Ancestry

My mother was adopted as an infant. About twenty years ago, my mother started looking for her birth parents. I didn't know she was looking for them. She told my brother, and he told me.

Fast forward twenty years, there are now companies like ancestry.com where you can mail them a saliva sample, and they will run a test on your DNA to find where you are from and connect you with long-lost relatives.

This is fine for people who know who they are related to, but it is kind of scary when half of my family tree will be populated people I don't know. Since the day I was born, my maternal grandfather was Joseph Conti, and my maternal grandmother was Anne Liberti Conti. I have cousins and aunts who I have known forever who will not appear on this genetic and electronic family tree.

I am not sure I am ready for this, but my dad wants to do this for my mom before she dies of Alzheimer's. She doesn't have the capability to spit into a cup now. Her adoptive parents are dead, so there is no fear of offending them.

But what does this new service do to people who might not have known they were adopted, or for women who perhaps gave up a child for adoption years ago and now have another family? I suppose they could choose not to spit in the cup, but their sister or daughter might, and those connections might appear.

Will I want to meet these new members of my family tree? Would they want to meet me?

"Are you Limping?" and the Big D

I ran into a friend of mine who tore her ACL a few years ago. My favorite quote from her was "One day, my knee was fine and I forgot anything had ever happened to it." I am longing for that day.

Today, the two of us were meeting at a friend's house for coffee and we walked up the stairs together.

"Are you limping?" she asked me. I was mortified. In the past few weeks, other friends forgot I had had surgery and thought my gait was perfectly normal. Those friends didn't have ACL surgery themselves, nor did they see me walking upstairs. My gait isn't perfect on stairs yet. My post-surgical leg has less hop than my good leg.

"Yes," I said. "I have been lifting lots of weights and my legs are sore." That was true. The night before I was doing my three time a week routine of a dozen exercises. I am getting to the point where I sweat doing these exercises. I never sweat before when lifting weights or doing squats. Am I doing something right? Should I have been sweating before? Will I ever not be stiff and sore? Why can't I touch my toes anymore? I am now seven months post-surgery in a nine month recovery. Shouldn't I be coasting to the finish line? Instead, the exercises are getting harder.

My former project manager self thinks that if you plan things out and execute the plan, things should progress just fine. Often when I scheduled programs, I'd add in some slack in case a task took longer to complete or there was more work than expected. In those cases, work should finish sooner than expected.

This is not the case with my knee. I have been practicing standing on the BOSU disc, which is a large, round plastic disk with a squashy pillow on the other side. I put the squashy side on the ground and stand on the disk in a squat. My legs shake like I am having a seizure, but it didn't hurt. Evan explained that my nerves are trying to fire to help me keep my balance. This is part of the healing process that can't be rushed: I can't make my nerves grow faster, no matter how hard I try.

While I have stepped up my exercises these past few days, I have skipped biking to walk Green Lake with friends. I've also been gardening and doing other things around the house. Since I haven't been biking, the Black Dog has started to move in. I did and didn't realize how much forty-five minutes of cardio each day was keeping depression away. I made jokes about how mellow I was after exercising. I could feel myself relax, almost to the point of not wanting to be that relaxed. I've always had a little bit of an edge, and I was sad when it would get dissipated or blunted from too much exercise. The little voice that would tell me to make changes in my life would be a little too chill to tell me to do something different.

I need to get back on the bike. I need my exercise therapy.

Garden Therapy and Morning Walks

This weekend, instead of biking, I worked in my garden. I can check this off as one of my "activities of daily living" that I now do. I've watered some plants before and pulled a few weeds, but yesterday I spent about three hours whacking back the massive overgrowth of my parking strip. I have a giant rosemary bush that started out about six inches tall. It is now about four feet tall and four feet wide. I have approximately 64 cubic feet of rosemary bush, which is a lot of rosemary. I never used dry rosemary because I have a mountain of fresh rosemary. I whacked back a few smaller branches of the bush that were overlapping the sidewalk (about two cubic feet) and it looks like nothing is gone. I have two cubic feet of rosemary on my porch which I am giving away. If you want some rosemary, let me know. I should put it in little bundles in my car and so when I run into people I can give it away.

Last week, Jack was working at the hospital and he had to leave early for work which meant I was walking the dog in the morning. In summer, Jack would walk the dog or I wrangle one of the kids to do. Now, they have to leave for school and don't have time to walk Fox before the bus arrives. This year the kids start school an hour later, which means the dog gets walked an hour later. The dog doesn't mind, but it means my day doesn't start until I get back from walking Fox at 8:45 or 9:00. I don't mind the walk, except for the hurry between walking the dog and getting to where I need to be during the day.

It has been ten months since I have regularly been walking the dog in the morning. I like the fresh air and quietness and I like the time with my dog. The morning walk is mildly meditative and a good way to start the day. I have noticed one thing that is different: every day, I run into a friend or neighbor who is also out on a walk. I should keep track of who I meet, but I want to say I've run into people 7 of the last 8 times I've taken the dog out. Normally, my odds of running into people are about 50/50. I don't know if this is a fluke, or maybe the weather is nice so everyone is out for a stroll before the drizzle and dampness settles in for the autumn and winter. I usually end up chatting for anywhere from ten minutes to a half an hour, which is fine.

Last week I rode my bike to Fremont and stopped at B. Fuller's, a steampunk themed tea shop. They sell this awesome Wellberry tea with elderberries which is supposed to prevent cold and the flu. The elderberries are supposed to be gooey under a microscope and then they stick like a wad of chewing gum to the spiky flu viruses, rendering them ineffective. I don't know if I buy that, but I did drink lots of the tea last year and I didn't get sick so I will drink the tea again this fall.  (Maybe if I had gotten sick, I might have skipped skiing that fateful day I tore my ACL...)

I've been to this tea shop before, and the proprietor recognized me.

"I haven't seen you here in a while," he said. He sounded a little miffed, suggesting I thought there wasn't something wonderful about his teas.

"No one has seen me in a while. Last time I was here I was on crutches and wearing a leg brace," I said. The steam-punk proprietor seemed relieved. He remembered that the last time I was there I was hobbling.

And so it goes with my neighbors. The first comment of people make when they see me is that they haven't seen me in ages. When I run into people, it makes me realize how isolated I had been. Seeing all of these people makes me realize how wide my social net really is, and that is a good thing. At times during my illness, it was easy to feel forgotten. It is nice to come back from being in the sick bay and realizing everyone is still there.

Freedom Riding & The Albatross

I have been trying to bike outside as much as possible, especially now that the weather is nice. I get better exercise while on my road bike than on the stationary bike.

I love riding my bike. I always have, but I love it now even more. Yesterday, I biked from the U District to Fremont to visit a tea shop and buy some tea. This morning I met friends at the Stone Way Cafe for coffee, and I biked there. I am getting my physical therapy cardio in AND I am connecting with friends.

I have heard that people who can't move their limbs sometimes enjoy swimming or floating in the water. They feel like they have control over their bodies in the water that they don't have on land.

I feel the same way about my bike. When I cross the street on foot, I am super tentative and cautious. On my bike, I am brave and bold, taking my turn in the traffic instead of avoiding intersections. I pass people on the Burke Gilman on a regular basis. Yesterday, I was surprised when I was passed. "That guy most be going really fast to pass me," I thought. This would not have been a thought two months ago when I was the tortoise on the bike path. I feel like a regular person on my bike.

On land, I am still one of the slower people around. I was riding the Light Rail last night. The train had been sitting there with the doors open when I got to the platform. I saw the open doors, but couldn't run or jog to them. I made it inside, but my big blue purse hanging on my shoulder got caught when the timer closed the doors. A man behind me pushed the button on the outside, opened the doors, and hopped in.

"You got move fast, Lady," he said. I was pissed. He didn't know I was moving as fast as I could. I am not a new transit rider. I have sprinted and leapt on a train before, once with my ten year old daughter on a packed train in London during rush hour. (We had a plan that if one of us got left on a tube platform, she would stay put at the current station or the next, and I would look for her.)

I remember reading L'Albatros, a Baudlaire poem in college about an albatross that is caught by men on a ship. The majestic bird of the sky becomes a laughing stock on the deck of the boat, unable to walk because of his wings. I feel like the albatross on land, and I fly on my bike instead of in the sky.

http://fleursdumal.org/poem/200

"I Forgot"

Last week, I made my first trek around Green Lake since my skiing accident and surgery. I probably could have it around sooner than last week, but I was busy with the family over the summer.

I ran into two people last week--one at the YMCA and one while walking Green Lake. Holly at the Y asked how I was doing and I told her I was going to lift weights as part of my physical therapy.

"I forgot about your knee!" she said. I have been at the YMCA so many times since my accident, and Holly was one of the regular people around the front when I walked in. In the beginning of January, Holly saw me walk in on crutches and wearing a leg brace, back when I was lucky if I could ride the stationary bike for five minutes. She saw me after my surgery when I was lucky if I could turn the crank around once. I would rock my legs back and forth until I could get my legs around.

While walking around Green Lake, I ran into my friend Zoe.

"This is my first time around Green Lake since my surgery," I told her.

"I forgot about your knee," said Zoe. "Your gait is normal."

Zoe drove the Boy home from Rocket Club for a few months in the winter when I couldn't drive, and even drove when I could drive. She was one of the people who helped me out when I was down and out.

I was excited that Holly and Zoe forgot about my knee. It means I am moving forward and the end of this recovery phase is within sight.

I still remember. While my recovery is still near the front of my mind, it isn't the only thing I think about anymore. My knee doesn't need constant attention or worry. I can go a day with too much exercise (not very often) or too little (more often than is good) and I am not paying for it the next day. Even though my gait is normal, I still have exercises to do and weights to lift reminds me, even when everyone else has forgotten.

Was Aaron Burr Black?

The Boy has been compulsively listening to Hamilton, which is non-traditionally cast.

"Was Aaron Burr black?" the Boy asked.

Obama was elected when the Boy was in kindergarten. To a kid who has only known the country with an African American president, this was probably not a bizarre question. Of course he knows there was slavery, but that didn't mean it applied to all black people. To him, asking if one of the Founding Fathers was black was a legitimate question to which he didn't know the answer.

I hope one day my granddaughter will ask me who the Founding Mothers were, or why weren't they called the Founding Parents, and it will be a legitimate question to which she didn't know the answer.

Activities of Daily Living v. Return to Sport

I feel like I am fully competent in the "Activities of Daily Living" category after my ACL surgery. I hadn't seen this list until today, and I am still short on one or two of the categories: home maintenance and emergency responses. I could call 911 in an emergency, but I am not sure I could run out of my house if it were on fire. Anita and I did paint several rooms in my house this summer, but my garden is a mess. When I look at my plants, I think "What happened here? Why is everything either overgrown or mostly dead?"

The list of activities is long, and I can see how far I've come since the surgery. It took awhile before I felt comfortable going to the grocery store by myself. Cooking meals left me wiped out and it was months before I could walk my dog for the hour a day he needs to be walked.

The good news is that I am pretty close to being achieving all activities of daily living, which leave the next phase of my physical therapy: returning to sport. I go to a sports medicine clinic, which is good, so the goal should be to get me back to playing tennis and skiing.

Last Friday, I asked Evan what I needed to accomplish before I returned to skiing. He kind of laughed and said, "We aren't even close to that! You don't need to worry about that yet."

He saw the deflated/sad/frustrated expression on my face and took a deep breath, "Okay," he said. He rattled off a bunch of things I will need to be able to do so fast I couldn't keep track of it all: "Hop on one leg in a diagonal direction for about ten yards, hop on one foot on your injured leg as high as you can hop on your good leg..." and a bunch of other stuff that went by in a blur.

Now I am going to physical therapy every other week with a list of about ten exercises I am supposed to do every other day at home, in addition to my forty-five minutes of daily cardio.

This is hard. I don't think I was ever been in that good of shape in my forties as I am expected to be when I return to sports. I don't know if I can hop in a diagonal on my good leg, let alone my bad leg.

Which brings me to another point: should I have had the surgery if getting back to sport is going to be super hard, as in harder than I've ever worked before? Even if I work hard, will I get to a point of being successful, or will I plateau and never reach the desired objectives?Am I willing to push myself to the point of being uncomfortable just so I can ski and play tennis? Should I have left my ACL disconnected and done physical therapy to get back into a space where I could function doing activities of daily living, just as I am now?

I've been able to push myself intellectually and in working with teams in work settings, but I've had limited experiences pushing myself physically. I've biked more than one hundred miles in a day -- that was hard. I've climbed the Grouse Grind and Mt. Ellinor. I've never been a full blown couch potato, but nor have I ever had any desire to run a marathon or climb Mt. Everest. Am I willing to work super hard to be a moderate, middle aged athlete? Are these goals realistic, or am I just comparing myself to Armando, the twenty-something soccer player I see every day at physical therapy? Clearly, it will be impossible for me to ever be in as good as shape as he is in. I don't need to be that good, but can I be good enough for tennis?

This is a fork in the physical therapy road, and I have to decide if I am going to take it.

Lost Time

Today, I was at my neighborhood coffee shop and I saw the usual barista. She is very thin--willowly--and she looks like she might be pregnant as she has a small pooch on her belly. I knew she just got married, but I was trying to think when. I think she was married five months ago? Is that right?...

Just then, she volunteers, "My one year anniversary is coming up!"

Wow. That is right. She got married last September. Why did my math come up that she was married five months ago? It could be that my middle-aged mind can't count right, or I wasn't fully paying attention to when my barista got married. Or, I could be lazy.

I don't think so. I think I lost some time with my skiing accident and surgery on my ACL. Instead of paying attention to the world around me, I was so inwardly focused, I didn't know what was going for a few months. I lost time because I wasn't connected to the outside world that much. I didn't go to the coffee shop around the corner for months because it was hard for me to walk, especailly up and downhills.

I am starting to apply for jobs, which is an interesting process. I have a blank on my resume and profiles since last December when I got hurt. How do I explain this lost time? It was my experience being a disabled person. I went downtown yesterday just to hang out in a coffee shop for a change of scenery. A few months ago, it would have taken a lot of extra energy to make the trip, even though I had disabled parking pass which made the world easier to navigate. Being a pedestrian was hard. I wasn't always sure I could make it across the street during a walk cycle. When I was inside, I had to decide when it was worth it to leave the house. In some cases, it certainly was, but I might have a hard time the next day as my knee might be swollen or stiff. I remember taking my daughter to Northgate to get a dress for the Winter Ball after my accident and before my surgery. I was fine taking her there, but the next day I was tired and sore.

Now, I am having a hard time remembering what it was like when I couldn't walk after my accident and after my surgery. I think this is the pleasant amnesia that comes with recovery--we forget the pain and hassle so we can move forward. Today, I can make it across a street with the walk sign without a problem. I saw a dad at Peter's soccer game who injured his knee, and I remembered the phase where I was faster with crutches and so slow without them. I remember the transition where I had to ditch the crutches even though they were easier.

Now I am coming back to regular time, and I am realizing what I had been missing.

The RAM: August 2004-August 2016. RIP

For the past twelve years--the whole time we have been in Seattle, my kids' favorite restaurant has been The RAM. It is a bar and grill and it is about three minutes from our house. It is kind of like Dalt's where I grew up, but with a more university based crowd. The RAM was the only place Claire Adele would want to eat for years. Jack and I would recommend other places, and she would balk. The Boy would get sick of the RAM, too, but he would usually agree to go there. I think he secretly liked it, but balked just to disagree with his sister. Claire Adele would get mad if she went out of town and we would eat at the RAM without her. When she was at camp this summer, the Boy and I ate at the RAM for dinner. We saw four of Claire Adele's friends there. I mistook them at first for a group of college girls.

Since we have been to France, the kids don't want to eat at the RAM anymore. They both decided they don't like french fries or burgers anymore. "The food there is too fried and greasy," Claire Adele said. Mexican and Italian are still in, but American fare is out. This is a problem because now we don't know where to go out to dinner because we so often ate at the RAM.

This is like breaking up with the RAM, or graduating from a restaurant. This restaurant isn't a kids' place like Chucky Cheese--it is a bona fide bar and grill, and yet we have outgrown it. I am sorry RAM. I never thought I'd say this, but you will be missed.

Anti-Christmas

The first day of school is like the Anti-Christmas in our house. Or the anti-Halloween. And for sure the anti-First-Day-of-Summer. With Christmas, there is excitement on Christmas Eve. What will we get? Christmas is awesome with gifts and food, and the day after is great because you still have cool gifts to play with and there are plenty of awesome leftovers to eat. It is a three day stretch of wonderfulness.

The start of school is the opposite. The days before are filled with dread, the actual day is okay but filled with angst and the days after is when the work kicks in. This is the opposite of wonderfulness. Sure there are friends and sports and clubs, but they don't outweigh the freedom of summer.

Instead of happy anticipation, both kids were on edge the day before, crabby and quick to bicker. Thankfully, a friend planned a pre-first night of school picnic, which the Boy happily attended without his parents. I was glad to have him out of the house with something other to do than sulk, and he was glad to be out with his friends.

The first day was "fine," but the Boy came home exhausted. Claire Adele has a bunch of activities so her transition back to school is easier. He has a tough schedule, including a brutal biology teacher from what I've heard. I've warned him that most kids flunk this woman's class for the first few tests, and he seems eager to give it a good try. Although today, he forgot his biology homework--a dead bug, a flower and a piece of onion samples to examine under a microscope--on his desk, beautifully packed but not in his backpack. I have a friend who says the homework isn't done until it is the backpack. How true. But I have been forgetful, too. I took the Light Rail downtown and I forgot to "tap out" my Orca card at my end stop. I have no idea what happens. The light rail probably thinks I am still on the train going to the airport. Oh well. I'll have to tell the Boy. Maybe he could relate. Claire Adele will tell him that grades in middle school don't matter, but I think he needs to get into the practice of getting his act together before high school. One of the seniors at my daughter's school wrote in the school newspaper that she wished she got good grades her freshman and sophomore year before the class work really got hard. By then, it was harder to pull her GPA up.

Tonight he is going out with friends and tomorrow he has a soccer game. Hopefully this will bring a happy end to the Anti-Christmas week.

More Tornados

This morning was the first day of school. School starts an hour later this year for middle and high school, and the Boy and Claire Adele were both up getting ready with plenty of time. Last year, the Boy did no grooming before school. Now, he combs and gels his hair. Last week, he got braces, and he needs more time to fully brush his teeth. God forbid he goes to school with food in his teeth. Seriously. This is a good thing. But there was a tornado in the bathroom this morning, as Claire Adele was straightening her hair and the Boy was trying to gel his. Nevermind that we have two bathrooms--there was screaming from Claire Adele. She walks to school and the Boy catches a bus. In my mind, the bus catcher gets priority over the walker, mainly because I'll have to drive the Boy to school if he missed the bus. Claire Adele doesn't have to leave as early, either. If I have to drive her to school, it is a ten minute round trip. For the Boy, it is a good half hour.

Yesterday, we had another Tornado in the afternoon. The Boy got a temper glass screen protector for his phone and it broke before he got it on. It wasn't a meltdown, but it was a Tornado. We all stopped and dropped for cover until the Tornado passed. Claire Adele stepped into the middle of the Tornado, and caused a further ruckus. Oy.

This morning was the first time since my ski accident that I have walked Fox in the morning by myself. Both kids had left, and it was just me and Fox. He brought me along some of the more secluded trails in Ravenna Woods. I was thinking about the Tornados as I walked the dog. I am also thinking about looking for a job, and I thought about the first day of school. Won't my first day back at work be like their first day at school? Stressful, but a happy occasion filled with uncertainty and excitement? Might I have a few tornados of my own before this all comes to happen?

Tornados and Where are My Cows and Chickens?

A friend of mine read an article about productivity and chasing your dreams. What was I doing to accomplish what I want to accomplish and where was I spending my time? Did they align? What could I eliminate or reduce in my life in order to spend more time doing what I want to do?

Sounds good to me.

I also read the best way to get over disappointment is through hard work. I read that Holocaust survivors coped best when they were working, not remembering what horrors happened in their pasts.

Last fall, I lost an election and then hurt my knee, which was not the best way to get over the disappointment of losing an election. While I could wallow about my knee for nine months, it was not all that healthy or productive. I suppose if someone tore their ACL and they had a job, they could stay on that trajectory. Finding a new trajectory while recovering was really hard. My trajectory at the time was licking my wounds. Not that I did nothing, but I wasn't out there tearing it up and kicking ass.

Knowing I was in the middle of a recovery, I was patient and kind with myself to a point. Now I am starting to think about what to do next, so I started looking at how I spend my time. I know I need to start examining this in order to move on with the disappointment of the lost election and the disappointment of hurting my knee. How was I spending my time?

I looked at this morning. I spent part of the morning chasing a tornado, aka the Boy.

I was in the middle of learning SQL when I heard "I can't find my wallet." He was going to the mall with friends for lunch and needed his wallet. So, I stopped what I was doing and helped the tornado look for his wallet. I could have not helped, but the tornado swirling around wasn't helping me concentrate, either. When I found the Boy's wallet, I forgot what I was doing before, and started something else. Maybe I unloaded the dishwasher. Maybe I put some shoes away. Maybe I plugged a few pieces into a jigsaw puzzle I am working on which also serves as mediation.

Claire Adele is no better. She had a tantrum yesterday when she couldn't find her pre-calc notes and music folder from last year. How can I get this better under control? My home is not an office where meetings are scheduled and a shut door means "Do Not Disturb."

I understand my kids need help, but still why is everything tossed upside down when my kids need something? I don't want to be too closed off, either. I want to know when their friends are giving them a hard time, or when school, sport and clubs are all too much. I want to know when it isn't enough. Crises and emotions can't be scheduled, like Tuesday at 4:00 I will have a meltdown when I can't find my glasses, or Friday at 10:00 a.m. I will cry for no reason.

What did kids do before parents were at their beck-and-call? They were out milking the cows and feeding the chickens. Kids had bona fide responsibility, and there were real consequences to not doing the work. Forgot to feed the chickens? The hen might not lay eggs. Forget to milk the cow? She is probably screaming in pain and there will be no milk for supper.

So where are my cows and chickens? How can I teach my kids responsibility when there are so few consequences to their in action? I am paying the Boy to help me learn SQL. He got a little frustrated at times, but other times he liked it. "It is great when it all falls together," he said. This summer, the Boy helped me and Anita do some painting around the house. He made the work faster for us, and he got spending money. They might not be cows and chickens, but productive work also makes the Boy feel better. The same applies to me. If I could just time the time to figure it out.

Art of the Brick and Shoes

Yesterday, Jack, the Boy and I went to see the "Art of the Brick" exhibit by Nick Sawaya at the Pacific Science Center. The exhibit was more interesting was than I thought it would be. In addition to his own creations, Sawaya had reproductions of major artworks, like the Mona Lisa.

This piece has 75,00 pieces, one of the largest in Sawaya's collection.

The Boy had been dragged to numerous art exhibits and museums this summer. He had seen several of the pieces live and in person, which was then cool to see them recreated in Lego.

I spent all day on my feet, and in shoes I haven't worn since my accident. I wore my black Noat shoes, which are very comfortable but have a thick sole that is an inch high in places. And I survived. I have been out of surgery for six months, and I was glad that I could make it around. I had no doubt that I could after our vacation to France. Like our vacation to France, I was pooped at the end of the day and I was too tired to do my PT exercises at home. The Boy suggested we watch the X-Files, and I sank into the couch and couldn't get up.

T-Rex. I didn't notice how many bricks were in this one.

On My Own, Armando & Straight Lines

I have been going to physical therapy twice a week every week since January 8th. I took a week and half off when we went to France on vacation, and a day here and there when I visited my parents in Ohio, but other than that I have been a faithful patient.

Now I am going to the every other week plan, maybe less. Jason this past week gave me a list of ten exercises I should do three times a week to build up my strength. The main reason for the change is my insurance company gives me sixty visits a year, and I started on January 8th. Jack did say he'd be willing to pay for me to attend more PT, but Jason warned me it gets really expensive really fast.

"How will I know when I am ready to ski?" I asked.

"You can come back in January," Jason said, "when your insurance year starts over again."

Good thought--except now I am on my own. I won't have someone that I have to report into twice a week. There was a time where I was doing all of the exercises, but I wasn't fully recruiting my quad to do the work it needed to do. My leg was cheating and recruiting my hamstrings, glutes and calves to do the work of my quadricep. What if that happens again? Instead of finding out sooner, I'll find out later.

On the other hand, I've made a lot of progress, and at some point I'll need to cut the cord and do this on my own. I'll miss the check-ins, and seeing other people working on their injuries, too. The fall injuries will start coming in soon. Sometimes I wonder why I am still there when I can do so much.

Jack asked me yesterday about Armando. "Doesn't it make you feel bad to see these twenty year old professional athletes surpassing you?"Armando had his surgery six weeks after mine, and he is already running on the treadmill. I congratulated him on that milestone.

"Thanks," he said. "I was sprinting the other day!" He sounded thrilled to be back in his comfort zone. I was happy for him. My livelihood and dreams didn't go down the drain when I crashed on my skis. It was a setback, no doubt, but my life didn't depend on a recovery like his did. While the other twenty year old elite soccer players are out playing getting better, Armando was learning to walk again. Yesterday, he jumped from the ground onto a one foot high platform. I don't think I could do that when I was able-bodied, let alone during my recovery. I also noticed that Armando had different scars on his knee than I did. He must have had a patellar tendon repair when mine was an allograft. My recovery from the surgery would have been easier than his, which makes his progress all the more impressive.

Nevertheless, I felt okay yesterday. I was able to do bridges and pull-backs and lifts on the exercise ball. Back when I started, I could barely do one pull in without wanting to die. Now I can pull my legs back and then lift my hips! Go me! (There is no way I am going to post a video of myself doing this. No. Way. But is it hard. Trust me.)

I also realized how far I've come when I ran into Dave, one of the dad's on my son's soccer team. It wasn't until after the game that Heidi and I said hello to him.

"What happened to your leg?" Heidi asked Dave as he limped across the field, his leg bent.

"I was playing ultimate frisbee and someone crashed into me in midair," Dave said. "I tore my patellar tendon, my ACL, my MCL and my meniscus." Ouch.

"They had to fix the patellar tendon first, and then I'll have to go in and get my ACL repaired," he said.

"They couldn't fix both at the same time," his wife Melissa said.

"I had to keep my leg straight for six weeks with the patellar tendon," he said.

"...And you need to bend your knee right away with the ACL," I said.

"Right," he said. "How did you know?"

"Lauren had her ACL repaired this winter," Heidi said.

I was now Dave's new best friend. "So you know..." he said.

"Yep," I said. I listened to his story, and he listened to mine.

"I really want to get back to frisbee and tennis," he said. I understood.

Melissa chimed in with a story from one of their friends. "He turned forty and said 'I run. I swim. I bike. After forty, I only move in straight lines.'" I laughed. It was good advice, but kind of boring. I told Jack.

"I move in straight lines, but I still have issues with my knees and Achilles heel," he said. "Straight lines are no guarantee."