Dr. Who, Self-Flaggelation and Grocery Shopping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next day after school, I broached the topic.

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

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

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

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

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

Online Dating and the Pursuit of Perfection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My life is so fucking boring.

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

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

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

Woman of Privilege (WoP)

Thursday, I had a busy day.

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you do yesterday?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Allograft versus Autograft, and En Pointe

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

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

"Allograft?" he gently corrected.

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

"How did you decide on that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Red Ball, or Not Counting

I hate to count. A big part of physical therapy is counting how many times you do something, like lift your leg. I find this depressing and demoralizing.  I am fine with the first few, but by time I get to 27, I am ready to kill myself. It have to have this super force of will to complete 28, 29 and 30.  My leg throbs, my hip hurts and I think I never want to raise my leg ever again.

Also, I lose count. When I am on the ground doing my exercises, my family and dog think this is free time.  They see me as a captive audience, unaware and unconcerned that my main goal is to count how many times I do something. 

I don't mind the distraction of my daughter telling me about her day. She only talks to me when she thinks I am not paying attention. This is the best way to get my teenager to talk about her life: pretend I'm not listening. Sometimes, it is hard to pay attention when I am on my third round of thirty leg lifts, but then I am done and she keeps talking. My son spent ten minutes yesterday discussing what his user name should be on a STEAM website. He wanted something clever and witty and not tacky.  I suggested "Dr. Whom" but it was already taken. He settled on Sriracha Rocket. Could I have had great conversations if I had been counting? No.

Fox is my other exercise companion, but he tries to distract me.  Here he is trying to prevent me from unrolling my yoga mat. Sometimes he is nice and will sit by my head. Other times, he will sit directly under the leg I am trying to lift. I don't see the point in that, but he is a dog, so there probably isn't a point.

I use a yoga mat because my floor is covered in dog hair and whatnot.

Instead of counting, I turn on music and time my workouts based on the length of the songs. This solves both the boredom of counting and being distracted my kids and dog. I figure if I do one leg lift in three seconds, then I can do ten in thirty seconds, or thirty in ninety seconds which is about half of a song. Instead of wanting to die by leg lift 28, I am happily jamming to "Put a Ring on It" and don't even notice I've been lifting my leg for three minutes.

Here is my new big, red ball. My son is 12 and my daughter is 15. The way they act around the ball, you would think they grew up in some barren, desolate, war torn place and have never seen a ball before. As soon as I bring it out, they think it is time to play. They throw it, jump on it, and bounce it around as if this was the first ball they have ever seen. We have a small house, so I am not so cool with this ball taking up a lot of space. The occupies more space when it is moving. I am glad my kids are kids, but I am also annoyed that they are having so much fun as a result of my injury. 

The Big Red Ball

Life in the Slow Lane

Today I was at the YMCA on the stationary bike.  Three weeks into my physical therapy routine, I have figured out to look at the exercise class schedule to determine the best time to find parking at the Y. On Tuesday through Thursday mornings, there is an AOA class--Active Older Adults, which means I won't get the disabled parking spot unless I get there before the class starts. The geriatric crowd is very nice, and often ask about my knee.

"Skiing," one seventy year old-ish man said to me as he looked at my crutch and brace. It wasn't a question ("Skiing?"). He stated it as a fact, as if he were Sherlock Holmes who deduced by my age and clothing that I was an affluent middle age woman, and the best way for affluent middle age women to get injured is by skiing. He then told me how physical therapy helped arthritis in his shoulder.

Today, there was only one early class, All Level Cycling, which I am assuming is a spinning class where the goal is to spin as fast as you can with minimum resistance and lots of momentum. My guess is they get up to 120 rotations per minute.  My target is rpm is 80.  Eighty isn't that slow--according to the bike computer, that is about 12 miles per hour.

When I am at the YMCA, I often see people on the stationary cycles on what Jack would call a "bike walk." This is when you cycle fast enough to move around, but slow enough to comment on the landscaping of various houses you are passing as you bike. There are people at the Y who are reading very thick and heavy books going about 20 rpm, barely moving their legs. I am guessing these folks aren't disabled, but rather are engrossed in their books and forgetting they are supposed to be exercising. As Pope Francis says, "Who am I to judge?"

Today was a different story.  I was pedaling along when a group of eight women my age or younger all wearing black tank tops with bright colored bra straps peaking out come into the cardio room where I am doing my physical therapy. No problem, until I figure out these woman all likely came from the spinning class and are now doing their post-work out run on the treadmills.  Some women are mildly jogging, but some are pounding it.

After three weeks of being surrounded by the book reading and geriatric crowd, I realized I am in the slow lane. Not only am I not in the spinning class, I am not doing a second round of exercise. Back in the day, I would go to the crazy hard core aerobics class at the YMCA in St. Louis after a morning bike ride. The gym was huge and almost a hundred women were in the class. This aerobics instructor has a cult following: this guy will make you skinny and you will have fun in the process. I lost 20 pounds after Clare Adele was born through this class. It was a miracle.

Now I feel like I am being left behind, even though I am making progress compared to where I was a month ago.  While it stings, I can handle getting left behind at the YMCA. What is really hard is getting left behind by my family.  They are going skiing this weekend, and I will be home alone. It isn't just the skiing, it is the adrenaline junkie husband of mine who keeps our vacations packed with white water rafting, zip lining, mountain biking or crazy hikes, like the Grouse Grind or Mt. Eleanor. How will I fit in? Will they adjust, or will I get left behind? Adrenaline junkies need their junk. I am afraid it will be me being left behind, and they go on grand adventures. It is not that they are willfully mean or cruel. I was part of the duo that raised my kids to like being outside and active. Now, it is like the old Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong."

My previously flaccid thighs are firming up, though they are not as firm as they would have been if I had been skiing, walking the dog every day, going to yoga, biking on a moving bike, etc. It is nice to see them returning, albeit slowly, to their former shape and glory, even though they have a ways to go.

What I am doing in the meantime between straight leg raises, being hooked to a TENS machine and stretching? The opposite of adrenaline junkie stuff: reading, quilting and writing.

"Not Meeting Goals," or Milestone Based Progress

I was down in the physical therapy torture chamber again today, buried in the basement of one of the largest structures in Seattle.  They have to hide it away where there aren't any windows or sunshine for some I-don't know-why reason. Maybe they don't want people to see the torture--I mean healing-- that is going on here.

Today, I was explaining to my daughter a painful technique they used to stretch my legs. "He had me sit on the table with my butt on the edge and then grabbed my right leg in one arm, and pushed down on my left leg with his leg."

My fifteen year old "Cosmo" reading daughter raised her eyebrows at me.  It sounded like I was describing some bizarre (or maybe not so bizarre) sex position.  I didn't realize it might have looked or sounded like that until I described it. At the time, any amorous feelings were a million miles away as I was focused on the pain I was experiencing. This was about as sexy as being in labor. Jason's wife is studying to be a mid-wife. Perhaps she should have been helping me out.

Jack told me that some of these physical therapies have milestone based progress. Instead of doing the same exercises for three weeks, they closely monitor my progress and adjust from there. While I am making progress, I am not anywhere near meeting my goals yet. Here is a table from today's summary.

	Short term Goals	Number of weeks	Goal Met
1	Full AROM of knee	3	no
2	Able to perform 30 SLR w/ out quad lag	3	no
3	Pt to be independent in HEP with 100% accuracy when demonstrated	4 weeks	no
	Long term Goals		Goal Met
1	Able to double leg squat 10 times	6	no
2	Able to walk unlimited distances w/ out increased symptoms	8	no
3	Pt to be independent in HEP with 100% accuracy when demonstrated and able to progress as symptoms allow - 8 weeks	8 weeks	no

My PT team sends me an update after my sessions, which is very nice, except I can't understand much of it as it is written in technical terms. I don't mind technical terms.* I am glad my PT team knows more about PT than me. I can, however, understand what "Goal Met" means at the top of a chart and what "no" means beneath it.

On the other hand, I am glad that I can at least walk without a brace and/or crutches at times.  I am glad I can bear weight on my leg, which I couldn't do before. Here are a few milestones I have made recently:

• Went to Trader Joe's and carried three bags of groceries up our 22 steps in two trips. This includes one bag that contained a five pound bag of clementines.
• Went to QFC and carried one bag up the stairs, including a very heavy pineapple.
• Cleaned part of the deck in the back to remove thin layer of organic growth (i.e., slime) due to extremely wet Pacific Northwest Climate and lack of sunshine on the north side of house. Needed to clean so I don't trip and fall when walking down steps. 
• Went to Pacific Northwest Ballet studio rehearsal for Romeo and Juliette (the best ballet ever) and left crutch in the coat room. I did not want to bring bad juju into the practice room with my crutch. I also walked in such a manner that belied the fact I was wearing a monster brace. Turns out I was not the only one using an assistive walking device, but I was the youngest one using one by thirty or forty years.
• I went to Queen Mary to buy tea even though I had to walk half a block as that was the closest I could park. In my pre-injury life, I would walk the half mile to Queen Mary from my house. Oh well.

Goals I would like to meet

• Squatting is actually a useful thing to do. I had a hard time digging into the bottom cabinets the other day and I had to perform some unique gymnastics to get out my tea tins for my newly purchased tea.
• Taking a shower.  I have been taking baths since the injury as I have been afraid to stand in the shower for that long without the brace.
• Walking the dog. I miss walking Fox.
• I was listening to "Time Warp" today while doing my home exercises. Some day I want to jump to the left, then step to the right, put my hands on my hips and knees in tight.
• I want to take a Barre class.  Just finished reading Raising the Barre by Lauren Kessler about her dancing in the Nutcracker in middle age. Great read, btw.
• Step on a chair to reach things in high places.
• Sit on my left foot. When sitting on the couch or at my desk, I like to sit on my left foot. Why? I don't know.  It usually makes my foot sore after awhile, but it is my favorite position. I can't even bend my leg that much. I can't even pretend to get my leg that high.  This is some bizarrely comforting habit I have. When I can't do it, I feel like a toddler who can't suck his thumb. I get a little antsy and things aren't quite right.
• I would like to walk gracefully, without a limp. I came close to that the other night at my son's soccer party when The Boy's coach said to me, "Oh you are the one with the injury!" after I grabbed my crutch.

Celebration

• I might have a big dance party when this whole shebang is over. Disco ball, the whole nine yards, perhaps while wearing my favorite shoes.

I am so tempted to wear these into a physical therapy appointment before the surgery and see what my team says. Will they notice? Freak out? Or, will I fall, trip over myself, and need surgery on my other knee?

* I am going to ask someone on my team next week to give me a quick briefing on the acronyms.

Breathing

As you may know, my number one life goal right now is to get my left leg straight. Yesterday I had physical therapy, and Jason was trying to help me achieve this goal. Part of physical therapy is massaging and pushing the muscles around to get them to loosen up and move as they should.

Sometimes this is not pleasant.

As Jason was pushing down on my hamstring to loosen my quad and increase my extension, I was wincing.

"Does this hurt, or do you not trust me?" he asked. His question was sincere. He was worried that I thought he was going to hurt me. PT are a little bit like dentists in this regard: they know at times they are causing their patients discomfort. Jason seems to not like this part of the job. When I mentioned that my friend's mom said patients should dislike their PTs, he seemed not to like that idea, either.

"I don't think I am like that," he said, slightly worried that I might perceive him that way, which I don't. Before working in a sports medicine clinic, he used to work with children. I can see him not wanting to cause children pain. Children, however, are for more resilient and flexible than many adults. Plus, you can plug kids into a video game while they are getting worked on, and they will feel no pain.

Seriously. Some medical center has done a study that show that video games have the same effect on kids as narcotics. This could be good if a child is coming out of surgery: video games are far less impactful on a child's health than narcotics. The downside is kids can't play video games while they sleep. The other thing to consider is if kids need an equivalent to a narcotic after school on a Wednesday when they haven't had surgery.

I digress.  While I am likely not a candidate for a video game playing jag during physical therapy, I did think about the breathing techniques I used in my childbirth classes. (Maybe women in labor nowadays play Mario Cart or Grand Theft Auto.)  I never thought I'd have to use that breathing/relaxation method again, but here I was breathing deeply and trying to let go of my muscle so it would relax.

Straight Leg

I met with the orthopedic surgeon last week about my knee.  Let's call him "Tex." In order for me to get surgery to fix my ACL, I need to get my leg straight. He estimated that it would take three to four weeks to get it straight, and if it wasn't straight, he would postpone my surgery. In order for me to get my leg straight, I have to keep up with my physical therapy.

"How long will I have to wear a brace or use crutches after surgery?" I asked.

"You have to earn your way off the brace," he said. "You need to show that you are doing the work so you can walk." Earn your way off the brace? I was just asking for a ballpark estimate, but something got crossed in our communication. This whole thing is new to me. I am not hiring him for his bedside manner. I am hiring him so he will fix my leg and I can walk, ski, play tennis and dance again like a normal person. Jack reminds me Tex is a surgeon. His job is to poke around inside my knee and fix it, not to reassure me.

Nevertheless, I cried when I got home. I was hoping the surgeon would have said, "I have an opening on Tuesday, if that works for you..." I've heard it takes six to nine months to fully recover from ACL surgery, and I want that clock to start as soon as possible. Waiting another month just might kill me. The other surgeon in the practice has the same opinion about the straight leg. They believe in "pre-hab," getting all of your muscles working before the surgery to improve the outcome. Tex wants to operate on a straight leg, not one that is bent.

I've been straightening and flexing my leg when I was younger for ballet, tap, jazz, aerobics and drill team for years.

• High kicks: straight legs, both the standing leg and the kicking leg. 
• Splits: straight legs. 
• Yoga: Warrior 1, 2 and 3, tree pose, etc -- all have a straight leg in there someplace

Now something that was so simple is now my greatest challenge. My number one goal is to have a straight left leg when it is relaxed, not just after a half an hour of stretching. Today, I went into my physical therapy (PT) appointment at 8:00 and my leg measured zero for extension! I was thrilled, until I looked at my right leg, which has a natural extension of -10. My left leg might be straight, but it doesn't match my right one.

I talked to Jason, my PT Assistant, about this.  "Shouldn't my left leg match my right one in the way to bends?" I asked. "It might look stupid if my legs don't match."

He agreed. "Our goal is to get you to -8 on the left before the surgery." Straight means not just straight, but almost equal to my right leg. I am sure my surgeon Tex would still fix it with 0 extension, but word on the street is listen to your PT.

Last night, my son had a soccer party. When I am at social events, everyone wants to talk about my leg. Not that my leg is the most engaging topic on the planet (sorry, gentle readers), but they are curious and empathetic, and ask questions ("What happened? Does it hurt?" etc.) I usually find out lots of good information. My friend Kathy's mom is a physical therapist.

"A good physical therapist is mean," she said. "You should hate them. If they are any good, they will work you harder than you want to work. And do what they tell you to do. You will get better." I was kind of hoping my PT would be more like my hairdresser--a cheerleader/therapist/friend whose job it is to make me look good. I am learning PT is not like going to a trainer.  I went to a trainer after Claire Adele was born. The trainer didn't try to get my non-functioning, flaccid quadricep to try to move. I went to the trainer able-bodied but flabby. My PT team's job is to get my leg to do things it doesn't want to do or stopped doing after the accident.

"Follow every word your physical therapist says," said Will's dad. "I had work done and I did everything they said and I am fine. They people who don't get better go to physical therapy once and then they can't figure out why they can't lift their arm above their shoulder."

"I skipped out on my physical therapy and now I limp," said Mark's dad.  I was getting the picture: Physical therapists are gods. Follow them. A friend of mine who is a doctor said the same thing: do what they say.

This put me into an interesting position. My surgeon said to not wear the brace and use crutches. My PT team said to wear the brace and lose the crutches.  Who should I listen to? Based on the general wisdom of the room, the PT trumps the surgeon in this case. Both my surgeon and the PT team want my leg straight, ASAP. Yet, my PT team understands that I have twenty-two steps up to my house and I need to make breakfast and dinner for my family. My surgeon does not, but in fairness that is not his job.

After I have been working my butt off biking and doing 270 leg lifts* a day while slowly limping around my house, good news came from an unexpected place. Our family carpools to soccer with another family.  The boy, Asher, said to me at the party, "Lauren you are looking great! You are walking so much better than the last time I saw you. You don't have crutches anymore." He was truly sincere in his gushing, and I drank it up. Asher sprained his ankle in the fall, and was on crutches briefly. He knew the drill of recovery. "Before you couldn't walk at all before and now look at you!" What an adorable kid! It was nice to know my progress is visible to the human eye, not just measured by the PT's rulers.

* Maybe closer to 180.

Bullshit

I got back last Tuesday from Ohio where I visited my dad and my mom.  I now list them separately, in a sad way. My dad and I visited my mom in her new home in the Memory Care Unit, which is a nursing home for people with dementia. The staff there are very nice, and seem genuinely concerned about taking care of these people who are struggling. They are also trained to support people with dementia.

I last saw my mom a year and a half ago. At our first visit this time, her verbal exchanges were limited to

• 25% introductory clauses (e.g., "You know what I think...")
• 25% Blah Blah Blah.  Literally.  "You know what I think, blah blah blah." There is a little singsongy cadence to this.
• 25% Raspberry noises.  I am assuming this means she is lost or doesn't know what to say.
• 25% Singing the Mexican Hat Dance. I am assuming this means she is happy.  My dad asked if I could teach her another tune.

My mother seemed to be in a reasonably good mood on the first visit--not so much on the second and third. Belligerent is the best word I can describe use to describe her mood on the second and third days. She wasn't belligerent the whole time, but enough that I was walking on eggshells, worried that I would set her off. On the first visit, my dad brought a photo album with my kids.  She enjoyed looking at that, and would carry the book around. When I picked it up to return it to her room, she stared at me and said, "That's my book," as if I were taking it away from her.

The next day, my dad brought a photo album I had assembled for her years ago of Michael's and my childhood birthday parties. I showed her pictures of my brother and I as babies, along with many of our relatives when they were young.  She started to cry, so I turned the page.  She continued to cry, so I put the book aside. The television was on in the background. A commercial for the ASPCA came on with the most forlorn looking animals ever assembled, all of them in wire cages. This did not help her crying. This commercial was followed by a commercial for St. Jude's Children's Hospital.  Even with her memory loss, my mother understood that children without hair have cancer. She was now in a mode of unstoppable sadness.

I decided to see if I could further distract her. My father bought a coloring book of Christmas drawings, and I brought it along. I got out the colored pencils she had bought a few months ago, and started to draw. I asked her if she wanted to draw, too, and this filled her with anger.

"What are we doing here? What are we doing?" I put the coloring book away, and went and sat beside her.

"This is bullshit. This is bullshit," she said, her belligerence building. "What are we doing? Why am I here? Bullshit."

"Laurie thought you might want to color," my dad said.

"Bullshit," she said, glaring at me.

"She loves you," he said.

"Bullshit," she said. I had no idea what to do. I was afraid to say anything for fear for further making her angry. At the same time, it is really hard to love someone when they are screaming "Bullshit" in your face.

I like to swear, but I avoid swearing at people. My son likes to swear, and we've had conversations about the appropriate audiences for swearing. Having my mother swear at me was highly unsettling, and there was little we could do to reason with her. Ester on the other side of the room looked over to me and made a patting motion with her hand. I reached out and patted my mom on the arm.  Ester nodded.

"Give her a kiss," Ester said looking at my father. My dad leaned over and kissed my mom.  The swearing stopped. Ester seemed to know how to cope with my mother better than my father and I.

The next day was rough, too.  My father and I walked in and the group was in the middle of an activity. It was the Martine Luther King, Jr. Day of Service, and five college were students hanging out with the group. We apparently interrupted my mother, because before we even made it down the hall she started yelling at my father and I.  She interrupted the circle with numerous "Bullshits."

The students kept the residents busy, so I didn't get a chance to talk to my mom.  When it was time for lunch, I walked her down the hall, holding her and singing the Mexican Hat Dance. I was wearing my leg brace and left my crutches in the closet outside of the Memory Care Unit.  I was leaving at noon to join my friend Beth from high school for lunch.  I figured if I walked off with my crutches, she would see I was leaving and that would upset her.  The staff says a stealthy departure is best, because the person with dementia will forget three minutes later that you were even there.

As we got in the dining area, my mother stumbled. I realized that me and my weak leg were not the best person to support her as she ambled down the hall. I feared I would have dropped her and landed on the floor myself. I was lucky my brace held both of us up.

I left Columbus on Tuesday.  I said goodbye to my dad at the baggage check-in. I remembered my carpenter Carl said he had his best airport experience when he was in a leg brace and in a wheelchair. I would say that was true for my time at Seatac. I got a wheelchair and the Delta guide wheeled me to security. I told the TSA staff I was wearing a leg brace. I forgot to tell the TSA folks in Seattle, and they were surprised when I set off the metal detector.  The woman in Seattle was kind when she saw I was wearing a leg brace.  I went through the body scanner and had a pat down.

"Can you take the brace off?" asked one of the TSA guys in the Port Columbus Airport.

"I can, but it takes ten minutes to readjust," I said.

"Okay, we'll send you through the body scanner and then you'll get a pat down," he said.

"That's fine with me," I said, trying to be agreeable. I went through the body scanner and they did a pat down. The woman who did the pat down wanted to look at my brace. Fine again. I complied.

"I need someone to scan this brace," she said.  In the meantime, another woman starts yelling at me about sending my laptop through without putting it in a separate box.

"Is this your laptop? You are supposed to pull it out..." she said. I know, I thought. I am in a wheelchair, and my helper put my bag through security. I didn't have to do this is Seattle.

The woman with the metal detector wand scanned my leg while the laptop lady continued to yell at me. The metal detector lady said, "You need to take the brace off."

What? I thought, This is absurd. I didn't argue. I took off the brace. I know the job of TSA is to make sure we are safe, but what about showing kindness to the people they are supposed to protect? Like an obedient child doing something against their own will, I hiked my yoga pant leg cuff up to my thigh, and removed the brace. I asked my helper for my crutches. I was so frustrated. In Seattle, I had worn corduroy pants and the only way to take off the brace would have been to pull my pants down.  What I had just had surgery and couldn't take my brace off for six weeks but needed to travel? Seriously. What if I were permanently disabled, and not temporarily? How are we supposed to manage? Have these people ever spent time on crutches or in a wheelchair? Is there empathy training for these folks?

By time I got my brace back on and wheeled to the gate, I was in tears. I wanted to scream "This is bullshit!" I wanted to be like my mother and not have a filter and express whatever emotion came to the surface. Logic, patience and rationality be damned!

The women at the gate were lovely and nice, but empathy after the fact doesn't negate an awful experience. One of the women had a knee replacement, and was regularly harassed by TSA, even though she has a card from her doctor. Not everyone travels for happy reasons, either. Not everyone is going to Disneyland. Some of us are traveling not because we want to, but because we have to visit our ill or dying or dead relatives.

When I got home, I told my daughter I wished she were there to videotape this event with her phone and we could post it online. She smiled with glee at the thought of her video going viral of me being abused by TSA agents. I was right there with her, even if it meant me standing in the middle of airport security in my underpants.

Like my mother who would rather have her memory back, who would rather be busy and be able to participate in regular life, I'd rather not be in this spot, needing extra support. But here we both are, needing help because of loss of independence.