone or whatever people call a transcendent athletic experience.

Watching myself in the mirror walking was the opposite of that experience. In fairness to me, Evan had only told me four days before that I could unlock the brace and walk without it. In fairness to Evan, it is his job to kick my butt. The mirror doesn't lie. It doesn't say or do anything, but it was the worst form of torture I had that day, worse than riding the bike. It can make me miserable, for now.

Sleeping: Brace or no Brace?

Bike Time: 10 minutes barely
Distance:  I was going too slow for the bike to turn on to measure

I wish I were napping right now. It is 4:25 in the afternoon. The Boy should be home from a friend's house at 5:00, and Clare Adele should be home from track practice around the same time. I don't see the "value add" of napping right now. As soon as I'd nod off, I'd have to wake up, and what is the point of that? Or, I might fall asleep and not wake until 8:00 p.m..  I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep later tonight, and that would be bad.

I love to sleep. It is one of my favorite pastimes. When I was a kid, I would volunteer to go to sleep at night when I got tired. My parents must have been spoiled to have a kid who would go to bed without a fuss, who would want to go to bed.

I still love to sleep. Part of the reason I love to sleep is because I have a low tolerance for caffeine, especially in coffee. I turn into a squirrel when I drink non-decaf. Most people think I am exaggerating when I say I can't drink coffee because I get too hyper. I went to brunch with a friend and ordered a regular mocha. Normally, I am a fast talker. On caffeine, I am a rabbit. My friend said she would never let me drink regular coffee again. My favorite story though I went I drank coffee when I had the flu. I went to the coffee shop around the corner from my house and ordered a split shot mocha. I came home and was doing the laundry and dancing in the kitchen while I did the dishes. This is the best flu I've ever had. I feel great! And then the caffeine wore off about six hours later and I crashed. Hard.

Sleep post-surgery has been a challenge. I've been so tired at times I crash into sleep and nothing can wake me. Other times, every little twinge in my knee would wake me up. I discovered recently that I rotate in my sleep, starting on life left side, flipping to my back, then the right side, then my belly then starting all over again. Normally, this does not cause a problem, especially since I never noticed or cared how I slept before. Now, how I sleep determines if I sleep.

I have been floating back and forth between sleeping with the brace and without the brace, and I've made some interesting discoveries.

1. In the first few days after the surgery, I thought the brace was giving me grief when I slept and I hated it. Looking back, the real problem was my knee being stiff, sore and tender versus the brace being the problem. It was easier to blame the brace than my post-op knee.
2. I would sleep with the cryo-cuff ice bag, and that wasn't much better. It would slip down and not pad my knee, or it would pad my knee too much in different positions, such as when I slept on my stomach.
3. Bending me knee hurts when I sleep. I'll bend it and I'll be fine, and then a bit later it will get stiff, start to ache, then wake me up.
4. The brace is fine for my injured leg, but it scratches and bugs my non-injured leg. 

One night I slept with the ice cuff and without the brace. The next morning, the ice cuff was warm, and my usually swollen knee looked so beautifully tiny. The downside was I was up very two hours every time I shift in my sleep and my knee and the brace had to remind a comfortable place. A few nights ago, I decided to sleep without the ice cuff and without the brace. My right (non-injured leg) liked spooning and cuddling with my injured leg instead of feeling the brace's hard plastic and scratchy velcro tabs. Again, I was up every few hours when my knee would get achy from being bent. Last night, I tried again going to bed with the ice cuff, but switched to the brace in the middle of the night.

There probably is no right way for me to sleep until I settle into a better recovery period from the surgery. In the meantime it is trial and error, and giving in to the will to nap.

Ibuprofen

Bike Time: 10 minutes

Distance: Going too slow for bike to measure

After the surgery, I was supposed to take 600 mg of ibuprofen three times a day for the first three weeks after the surgery. Last Friday on schedule, I stopped taking it three times a day. I started biking ten minutes a day on Friday, so I decided to take one ibuprofen before I began my exercising. I didn't know how much ibuprofen helped me until I stopped taking it. Unlike Oxycodone, ibuprofen doesn't have any obvious side effects like drowsiness, a mild buzz or withdrawal. You can drive while talking ibuprofen, unlike oxycodone which is a narcotic. The long-term effects of taking ibuprofen aren't great, though. It can cause stomach problems and decrease healthy inflammation. Plus, you can't drink while taking ibuprofen on a regular basis.

Life has not been good since I limited the ibuprofen. At first, I thought my discomfort was caused by the biking, that I was now having to move in more vigorous and thoughtful ways, ways that would cause me a fair amount of discomfort. Today, I figured out the ibuprofen link when the rest of my body started to ache. My right foot was sore for no apparent reason. My right knee was giving me grief and my shoulders were complaining. I felt like I had just done some serious rock climbing, but in a race instead of at a leisurely pace. I was having a harder time sleeping because little aches would wake me up. All around, it was unpleasant.

Today, I didn't take any ibuprofen at all. I was biking at the YMCA. All of the bikes and cardio equipment are crammed into the same small room. At the university sports center, I found a bike that is off to the side, not close to other riders. I know that bike isn't invisible, but it is not in the center of all of the action. I am kind of hidden. At the Y today, two women were on the elliptical machines behind me while I was biking. I hobbled in with one crutch and then took off the brace and got on the bike. I do not look pretty or happy when I ride the bike. I am slow and cumbersome and my head and shoulders twitch like I am having mild electroshock therapy. As mentioned in a previous post, my form is horrid. 

Midway through my ride, one of the women on the elliptical finished her ride. She came up and said, "Good job! You are really working so hard! It is great you are here. Keep up the good work!" She was so sweet and kind to say that, but man, I must have looked awful. Until I look moderately graceful, I'll need to take ibuprofen before I go work out.

Balls

The Boy and Jack at times seems to have a dreadful time getting along. The Boy will be thirteen in one month, and many cultures honor that time as a passage to manhood. I suppose there was a time before the birthday for fathers and sons to have forced time together learning how to hunt buffalo, shoe a horse or learn ancient Hebrew texts. What happens in modern society, where my husband's skills will not match my son's? Jack can't bring The Boy into the hospital and teach him how to be a doctor, nor can Jack program a robot, design rockets and buy the fuel, or teach him secret soccer skills. What happens when we as parents are supposed to nurture our kids' interests when they are so different from our own?

There is only so much a mother can do to be a male role model. I get there are millions of single moms and thousands of two mom families raising boys. Bless their hearts. Maybe they have an easier time without two alpha males living under the same roof, two males who are constantly thumping their chests. Because The Boy lives in this house, he needs his dad. What he needs his dad for is a large and looming question.

What can the Boy and Jack do to bond? It is not for me to decide, but them. The Boy plays soccer. Jack doesn't. Jack swims and runs. The Boy doesn't. They both ski, which is good, but that is only a seasonal activity. The Boy is getting faster, taller, bigger, stronger, while Jack's knees are wearing out. Jack can't keep up with the Boy on the slopes as well as he used to. The Boy is moody and grumpy and a pain in the ass at times, but I'd be grumpy too if I grew a half an inch taller in a few weeks. Jack's tolerance for this sassy attitude is low. How can two male cheetah's survive in the same cage? They don't.

Thank god for the NCAA basketball tournament. Just in time for the Boy's growth spurt and turning into a teen, Jack and the Boy have something to discuss that doesn't place me in the middle. They read the sports page, search the internet for scores and watch the games. They both saw the buzzer beater three point shot of Northern Iowa over Texas. (I was there, reading my book while the game was on, and only saw the replay.) They discuss Hawaii and Michigan State. There is no argument, no fighting, no posturing. Just basketball. In the spring, it might be baseball, in the summer the Sounders, and in the fall, the Seahawks.

I never quite understood the point of people watching highly paid athletes perform when the average Joe could just as easily be out getting exercise, but now I get it. It gives the pack of alpha males, whether father and son, neighbors or co-workers, a chance to root for the same team, to be on the same side, even when in so many other areas they are competing.

Optimista!

Bike Time: 12 minutes (2 minute warm-up, 10 minutes of forward motion)

Distance: 1.04 miles

I was feeling brutally down today after slogging on the bike today. I've been getting kind of down about the fact that I have been more or less house bound, and getting out and about makes me tired.

I was driving the Boy to indoor soccer. At the game, I found a safe spot to sit where I could both prop up and stretch out my leg. I settled down before the game started, and figured the rest of the families would file in around me. Instead, they stayed by the restaurant/bar and watched from there. I ended up sitting by myself, partly watching the game and partly doing a crossword puzzle. I didn't really want to socialize because I didn't want to talk about my knee. 

After the game, I ran into a friend and I had a burst of optimism. I am three weeks out from the surgery. For some reason, the three week milestone. Then it came to me: I am much better off three weeks after the surgery than I was three weeks after my initial injury. 

I thought about my injury: three weeks after the injury is when I started physical therapy. At that point, my thigh had atrophied so much I couldn't flex my quadricep. I remember Evan asking me to flex my thigh, and I had no idea what to do. I tried, and nothing happened. He had to hook my up to a TENS machine that zapped my thigh to get it to move. It was depressing.

Here I am three weeks after surgery, and I am riding a bike! I can flex my quads, no problem, and I can do ninety leg lifts. While this isn't something to look forward to, I can mark it up as an accomplishment, which is just as uplifting.

Post-Op Week Three and TOMRV Flashbacks

Bike Time: 21 minutes (11 minute warm-up, 10 minutes of forward motion)

Distance: 1.13 miles

I might start out all future entries like Bridget in Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones' Diary. She starts her journal entries with her weight, calories consumed and alcohol units imbibed. Instead, I'll list the time and distances I've spent on a stationary bike. I have no desire to list my weight. I know I've gained weight since my accident, and I don't want it quantified. I was at lunch with my friend Eleanor who is psychologically incapable of lying. I said I think I gained fifteen pounds, and she said, "Why of course you have!" I am still eating the same amount of food I used to and I have the same appetite, but my activity level is way less even though it feels like ten times the effort to do activities of daily living. Going to the grocery store feels like climbing Little Si, minus the endorphin rush from exercise, a serotonin boost from the view and a sense of accomplishment.

Speaking of simple physical activities, yesterday at physical therapy, I made it all the way around on the stationary bike. Turning the crank all 360 degrees was a major accomplishment, even if I was doing it backwards. I am supposed to ride the exercise bike for ten minutes a day, even if I don't make it all the way around and just swish back and forth. I am supposed to have zero resistance so I don't damage my repaired knee. I will eventually work my way up to 45 minutes, and then increase the resistance.

Yesterday afternoon, Jack and I went to the university's athletic center, and signed me up for a quarterly membership. I feel like I am cheating on the University YMCA, but I was going to die if I had to go there and look out of the cardio room at the same three beige houses again that are across the street. At the Intramural Activity Center (IMA), Jack found me a quiet bike in a corner that overlooks Lake Washington, the sports fields and Laurelhurst. This is infinitely better. I read an article that looking at trees improves healing. I'll buy it.

Today, I went to the IMA and was rocking back and forth on the bike. After about three minutes, I was able to spin around backwards. I figured out if I pointed my toe down, I wouldn't have to bend my knee as much and I could still get around. This is crappy form if you are a real cyclist or are riding on a road. I did it anyway. 

After spinning backwards for awhile, I decided to try going forward. I don't know why going forward was so much harder than going backward, but it was. Finally, I made it over the top of the curve! Yay! And then I had to do it again. Boo. I was going so slowly the bike was registering that I was taking a "pause" from working out. Really, LifeCycle? I am trying my hardest here. 

After the first few circles, I had a feeling of deja vu. Back in the 1990's, Jack and I did the TOMRV, or the Tour of the Mississippi River Valley. It is a two day bike ride -- 106 miles out the first day and then 76 miles back the second day when we did it. I managed the first day just fine. The second day was harder. I was at about 70 some-odd miles, when I turned a corner and saw a three mile stretch that was all uphill. I could have looked at it and said, "On the bright side, there is probably a three mile downhill on the other side," but my optimism had left me at mile 25 when I fell over on a killer hill trying to change gears. My bike didn't want to shift, my chain fell off, and I hit the ground. I was pissed. About twenty miles later when I saw that three mile grind, I said forget it. My butt had been in the saddle for a total of 175 miles in two days. My legs felt like they were going to rebel if my brain made them go up that hill. My brain found my legs useful and didn't want them to leave me. I am done, I thought.

Today on the bike, I felt like I did at the end of the second day of the TOMRV looking at that three mile hill. I was pooped and I wanted to get sagged* in like I did twenty plus years ago. Except this time, I was at the beginning of the ride, not at the end. Unlike at the end of the TOMRV, I kept going. I had no choice. I plugged away for ten minutes. I started to feel better, but I was ready to end when the timer rolled around to 9:58 on the bike. Before the surgery, I was riding 50 minute a day, and going between 10 and 12 miles. (Before the accident, I could ride from the U District to the Redhook Ale Brewery in Woodinville and back. I am trying not to think about that, but maybe I should. I suppose Lindsey Vonn didn't forget about her Olympic victories while she was recovering from her torn ACL.) Today, it took about ten minutes to warm up to ride 1.31 miles in ten minutes. In the warm up, the bike didn't keep time. I kept looking at my watch to check the time, but it didn't register. I didn't want to admit that what felt like an epic journey was only three minutes. I knew how long I biked because Jack jogged while I rode, and he tracked the time.

It felt good to move my legs. After the IMA, Jack and I went to the grocery store. I hopped around and picked up a few things while he did the main shopping. What should have been a modest adventure wiped me out for the rest of the afternoon and I napped. 

With this injury, I haven't had much to look forward to. My dad said that life is easiest when you have something to look forward to, like a vacation or event. But I am looking forward to getting back on the bike tomorrow.

* "Sagged in" means the cars and vans that support the ride drive around and pick up tired and injured bikers and people with bike problems. They picked me and my bike up and drove me to the finish line.

Solitary Adventures

I have been reading a ton of books lately. It has gotten to the point where I am almost sick of reading, which sounds almost impossible. I am not sick of reading, I am sick of finding good and interesting things to read. I could re-read all of my favorite old books, which I am starting to do. The other day I re-read The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver. "The other day?" you think. Yes, I read the book in a little over twenty four hours. It was really good. Again. I think I last read it in the 1990's. It is worth a re-read.

Before the surgery, I read three books and one article that all had one thing in common: they were describing solo adventures of middle aged people. I didn't seek out this theme, yet it greatly resonates with where I am now. My family and friends are around during my ACL injury, surgery and recovery, but I am going through this more or less alone.

• Raising the Barre by Lauren Kessler
• The Martian by Andy Weir
• Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson
• "Holding the T: My Life in Squash" by Tad Friend in the New Yorker

In Raising the Barre: Big Dreams, False Starts & My Midlife Quest to Dance the Nutcracker, Lauren Kessler decides she wants to dance in the Nutcracker, even though she has kids in college. She is a major Nutcracker fan, and gets the director of the Eugene Ballet Company to agree to let her have a part. She danced as a child, but not really since then. The main theme is about being a beginner in middle age. I loved this book since I harbor the same fantasy. I saw it three times at Third Place Books but couldn't bring myself to buy it right away. Once I got it, I blasted through it.

In The Martian, Mark Watney is stranded on Mars and had to figure out how to survive. The NASA folks on earth and the team en route back to earth need to figure out how to get back to Mars to save him. "Duct tape is the best stuff in the universe. It should be worshipped."

In "Holding the T," Tad Friend talks about his hobby of playing competitive squash and how he copes as he ages. It is really funny. "[Squash] looks like tennis at triple speed, and feels like heroin without the needles and the nodding off and the vomiting afterward, except when you vomit afterward."

In Notes from a Small Island, Bill Bryson plans to return to his native US, but first he goes on a tour of England where he had lived for the previous twenty years. It is a travel book, and Bryson travels alone. I love Bill Bryson, but this is not my favorite of his books, like A Walk in the Woods, 1927, or The Adventures of the Thunderbolt Kid. It is one of his first books, so I will cut him some slack. He still is uber funny, and I would crack up in the YMCA on the stationary bike, tears running down my face from laughter. That is an awesome feeling. As the book wore on, I was tired of reading about people being alone. He really needed a side-kick or friend. You could tell as he continued his journey that was was getting lonely. Thank god he got Katz to go with him in A Walk in the Woods. Maybe his wife said his books needed another character, but "please don't let it be me."

It was on accident that I picked up all of these books and articles of solitary adventures and I read them all in a row. I was kind of depressed at the end in a way, maybe because I read Bryson last and most people who travel travel with others. And yet, life sometimes is about solitary adventures, even if we don't want to have them. Watney didn't want to be stranded on Mars. Others we choose: Lauren Kessler made a huge effort to have something like two minutes on stage. Tad Friend spent his whole life playing squash, and now it was changing after he turned fifty.

My solitary adventure is more like Mark Watney's: I didn't choose it, but I have to make the best of what has been thrown my way. I kind of wish this all could have been easily fixed with duct tape, but alacks and alas, here I am, doing hundreds of leg lifts a day just so I can get back to walking with a normal gait.

A Tortoise in Hare Land

I went to the luncheon yesterday. It was good to get out of the house, but then once I was out of the house, I felt like I didn't have much to say. I know what you are thinking: Lauren, you not have much to say? Please. I felt like I was a kid who finally got to sit at the grown-up table after weeks of begging, and when I got there everyone there spoke another language. This has nothing to do with the people who were there with me. It was me--I had a hard time making small talk when my main focus for the past three months has been my knee, Netflix and jigsaw puzzles.

Me: Hey, did you see the New York Times crossword puzzle last Sunday? Super clever with the Shakespeare theme on the 400th anniversary of his death!

Normal Person: Um, no, I was out biking because it was gorgeous outside.

Actually, I can't remember the weather Sunday because I was inside all day. It might have been nice. It might have been terrible. Oh wait. It was super terrible. We had a massive windstorm and our power was out for 15 hours. Clare Adele had a piano lesson by flashlight.

Me: Our power went out last Sunday for 15 hours.  I had to dig up a bunch of candles and find the flashlights before it got dark. Thank goodness for Daylight Savings Time! You?

Normal Person: Oh yeah. I forget about that. Where is the bathroom?

Me: My daughter used to really be into painting her nails, and has thirty bottles of nail polish. I've been painting my nails a different color every few days. Last week, I painted them a green that looked like Daiquiri Ice ice cream. This pink looks like Marilyn Monroe's dress from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I had to watch it three times in college for a paper for film class. my roommate wanted to kill me because I kept singing "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend."*

Normal Person: [Left at "thirty bottles of nail polish.]

I am an intellectual tortoise in hare-land. I was at the dentist today, and fortunately the opportunities for conversation are limited when my teeth were being cleaned. I avoided having to bore anyone with my completely uninteresting life. One of the assistants there had torn his ACL. He commented that I was in good spirits.

"I was really depressed," he said.

"You are seeing me out and about," I said. "I am glad not to be at home." I don't dislike the dentist, but I usually view it as more of a chore. Today it was my big adventure. He knew what I was talking about. His comment also gave me a good perspective--it is kind of normal to be depressed when you are incapacitated. Sure there are ways to get out of the slump (see comments from two days ago from Evan), but for a typical person who is used to be active and independent, it can be rough.

I am also physically a tortoise, which totally sucks. At the luncheon yesterday, I was hobbling around on my crutches. I was almost plowed over by a couple of hares by the elevator bank. They were zipping around the corner, expecting other people to be moving at the same rate. Then they almost ran into me. I didn't zip or zag, I just plodded along, and they have to move to avoid me. My crutches are my blinking neon sign that screams I am a tortoise. I was walking out with my friends, and they were walking at normal human pace whereas I was walking at tortoise pace. Jack and I went to the ballet dress rehearsal last night. We were lucky to get there fifteen minutes early, because it took longer for me to hobble to our seats. After the rehearsal, we walked a few blocks to dinner. I got there in five minutes. Just kidding! It took me twenty minutes to walk 0.2 miles.

Slow and steady seems to be serving me well. Today my left leg made it around an entire circle on the stationary bike! Yay! This is big news! I did my ninety leg lifts, and I have permission not to wear the brace anymore. This was the first big milestone for my recovery. At this rate, I'll be back in hare land by November.

Picture of a tortoise from Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tortoise

* Here is your ear worm for the next week.

What if...

...my knee doesn't get better?

I just had this thought this afternoon after I did another round of PT exercises where I stretch and bend my knee. It feels like a thick cord is inside my knee (which there is, kind of) and it doesn't want to stretch. Then it feels like a balloon that is full of sand or putty or a cranberry log the comes in a can that people ate on Thanksgiving in the 1970's when pre-prepared food was cool.

What if my knee doesn't get better? What if I can't bend it past 120 degrees and get up stairs? I am not suggesting that my surgeon or physical therapy team would be at fault. What if I have a slow healing knee, or some unusual form of scar tissue that causes a strange blockage that is not unheard of but nor is it non-exisistent? You know, the opposite of a miracle -- the one out of a million bad thing that could happen but rarely does because the odds are so low.

Why am I feeling so miserable and down now? Clearly, the novelty of hanging around the house icing my knee is wearing off. I think it is something else: I am having to cause myself pain five times a day when I try to bend my knee. It is a very strange thing to have to cause myself agony, but the reason I do it is because the idea of having a mediocre knee for the rest of my life is unpalatable.  I know there are folks out there with far worse permanent disabilities. If I were five years old, my parents might have said, "Quit your belly-aching!" But damn this sucks.

I was at my luncheon today (yay!) and I saw my friend Tina. She was horrifically mugged and assaulted when she was 23. The guy stabbed her and cut the nerves in her hand. She had to go to physical therapy to regain motion in her hand. She said she felt like the Hulk having to move her hand. She couldn't touch her fingers to her thumb, and doing the exercises to make that happen were agony. But she survived, and today fluttered her fingers around as if nothing had ever happened.

That is what I am hoping for -- I am longing for the day where I will look at my knee and walk as if nothing had ever happened.

Leaving the Nest, Boredom and Torture

First, the good news: I am going out to lunch tomorrow. Yay! I am going to the Wellspring annual luncheon where one of my good friend's daughter has previously been honored as a young philanthropist. Last year during my campaign for School Board, I went to more than dozen of these charity events. (I just finished my taxes today and I counted up the deductions.) This is the first luncheon I am doing this year. I had booked this event several weeks before the surgery. I was hesitant, not knowing if I'd be up for it. Now, I am not even three weeks out of the surgery and I am going out of my mind in my little Seattle nest.* I am so grateful that I have something to do tomorrow, someplace to be.

I look at the blank pages of my calendar with dread. I fear the openness. Carl my carpenter and Evan my physical therapist both warned me of the post-surgery boredom. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the deja vu of the post-accident boredom that I experienced about three months prior. Evan, the sweet, naive, optimist,** tells me I should spend this time focusing on my wellness. Ack! Walking Green Lake with friends or going to a yoga or barre class would be great for my wellness. I'd rather be spending a sunny Wednesday afternoon skipping out and skiing at Snoqualmie. That would be awesome for my wellness. If the snow is good, skiing during the week is awesome. It is mostly a handful of middle aged women, there are no lift lines, and cougar bait mans the lifts.

Instead, I am reading voraciously, which I will write about in my next post. I am doing jigsaw puzzles galore. I am finishing quilting projects, which I will also write about. I filed my taxes today. I am watching Netflix. People bring me lunch and dinner, for which I am eternally grateful, but then they go about their normal lives, walking Green Lake, going to yoga and running errands in their free time. I am doing lots of physical therapy exercises and vexing on my knee: I am going to get it to maximum extension and flexion without massive amounts of pain? Evan made a joke about the PT being the center of my social life, but it is.

When I am not bored, I am getting bent and pushed and pulled. Yesterday for the first time, I swore during my session. I didn't drop any f-bombs; nevertheless, I felt like I violated this Sanctuary for Healing and Torture. Last week, I was starting to think of Evan as my nemesis. I initially liked him because he caused me the least amount of discomfort of anyone on my PT team by a wide margin. That margin has now closed and he has taken a sizable lead. Argh.

The other day I was at home doing my leg lifts and I said to Jack, "Evan will be mad at me if I don't come in with my leg at 110 degrees of flexion."

"He won't be mad," Jack said. "He gets to go home at the end of the day and you will still have an unbent leg." True, I thought. Yesterday when I was at PT, Evan said the goal is to get my leg to 120 degrees of flexion by four weeks after surgery. All legs need to bend that much in order to be functional as 120 degrees is the minimum amount of flexion required to climb and descend stairs. (The stuff I learn...) Evan told to me to keep working on bending my leg or else he would really have to work it again next time I saw him. "You don't like it and I don't like it either." Interesting. I almost wanted to say if you don't like making people suffer, perhaps you should find a new line of work. But I didn't. I think he likes the intellectual aspect of studying muscles and ligaments, and he seems to like exercise and sports. He might not have the same level of sangfroid as some of the other folks there. Not that an empathic physical therapist is a bad thing...

I know I am suppose to hate my PT, but Evan is a sweet guy, too sweet to be anyone's nemesis. He tells me stories of how he used to hit on women in bars with orthopedic problems when he started his PT program. I laughed when he told this story, which distracted me from my agony for about ten seconds. "Why not hit on orthopedically healthy women?" I asked.

"Because I couldn't impress them with my limited knowledge," he said. I imagined his lines:

"Nice limp!"
"That is a beautiful scar."
"That's a great leg brace. You wear it well. Where did you get it?"

I am not sure what kind of bar would have such a collection of injured women. I recall from my days of bar hopping not seeing very many injured people out and about at one a.m. tossing back gin and tonics. Jack asked if Evan's fiance was 63 years old with a double knee replacement. I'll have to ask.

Today, I am looking forward to going back to physical therapy on Friday, not because it is the center of my social life or because I enjoy my swollen knee feeling like a balloon that is about to burst. I am looking forward to it because I want to get better. I want to meet the goals of getting my leg to extend and bend. I want to be able to unlock my brace and sleep without it. I want to get out of the nest.

______
* I am calling my house the nest or aerie. Our house is above the street and our first floor is elevated. We have trees off of our front porch. I feel like I am in a bird's nest or an eagle's aerie. With the 23 steps, I am loathe to leave the nest unless it is necessary.

** I think Evan was trained to tell patients to focus on their wellness. One of my friend's had previously trained to be a physical therapist and then bailed because the results were painfully slow. There must be some psychology taught to PT students to help them relate to the boredom suffered by their patients.

Torture

My surgery was two weeks ago. I had a physical therapy appointment. It was the hardest appointment I've ever had by far. At the physical therapy place, there are six open benches and a few small rooms off to the side. Today, Evan led me to one of the small rooms even though there empty benches in the open space. I teased Evan, "Does this mean I am going to scream a lot and you don't want to disturb the other patients?"

"No," he said. "There is a computer in this room."

He lied.

I only screamed a little a bit, but I was shrieking and begging for mercy on the inside. It was very painful. I had scheduled all of my post-op appoints with Evan because he caused me the least amount of pain. What happened? I was so wrong.

From http://www.newyorker.com/cartoons

Note: The Boy helped edit this post.

Bletchley Circle

My friend Theresa came over for lunch after my surgery. She brought me my favorite Beacon Hill sandwich (turkey, bacon, avocado, bleu cheese and tomato) from Bagel Oasis. I asked her what I should watch on television. There are so many shows, it is hard to find the gems. I told her I like the BBC's Sherlock, but I have already watched all of those episodes. The Boy loves Sherlock, and we've watched it with him. The joy and pain of binge watching is that you can cram several years worth of shows into a few weeks or months. What is next? I didn't need something that was kid-friendly, either, but nor was I up for digging into Breaking Bad. I find the concept of a mild mannered high school teacher turning into a drug lord fascinating. I am not sure I have the stomach for the violence.

"The Bletchley Circle," she said. "You'll love it." She was right. I do.

Like Sherlock, this is a British crime series. Like Sherlock, this is a sporadic series, with a few episodes every so often. Unlike Sherlock, the story lines extends over multiple episodes before they are resolved. Sherlock relies on one sole genius, aided by a rational friend. The Bletchley Circle is about four (or more) women who worked together as code breakers at Bletchley Park during World War II. One was the supervisor, one is a math geek, one knows languages and another has an extraordinary memory, bordering on autistic. They were doing important work and they were good at what they did.

Ten years later, they are leading ordinary lives, trapped by institutional sexism. This sexism is almost a character in the show. The writers must have majored in Women's Studies as they are well versed in both overt and passive sexism. (I had thought the show was written by women, but it was written by a man.) In the first episode, a vast majority of the men are sexist, ranging from the innocently clueless to women hating chauvinist pigs. The truly nice men die. The women are functioning far beneath their potential, and there is little room for them to grow. Plus, they have been sworn to secrecy, so they can't tell future employers about their previously impressive work. One of the women was into advanced mathematics, and she practically has to keep it a secret. It is maddening, but is a madness that is put on display and we are invited into their suffering.

Post-war Europe must have been a socially complex and confusing place. Not all women in England were fortunate or talented enough to work at Bletchley, so this is clearly a small subset of English women who were able to taste challenging, meaningful and rewarding work. I think I might have loved working at Bletchley. When I was younger I harbored the fantasy of working for the FBI. The hard part is switching back to being "ordinary." Part of being ordinary isn't just that they are back from the war, but they are pushed into diminished roles because of their gender.

I'll contrast this to two shows from the 1960's I caught five minutes of on television the other day where institutional sexism is played out as normal. I remember the Green Acres theme song from my childhood. Eddie Albert dreams of leaving New York City and heading out to the farm, but his wife, Zsa Zsa Gabor, wants to stay in the city. "You are my wife," sings Mr. Albert. "Good-bye city life!" sings Ms. Gabor. I caught five minutes of I Dream of Jeannie where Barbara Eden called Larry Hagman "Master." Egads. What a contrast. It is good to see a show where women were bucking the confines of sexism in their own day.

Protein, Fiber, and the C-word

--- WARNING ---

This post contains what my father would call TMI -- too much information. I don't get into graphic detail, but this is about combating constipation. Feel free to skip this if you are queasy or don't like reading about bowels. You have been warned.

------

One of my middle aged women friends (which describes 98% of my friends) brought me lunch today. I noticed a trend in what my friends have been bringing me for me for lunch or dinner over the past week and a half. Two of the dinners were crowd pleasers: cheesy lasagna that everyone in my family will eat. The lunches and one of the dinners have fallen into another category: protein and fiber from Whole Foods, PCC or Metropolitan Market. Hearty soups, quiches and kale and quinoa salads have been loading my plate. Today, I laughed when I saw the soup and chickpea and kale salad. I told her that everyone was bringing me protein and fiber.

"Were you hoping for something more decadent?" she asked.

"Nope," I said.* "I think it is funny that everyone has the exact same thought!"

I need the protein to help heal from the surgery and rebuild/maintain my quadricep muscles, and I need the fiber for my bowels.

One of the major worries after surgery is fear of constipation from the anesthesia and narcotics. Being a middle aged woman does not help this situation at all, as balancing iron and fiber are two major challenges of life for women over forty. Plus, I am not moving so much and I am trying to eat a high protein diet. At my pre-op meeting, Claire, the Physician's Assistant, recommended Miralax, which I used for the first several days after the surgery. Sunday, I was feeling the need for some relief, and I decided to drink an herbal tea with senna, a well known and documents herbal laxative. Jack uses it for his patients on narcotics, and it is less potent than Miralax.

I brewed myself a cup of "Smooth Move" tea and let it steep. It is supposed to steep for ten minutes, but I kind of forgot about and drank it anyway. I was sipping it while I was reading. When I got up, I saw there was a little bit left, and decided to slurp back the dregs in the bottom of the mug.

The next morning was armageddon. In the Battle of the Bowels, the laxative won and took no prisoners. She was like Gen. William T. Sherman blazing through Atlanta, leaving nothing behind. This was shocking, as I've taken "Smooth Move" tea dozens of times with no ill effects. My bowels were empty of everything I have ever eaten, ever. I wasn't worried, and I felt fine. I was getting my energy back, which was good. I was a little thirsty, and I tried to drink more tea. For lunch, I made myself some nachos with my sandwich. I later had salted popcorn. I didn't realize how dehydrated I was from the laxative, and the salt from the chips and popcorn nearly did me in. It wasn't too much salt for a regular day, but yesterday was not a regular day. I was miserable from this crazy inbalance in my life. Perhaps I had been too vigilant in my quest to avoid constipation, and now I was paying the price.

My friend's daughter recently went through ACL surgery, and she was aware of the bowel issues surrounding narcotics. She told me about the Bristol Stool Chart, which I had never heard of before. [Warning: This link contains drawings of poop.] It was insightful, but my knowledge of the c-word comes more from the impact to my body. Am I having flashbacks to childbirth and wishing I had an epidural? It's the c-word.

* I sort of lied. Part of me wanted a cheeseburger, fries and chocolate cake.

Faith and Patience in Science and Data

Oh the joys of protocol and milestone based therapy!

I wanted to write a little disclaimer on my website about my ACL repair. Very briefly that would be: My injury and recovery may be totally different from anyone else's injury and recovery as my "data input" is likely different than yours. You might be a young athlete or you might be an old couch potato. If you are reading this two years from know because you have a torn ACL, please note that the data--the research based protocols and milestones--may have changed. For example: a few years ago, continuous motion machines were in. Now they are not. Things change. Things perpetually change, and sometimes you will get caught in the middle of those changes, as I am stuck today.

But first, let me tell you a story. I graduated from college in 1991, and the job market was terrible. The US was at the tail end of a recession, and many of my friends didn't have jobs. In my final quarter before graduation, I didn't have a job. Instead of going on a full court press of looking for a job, I decided I'd enjoy my last few weeks of being a college student and worry about getting a job after graduation. I was in the Mathematical Methods in the Social Sciences (MMSS) program at NU. One day about three weeks before graduation, I got a call from a strategic marketing consulting firm asking if I would like to interview. They had called the MMSS program and asked which students they should call about a job.

In the interview, my future boss asked me what I thought about data.

"Data tells you more about what you don't know that what you do know," I said.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"You can have data that says 75% of women like a product and 25% of men like it, but that is just an estimate. What the data is saying is that than men are less favorable towards to the product than women, not at that 'women like it' or 'men hate it.' The data in this case is a guideline that helps you understand something in a relative context."

He leaned back in his chair, and that was when I knew I had the job.

Fast forward almost twenty five years, and I am thinking about that conversation.

Today, I was faced with three different interpretations of the same data from three people I respect and admire. I had my stitches removed today and I had a PT appointment. I talked to Dr. Tex, Evan my physical therapist and Claire, Dr. Tex's physician assistant. In addition to my medical team, I am also getting insights and information from friends who have gone through an ACL repair. I talked to Kim yesterday whose had two ACL repairs, and Jack has a colleague who had his ACL repaired a few years ago. I have another friend who had her ACL repaired a week before me.

At my appointments, we discussed unlocking the brace so I can walk with a bended knee. We also talked about taking the brace off to sleep. All three people on my medical team agree with the milestone based approach, or as Dr. Tex says, "Earning my way out of the brace." If I can do certain number of exercises, then I can sleep without it, unlock the straight leg, and then get rid of it completely.

Where they disagree (and they do) is on which milestones I should meet for each reward, i.e., sleeping without the brace or unlocking the brace. I could be frustrated with the different opinions. I could say they are using a protocol based approach, so what is up with all of the differences of opinions? How can there be differences of opinions when there is a protocol? I can see that Jack's friends and my friends might all get different treatments because we are different inputs into the protocol machine.

Instead, I have faith and patience. I know that data tells us more about what we don't know than what we do know. We know that protocol A might be less effective than protocol B, but that doesn't mean the protocol B is the best protocol ever. And every few months, there are new studies showing this exercise is somewhat more effective than another. But overall, I know they are steering the ship is heading in the right direction. I know even if they disagree, the data and research shows that physical therapy and wearing a brace is significantly better than not doing physical therapy and not wearing a brace.

Angry Leg and Amnesia

Yesterday, I had a good day. My knee and subsequently my leg were feeling better than they had before. For the past few days, I've been waking up and not feeling the immediate need to ice and elevate my leg. I've been using my tiny knee pillows in my brace and was sleeping better, too. My energy was back. I was not feeling happy just to lounge on the couch. During the day, I hopped about the house without my crutches. I sat at my desk and took care of some household paper work. I did my PT exercises and did the laundry. I worked on a few quilting projects. I beat the game 2048 by Gabriele Cirulli.

My friend Kim stopped over with a broccoli and cheese quiche for dinner from Whole Foods. She has had ACLs repaired in each of her knees 18 years a part, the most recent one done just under a year ago. While she has decent memory about her recovery process, she suffers from mild amnesia about it. She reminds me that I am healing and should rest. She told me how she would lie on the couch, watch lots of television, and nap frequently. I can see napping, but I can't see watching television.  After Claire Adele was born, I would watch television after lunch, catching up on reruns of Remington Steele (yay!) and The Nanny (why was I watching this?). Watching daytime tv made me feel slightly suicidal. I'd think Surely there has to be some better way for me to spending my time?

Kim told me that at my six week post-surgical appointment that the doc would x-ray my knee to see that my screws were in place. She was fuzzy on other stuff, like how long exactly did she have to wear the brace. Not remembering the boredom, agony and hassle of recovery from surgery must be part of Mother Nature's way of helping us heal, just like with childbirth. Many people have more than one kid even though no one would otherwise volunteer to go through childbirth if there wasn't the outcome of a child at the other end.

After Kim left, I made dinner. Jack had a late work meeting, so I thought I'd get food on the table. Clare Adele doesn't eat quiche and the Boy doesn't like broccoli, so I made them pesto pasta. This was not an advanced or complicated meal. It involved popping a quiche in the oven and boiling water. At the end of it, I was exhausted. It takes ten times the energy for me to move around, so getting the pot out, filling it with water, and putting the pot on the cooktop are work for me. Walking to the oven and turning it on, covering the quiche with foil and popping it in the oven required more effort than I am used to for that activity.

After dinner, I plopped on the couch. My leg was not happy. My knee was furious and was holding the rest of my leg hostage. I wanted to rest but my leg was twitching. The next morning, I took a shower and my calf was yellow, and not from the leftover surgical cleaning solution they used on my leg that won't come off.

I went to Dr. Tex today to get my stitches out. He was in a good mood, and seemed happy with the progress of my leg. It wasn't too swollen, it was straight and I was getting my quad strength back. When i asked when I could get out of the brace, he gave me his usual reply, "You've got to earn your way out!" This time when he said it, he had a twinkle in his eye, and smiled.

I asked Dr. Tex about my yellow leg.

"That is the fluid draining out of the knee," he said. "It goes where gravity tells it to go, so it is draining down into your calf."

I see. Yesterday, I felt fine so I didn't elevate my leg, and its ecosystem got out of whack. As soon as I got back from Dr. Tex, I thought of my conversation with Kim. I sat on the couch, cry-cuffed my knee, and watched found a rerun of Green Acres,* a show I hadn't watched since my childhood. Instead of feeling suicidal, I felt better. All was right with the world.

* In fairness, I only watched the last ten minutes. Three's Company was on next, but I couldn't watch it. I do have the theme song stuck in my head. It is amazing how much television content is out there to be replayed. Wow.

Veblen, Artisans and New Old Clothes

I just finished reading The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth MacKenzie, which is a lovely book. There is a section in there:

"The medical business had so many arms. In a daze, she [Veblen] fixated on how many product lines were in her range of vision at any given angle. Pharmaceuticals, latex gloves, sanitizers. Monitors, data retrievers, linens. Mechanized beds. She thought of the multitude of crafty sales reps coming around and acting fun and sassy just in order to shove all this stuff down the hospital's throat. And yet, so what? What was the point of noticing this? Was the hospital supposed to be thrown together by local artisans and craftsmen? What was there to do?" (page 359)

Given my injured knee, I think there might be a place for artisans and craftsmen in the healthcare world. One of the challenges of wearing a giant brace is finding reasonable clothes. My good friend Fiona helped me design some pants that fit over the brace.  I've revived three pairs of yoga pants from years ago. I've found clothes that I bought that I hadn't really even worn. I found a light wool dress that I got at the Title 9 annual clearance sale. This is a long sleeve hoodie dress from one of my favorite shops, and it was such good deal I couldn't pass it up. I really couldn't find a great places to wear it. Until now. Now, it is a perfect dress to wear around the house with my massive brace. I also made some soft wool pads to insert into my brace so my suture wounds don't press against my brace.

When I was at the Fred Hutch getting my breast examined for a lump, the gift shop there sold lots of knit caps that look like they were made by local knitters. There is something comforting about that.

Pain Meds v. Ice

For the past two mornings, I've woken up sore and stiff, hardly able to get to the bathroom.  Last night, I woke around 4:00, and was up for about forty-five minutes with an uncomfortable leg. I figured I'd make it back to sleep eventually, and I did.

Tuesday, I went to my post-op appointment and Claire readjusted my brace so I had greater extension. This really stretched out my leg, and it caused me some grief. I took half a pain pill Tuesday afternoon and I felt better. I managed to go to bed without out pain meds, but I woke up sore.

This morning, it was the same as yesterday. When I was out of bed, my leg ached when I walked. The first thing I wanted to do was take a pain pill, but then I had to decide: did I really need a pain pill to get out of bed in the morning? Could it be something else that was causing my leg to ache that needed to be attended to? Maybe my leg became swollen overnight, and it needed some ice and to be elevated. Maybe the brace was too tight, or maybe it was pressing against the incisions. Maybe I need to make adjustments instead of reaching for a pain pill.

So far, I have and icing and elevating seem to do the trick. I also tried playing a computer game that the Boy was playing on my phone. There have been studies on the narcotic effects of computer games, for better or worse. When the Boy had his sleep study years ago, they had him play video games while they attached a million nodes and wires to his head. He was so engrossed in the game, he didn't notice a thing until they were done and we had to turn the game off. He was not happy when he looked in the mirror.  Likewise, Jack had a patient who was recovering from major surgery. The hospital gave the child an iPad, and she no longer needed pain meds. Carl, my friend the carpenter, said he finished Zelda while he was recovering from his knee surgery.

Carl also said the six months of recovery were the most boring months of his life. I can understand. I could see how the pain meds could cut the edge off the boredom, and give an excuse to sit around and do nothing all day.

In the meantime, it isn't all that bad. When I walk around the house without my crutches, I grab on to every nearby surface. I feel like I am floating around like an astronaut in zero gravity. I wish I were recovering from this in a zero gravity environment, floating with no pressure. Maybe the swelling would be less.

Pain Meds

I had my surgery five days ago, and I had post-op appointment today. Claire and the nurse changed the dressing and cleaned up the knee. I had to lie down. Just as I didn't want to see the images from the surgery, I couldn't watch as they took off the bandage. I didn't want to be a doctor because I don't like blood, pus or sick people. I am squeamish, and I don't like anything that will challenge my gag reflex, especially if it is on my own body. Looking at my post surgery knee falls into this category. Jack recommended I look at it so I could track changes over the upcoming weeks. I still declined.

Jack, of course, looked at my knee with curiosity. If god forbid this ever happens to one of my kids, he will have to take them into their appointments. Jack said my knee looked better than Lindsay Vaughn's after her surgery.

"Where did you see a picture of Lindsay Vaughn's knee?"

"On the internet." Of course. And he looked it up. Weird. I sat up and looked at my knee. It looked like a piece of raw chicken skin -- yellow and lumpy.

"That looks fabulous!" Claire said. "I have two patients today who have beautiful knees who took care of them as they were told."

My knee might look good, but it was sore. I had a hard time getting out of bed because it hurt when I walked. Yesterday, I took 5 mg of oxycodone because it hurt to walk. Then I couldn't walk because I was looped out by the pain meds. I was tired and groggy and I had nothing to say. I was dull in every sense of the word. My friend Laura came over for lunch and I just listened, which is fine, but it is strange not to have any words or ideas to share.  For the first few days, I wondered why anyone would take pain meds for recreational use since the sensation was so odd.

And then, I liked it. I should know better. I have one friend whose son died from an overdose of prescription pain meds, and I have another friend who had a major addiction. She has been in and out of rehab. Once, she couldn't remember when her son's field trip was. I told her it was two weeks ago. She was totally snowed and had vague recollections of her life.

I can see how people get addicted to this stuff. Pain is bad, but fear of pain might be worse. Before the surgery, Jack recommended taking the meds to stay ahead of the pain because once it starts, it is hard to make things feel normal again. Being groggy and tired might be a small price to pay for not feeling bad. It lifts the mood, too. Being sore and stiff and uncomfortable made me grouchy. Being foggy and pleasant is better than being a curmudgeon, I suppose.

Even though I like the pain meds, I am still afraid. The literature my doctor's office gave me said only 15% of people become addicted to pain meds, which is good, except how do I know which group I am in, the 15% who fall for the drug, or the 85% who don't. 

Today, the nurse called and I asked what I should do. Claire changed the range of motion on my brace and my leg now has full extension. As a result, it is sore from this change. The recommended half of a pill. It seemed to do the trick in easing the pain, and gave me some faith that I could wean off the stuff.

Until the soreness and stiffness comes back.