Parking

I have a temporary disabled parking permit. As soon as she heard about my injury, my friend Jen recommended I get one. One of her son's broke his leg, and the parking permit was a godsend.

I have mixed feelings about using the permit.  At the YMCA the other day, there were regular spots open next to the disabled parking spot, so I used those.  I didn't want to take a spot from an octogenarian in a wheelchair. Yesterday, I skipped the disabled spot and found another spot. The downside was there was about ten inches between my car and the one my my left, making it hard to get out, especially while hauling a backpack and crutches.  As I left, a woman waited while I go back in my car.

"Are you leaving?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.  She wanted my parking spot. Here I was hogging a regular spot when I could have used the disabled one.

I told Evan my physical therapist about my parking permit and the moral questions it posed for me.

"Use the spots," he said. "You deserve it."

The expert spoke, and I will obey.  Even though the whole clinic is driving me to work hard, they are cutting me some slack when is comes to getting a good parking space.  He even encouraged me to use the wheelchair services at the airport.

Carl and Knees

Carl the Carpenter came over today to look at our front porch to add a handrail.  A few years ago, he hurt his knee and had surgery and six months of recovery.  He recommended I get the surgery, and then follow my physical therapy routine afterwards.

"I spent six months focused on physical therapy. Some people go back to their desk jobs and don't do any of their exercises. They don't get their knees back like they should," he said.

"I like the physical therapy, and I wish I would have started it sooner," I said. "I am jealous of pro-athletes and professional dancers who get someone looking at their injury every thirty seconds after it happens. I had to wait three weeks before I could get in to see someone."

"Billionaires have invested millions of dollars into those people. They are going to be taken care of," Carl replied.

"True, but Laura Tisserand is a ballerina," I said. "Her pictures are all over the UW sport medicine place. She probably got into therapy right away, and no one invested in her, although she does make her livelihood through dance." I am jealous for the immediate attention she probably got.  Her left thigh, while significantly less flabby than mine to start, probably didn't atrophy for three weeks before she got it moving again.

Carl nodded.

"I am sure glad I don't live in the Middle Ages," I said.

"I thought the same thing when I was recovering," he said. "If I lived in the Dark Ages, my leg would have been cut off at the knee or I would have half go my leg just dangling there."

I laughed. "Your wife would have sent you out in the woods to hunt for bear and then you'd never come back.  In the Middle Ages, I probably would not have been skiing, so I might not have been injured."

"You probably would have already been dead anyway.  Life expectancy was thirty," he said.

"I probably would have died in childbirth," I said. Gallows humor can be helpful when looking at an injury. We laughed at our good fortune to have been born in the era of modern medicine. Even a few years can make a difference. I learned today from my physical therapist that Dr. Roger Larson, who just retired from UW, brought arthroscopic knee surgery to the US from Japan.  This technique improves outcomes and recovery times.

My Left Quad

I was at the physical therapist this week, which in some ways is nice and others a fresh slice of hell.  First, the hell part. Monday, I met with the PT tech. Before I even got to the bench, she was commenting on how I was walking as we were walking past a mirrored wall.

"Stop.  Your gait is wrong," Jane said.

What? My gait is wrong?

"You are walking on your toes.  You need to put your heel down first." My gait looked something like C3PO's, except with worse posture and a bent leg.

Hmmm.  I felt like a toddler, needing to relearn how to walk.  This sucks. I practiced walking. After a million years of ballet and jazz dance lessons, my parents would be proud.  I should have brought my tap shoes: Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.  It sounds like a combination. Shuffle, ball change.

I thought physical therapy would be like going to a trainer where I'd have a guided workout. No. Here I am measured and massaged and pushed.

"Let's go ride the bike," she said.  My brace was off, so I grabbed my crutches.

"No, you can walk over there," she said.

This was my worst nightmare--I feared they would make me walk unaided.  "Heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe.  Lift your knees. Keep your feet close together." Somehow, I managed to talk the 20 feet to the stationary bike.  "Let's walk some more." Oy, but I did it. As I got on the bike, she commented "Don't wiggle. Your core and hips are weak."  This woman made Miss Lenore, my childhood ballet teacher, sound like a cupcake. Point your toes, lift your chin, shoulders back. Smile! will forever been etched in my brain.

Before I got on the bike, she measured my extension and flexion.  When I got off the bike, she measured my extension and flexion.

My flexion is good, but my extension needs work.  Right now, I am walking with a bent leg, not a straight leg.  My biggest problem is that my quadriceps muscles aren't firing or sparking.  Jane massaged (read: kneaded) tendons around my knee. I did more leg lifts and got zapped by the Tens machine.  They put pads on my tight and send a mild electrical current through my leg to my thigh to flex. Lots of fun. (Not.) Now I feel like one of those guys who needs viagra or cialis--I have a part of my body that just doesn't work, no matter how hard I try to get it to move.

The funny thing is that in all of my life, many parts of my body have been flabby (arms, belly, butt), but not my thighs.  When I was a kid, I'd ride my bike almost every day. In my twenties, I rode centuries where I covered one hundred miles or more in a day. I went mountain biking with my friend Helen once on Angel Island. I could bike up hills where other people had to walk. At the end of ski season, my thighs are like rocks. Now, my left quadracep is useless. The goal is to get it back into shape, even if it means zapping it.

Today, I was talking to my physical therapist, Evan. I joked that it took two seconds to crash and now months and hours of work to recover.

"It's a great business model," he said. I stared at him blankly. He was right but...

"It's physical therapist humor," he said.

Aside from my inert left quad, PT isn't all bad. I am supposed to ride an exercise bike every day for 30 to 45 minutes to get my leg moving and to move the fluid out of the joint. Since I don't have an exercise bike at home, I head out the YMCA.  Gary my optomotrist said he doesn't like to ride stationary bikes. He thinks it is boring, and I agree. Given the choice between exercising inside or outside, I'll pick biking on the Burke Gilman Trail rather than have the very limited view of the houses across the street from the Y.  (Nothing against the Y -- it is great when it rainy and cold, and I love their yoga classes.)  Now, I don't mind the stationary bike so much as it is the most cardio work I can do.  Plus when I am on the stationary bike, I get to catch up on the latest celebrity news and fashion and dating tips!

Intellectual junk food reading while on the stationary bike.

Shit

Last week, my dad checked my mom into a Memory Care Unit for her Alzheimer's disease.  He has been attending Alzheimer support groups for a few years, and they told him "You'll know when it is time to put your loved one in a home. You will know."

I had a hard time swallowing this advice. While I agree that different people have different thresholds, people need some guidelines to consider. Maybe for some people it is when their loved one doesn't sleep through the night, or they sleep all day. Maybe it is when they leave the house and wander off every time their caregiver takes a shower or goes to the bathroom. For my dad, the final point was when my mom lost control of her bowels. This is not intended to humiliate my mom, but rather to show how this disease demeans and dehumanizes those afflicted, and how difficult it is for the caregivers. We are not talking about a bed bound person who can use a bedpan. We are talking about someone who has become functionally a toddler.

At this point, my dad determined the level of care she need was beyond his ability to provide.  Not that he wouldn't have cared for her, but he couldn't maintain proper level of cleanliness or hygiene for her to be healthy.  She wouldn't shower or brush her teeth. Her mouth started to stink, so he gave her some mouthwash, which she then drank. She had gotten a urinary tract infection, which was probably hard to him to figure out she had in the first place, so it probably was worse than the typical UTI all women get once in a while. She wouldn't eat what he prepared for her. When they'd go to restaurants, she'd forget what she ordered and want something different when the food arrived.

"I was happy to take care of her," my dad said, "but she wouldn't let me. And I didn't know how."

My dad hired a woman to come in a few times a week to help her bathe.  My mom was agreeable with the home healthcare worker and would take a bath. This woman would bring tacos for my mom, and my mom would eat them.  All of this was good, but the bowels did my father in. The healthcare worker wasn't there 24/7. My mom wouldn't let my dad help her, and she needed help.

"It was for own good," he said with remorse, relief, guilt, and optimism. "She is happier now." And clean. And busy and social.  The place she is staying has activities like baking cookies three times a day. The food is good and she is eating. She is now getting a level of service and attention that he was previously unable to provide because, ironically, he was too busy taking care of her.

My dad said my mother had also been depressed. I talked to him during the Winter Break before he put her in a home. When I asked how it was going, he said "Fair to poor."  My father is an eternal optimist.  "Fair to poor" means the seventh circle of hell for a normal person. It wasn't until after my dad put her in a home that he told me she lost control of her bowels.  No wonder she was depressed. I'd be depressed, too.

The hard part about Alzheimer's is the middle, the slow and tedious transition between the beginning and the end.  In the beginning, the person is just forgetful, but is still themselves.  In the end, they don't recognize anyone and need total care. Getting between the beginning and the end must have been torture for my dad. And he tried.

My dad is getting his life back.  He is finding dozens of things that had been neglected, like the furnace, one of his cars, and his teeth, among other things. He feels relieved and he misses her.  While things are finding a little bit of equilibrium, the fact my parents have to go through this at all is horrible, an exercise in suffering for all parties.

My Right Leg

My poor right leg.  It has been carrying the load these past three weeks.  I feel like need to do something nice for it, like get it a bow or something.  My right leg might get pissed off if I were to give it a floral tattoo or something festive.

"This is how you repay me for doing all of the work? By sticking needles in me? No thanks."

Part of my physical therapy involved riding a stationary bike to get my knee and left leg moving without bearing weight or needing to balance.  I started yesterday, and the first cycles were slow and awful. I can barely get through fifteen seconds, I thought. How can I do the minimum five minutes, let alone the thirty minutes they want me to work up to?

My right leg came to the rescue. She got the power and momentum up on the bike, and the left leg went along for the ride. I was able to ride for 30 minutes, no problem.  Again today, I rode for thirty minutes and it was the same.  The first few pushes were hard, but once we were spinning, it was fine.

Stairs are another place where my right leg has been carrying the load.  I had to google how to climb stairs with crutches on the internet.  "Up with the good, down with the bad." My right leg has been schlepping my entire body weight up and down stairs for three weeks. For the first week and a half when I couldn't bear weight, I had to hoist myself upstairs on my butt, using my right leg to push up and ease me down.

Dear right leg, how can I repay you? I know you know that it is in both of our best interest for my left leg to recover as soon as possible. I've taken you to massage.  I've tried to stretch you out, but I know that is hard given my left leg can't yet bear the entire weight of my body. I take warm baths, not just for the sake of my left leg, but for your sake, too.  You need rest just as much.  I bought some body butter today at Trader Joe's. While I can't do much else, I can take care of your skin.

In the meantime, bear with me. I'll try to be gentle to you as the left mends. I am working as hard as I can to get my left leg back as an equal partner.

Physical Therapy

I am on Day 21 of my skiing injury and I started physical therapy (PT) yesterday. I was really excited to start, and I was proud of the progress I thought I was making, just on my own. My sports medicine  doctor told me to do lots of range of motion exercises, so I did.  I flexed my leg up and down, several times a day, every day.  I was able to place more weight on my leg, and walk using the brace and no crutches. Likewise, I was also walking more comfortably without the brace and crutches.  I have mastered climbing stairs.  Yay!

I went to physical therapy and my flexion (the amount I can bend my knee so my foot can touch my butt) was at 120. This is a major milestone in one sense, but I have a way to go as my right leg can bend 150 and my foot can touch my bottom.

The one thing I can't do--and who knew this was a big deal?--is stretch my leg out straight.  My extension is less than it should be, by a lot.  No one told me I needed to work on getting my leg straight, or that it was a major deal in being able to walk.

Now my quadricep won't "fire" as my physical therapist said yesterday. I can't flex it at all. I don't even know how to flex it.  I tried, and my physical therapist said, "That's your butt muscle." I never once thought about intentionally flexing that muscle, and now I can't.

Since the injury, my quadricep has shut down, not wanting to work.  My therapist said my knee shut down to protect my knee from further injury.  Who knew?

Lottery

The Powerball is up to $800 million, maybe even more.  I normally don't buy lottery tickets, but I decided to buy a few when I read an article in the newspaper about the giant jackpot.  Jack and Pedro went out and bought tickets last night after dinner.  The odds of winning are 292.2 million to one.  We bought several numbers, decreasing our odds to fifty million to one.

As anyone who buy buys a lottery ticket, I am imagining what I will do with the money. I will make sure my father has enough money to support my mother as she continues her decline with Alzheimer's. I'll make sure Jack's parents are secure in their retirement, and I'll pay for the kids to go to college.

"Thanks, Mom," Pedro said at dinner last night when I listed sending him and his sister to college as my third priority.  He might have been waiting to see when his name would come up.

While it would be nice to have enough money to never have to worry again (not that I am worried now), money doesn't give someone purpose. Money could be fine, but we all still need to find something meaningful to do with our lives.

That being said, I am considering buying lottery tickets more often, but for a different purpose. I read in the Seattle Times that the State of Washington is using sales of lottery tickets to expand funding for education, among other things. Here the state is using the lottery as a revenue source, and I don't contribute. Lottery tickets is a tax on low income people, people who worry about money and spend a little bit as a wager on the chance that they might not have to worry again.  Is it fair in a state that has a regressive tax system that they should carry this burden? Perhaps I should participate and contribute some funds.

Just a thought.

All of this talk about the lottery reminds of when I was at my grandparents' home when I was in elementary school and the lottery selection came on.  The little numbered ping-pong type balls were bouncing around a clear container.  The woman opened a little door, and some of the balls floated into the tube.  Those numbers were the winners. My grandfather and I joked that we were going to rig the system by putting fishing weights inside all of the balls except the ones we picked, so our numbers would float to the top and we would win. It was our grand plan.

Not Sharing

I had an MRI earlier this week (which is kind of trippy, if you ask me. Lots of noise rhythmic noise in a quiet clean space is kind of weird.)  I told the tech at the end of the MRI I was hoping for just a sprain and he said, "Yeah..." in the tone of "Good luck with that. Enjoy that little fantasy until the radiologist reads the images and sends you a report because your knee is really f---ed up."

I have a torn ACL, a mildly torn MCL and a possibly torn meniscus.  Jack asked if I was hit by a linebacker instead of crashing on my skis. I talked to the sports medicine doc, and he said it was up to me if I wanted surgery or not.  He recommended starting physical therapy, seeing how it goes, and then deciding.  Some people are fine without an ACL -- others have their knee slip so often that it isn't functional.  While I am happy to start therapy, I am leaning towards the surgery.  It was nice to have an opinion that I could live without it.

Here is my dilemma -- I don't want to share this in Facebook and I don't know why.  Maybe because FB is always so filled with happy crap or politics (at least with my "friends") that I don't know where this fits. Maybe I don't want to be a downer.  I've written three posts, and then deleted them all. I don't know why I am so reluctant to share this.  Maybe this injury is too complicated for me to spell out in just a few sentences.  That I am doing reasonably fine, but I hate my stairs and I have a love hate relationship with my brace. That I find it strange that I have no pain, but when I walk without crutches, I get really tired. That I am feeling old but lucky enough that I have had an accident and not something internally or fatally wrong with me, like cancer or ulcerative colitis.

But I want to share. I want people to know. I want to talk about it. Maybe it is because FB has become so impersonal.  Some people might say it always has been, or that it is not.  When I first joined, I had a few friends who would post stuff about their personal lives, thoughts and observations.  Now, most of my friends just repost articles, share pictures of their vacations or tell major life changes, like they got a new job, all of which is fine. But where does something in the middle fall? The personal challenges and struggles which aren't all good or all bad?

Regression

"A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once." 

                       -- Shakespeare

I would hardly call my mom a coward, but watching someone with Alzheimer's is like watching them die a thousand times. Alzheimer's is death by a thousand cuts, dying a little bit each day, slowly, slowly, slowly. The mind and then the body falling into decline.

My dad had to put my mom in a Memory Care Unit yesterday. It must have been one of the most difficult days of his life. She couldn't take care of herself because of her Alzheimer's, and it got to the point where he could no longer take care of her. She can't remember how to walk sometimes, can't bathe herself, or brush her teeth. My dad couldn't keep up with maintaining her basic hygiene. It was almost like inadvertent neglect, which was by no means his fault for not keeping up.

I have a friend whose son is profoundly disabled with autism. She said that for families with disabled children, every milestone their child doesn't reach is a loss, and grief ensues. When other kids are mastering counting or the alphabet, some of these children lag behind. They might not ride a bike, or learn to drive, go to prom. They might not leave for college or work or marriage. For the parents who see the missed milestones, they grieve. So it is with losing a parent to Alzheimer's. Instead of just having a funeral and dying straight up, each step is an erosion and loss, with the knowledge that things won't move forward.

In many ways, my mother has regressed to being a toddler. Unlike toddlers, my mother won't improve. Unless a miracle cure is invented in the next few weeks, her path is towards decline. The Memory Care Unit sounds almost like preschool. There are three activities a day. Today, they baked cookies. My friend Eleanor, who is 94, said she has been to nursing homes where they teach those with dementia letters and how to read. There are even places called "Adult Day Care" where people can send their ailing loved ones during the day to be cared for so the other adults can go to work, grocery shop, or care for children. My dad is fortunate he can pay for this service, buy what about those who can't? What becomes of them and their families? Or, perhaps my dad isn't so lucky. Jack spoke with a friend whose father spent $1.2 million on his wife's institutionalization for his wife with Alzheimer's.

My friend Eleanor said "We are living too long nowadays." This is true for some but not all people. She is of very sound mind and has a healthy body whereas my mother is outliving her life. I wonder is Shakespeare had ever heard of Alzheimer's disease, or if such levels of dementia existed during his time. What did they do? Did those people die because they wandered off in the woods and were eaten by a bear? Who took care of them in a world of subsistence living? Even today, wandering off and getting lost is one of the major causes of death for people with dementia. They might fall into a creek, or get hypothermia in the winter. Again, my mother is fortunate that my father can take care of her, if not by himself, but that he has found a safe place for her to stay.

Monopoly

I loathe this game.  I will never play it again, ever, in my entire life.

Don't play Monopoly with Claire Adele.  She will win.  In the last 35 games of Monopoly played in our home or on vacation, she has won.  I am not kidding.  In a game a few weeks ago, Pedro and I were playing with her and compared her to Donald Trump.  She said she was more like Putin.  I am not fully sure what that means -- does she think Trump is worse than Putin, or Putin worse than Trump?  I didn't ask.  Yesterday, she said she was like Donald Trump, minus the racism.

The goal of Monopoly is not to accrue the most money, but rather to drive other people into bankruptcy. She does that quite well.  Anytime she has $100 in her pocket, she buys houses or hotels. Today I landed on her hotel on Baltic and was driven in bankruptcy by the $450 rent as the second most humble property on the board had a hotel.  I landed in it three times.  What are the odds of that? Seriously. Either the dice are rigged or the Monopoly gods are out to get me.

Pedro has some kind of death wish with this game.  He keep wanting to play even though Claire Adele wins every game. Why does he want to continue to play? Seriously, I don't get it.  It is always his idea to play, even though no one ever beats Claire Adele. Ever. I need to throw this game in the garbage.  Maybe playing Monopoly is my maternal punishment for not getting my kids an Xbox or getting Pedro a smart phone.

We are on vacation in Bend, Oregon. As I am in a leg brace and on crutches, I cannot ski at Mt. Bachelor with the rest of the family.  When the kids are around, I feel like I should spend some "quality time" with them. This evening, Jack had the good fortune of making dinner so he didn't have to play Monopoly with the kids.  I had some perverse maternal guilt that if I don't play with my kids--especially while on vacation--that I will burn in some special kind of hell for bad mothers.  Even though I know this isn't true, I still feel this way.  My kids are fed, have clean clothes, etc.  They will live if I don't play with them.  But this is vacation. I feel like this makes up for the rest of the year where I have to nag them to do their homework, practice their musical instruments, etc.  Vacations are special, where we should spend time together as a family, interacting and talking. Yet, playing Monopoly isn't a game of kind and gentle conversation.  It involves Claire Adele whining about wanting Boardwalk and Park Place and pitching a fit when someone else gets it. And Pedro flips off his sister every time she collects rent from him. This is family fun? I should sue Parker Bros. for false advertising.

Hearing the game from his perch in the kitchen, Jack made a recommendation: why isn't there an altruistic game where you get points for being kind and generous, not screw them into bankruptcy?That is a good idea, and a game I would play.  But would my kids?

Skiing Accident, Part 4 -- Life Around the House

As I hobbled around the house, Jack googled ACL injuries. Lindsey Vonn, the Olympic skier, had a torn ACL.  She recovered and continued to ski at an elite level. I also think of FRD and all he accomplished from his wheelchair.  A man who at the time would have been called crippled saved the world from Hitler. While it is nice to see these successful people manage and recover from illness and accident, I'd rather have my whole knee. I am still hoping it is just a sprain and not something worse.

Part of my challenge is managing life around the house.  FDR was raised in a wealthy family, and I doubt he ever had to make dinner or do the laundry. The kids are helping out -- the Boy learned how to use the washing machine and drier.  I am learning a few new things, too, like I have to be very specific about where things are when I ask my family to find things for me.  I can't say something is "on the table" because we have three tables. I can't say "In the dining room" when I think it could also maybe be in the kitchen.  Part of this is my family's inability to look beyond their noses. They are learning. 

I was just getting use to putting more weight on my left leg and using one crutch when my knee slipped while I was getting into the car last night.  We live on a steep hill, and as I was getting in the front seat, the door began to close as gravity pulled it down.  My weight automatically shifted to my downhill hill leg--the injured one--and my knee slipped.  Now it is tender and I am afraid to put more weight on it. Argh. I was hoping my knee was just sprained and getting better.  With this slip, I've lost a little faith in my sprain theory.

My poor right leg is having a hard time, too, as is my right shoulder and left wrist.  I am doing my range of motion exercises with my left leg, but my right one doesn't get to stretch because it has to bear my weight.  I am thinking of going to one of those Silver Stepper classes at the YMCA with the seniors who exercise while sitting on a chair.  There used to be a television shows with exercises for shut-ins.  Maybe that is next on my agenda.

Another challenge is clothing.  My doctor said to wear my new break next to my skin. This is fine, except I have so few clothes that fit over the brace.  I have one baggy pair of cords, and two pairs of fleece sweatpants.  I have dozens of skirts, but this is not the right season for those.   I have old style baggy yoga pants, too, but those are too loose in the hips. They might slide less if the brace helps hold them up.  Maybe I'll head to Pacific Fabrics and make my own baggy pants, or pants with a larger left leg.  Surely, someone must have thought of this!

A few years ago, the Boy's Lego team had to work on Senior Solutions. The idea was to come up with an idea that would help people over the age of sixty stay connected, independent and engaged.  Why not come up with clothing ideas for people who are on crutches or use a walker? I've seen the little bags women put on walkers. What about when people need crutches? What about having little attachments to the crutches so people can carry things around?  Just a thought.

Skiing Accident, Part 3 -- Recovery

It has been more than a week since my skiing accident, and I am still on crutches and wearing a leg brace.

The day of my accident, a man died off the same lift.  The newspaper reported the location of the man's death as near the pass at the "Silver Fir" resort.  The Summit at Snoqualmie is the only ski resort at the pass, and Silver Fir is one of their chair lifts.  I wonder if the same Ski Patrol team who took me off the mountain had to recover the man who died in the tree well. Was it the same sled that held my warm body hold his cold one just hours later?

The Ski Patrol people were very friendly, warm and calming. They all smiled a lot. They must be trained to be kind to people who are in distress.  Do they teach doctors, nurses and paramedics the same thing? Those professions see difficult stuff on a daily basis, where I imagine the Ski Patrol folks might have day jobs that might be far less exciting than professional skier, like accountant and marketing manager.  I am guessing the Ski Patrols are chosen first on their ability to ski, and then on how well they take care of people. Half of the challenge is being a good enough skier to go down any hill under any conditions and bring people down safely.  Maybe these people were ski team people in their youth, or maybe just missed the bar to make it to the Olympics, although speed and agility are somewhat different skill sets.  Fast skiers I am sure are as agile, but an agile skier isn't necessarily fast.

One of the Ski Patrol women said her daughter asks every time she comes if she helped anybody.

"Today I can tell her 'yes'!" she said.  What would she tell her daughter last Saturday if she were on the team who recovered the man who died?