No kneed to be concerned

I was proud of myself for hobbling into Burgerville last week, nearly one week post-op from a knee surgery to fix a torn meniscus and a torn ACL. I was wearing my Michelin Man brace as a warning to all. My crutches were leaning on the table between me and the ketchup as yet another indication of my fragile, broken state.

Obviously not Burgerville but close enough

A teen girl limped over to deliver our order. She was wearing a very sturdy black Stormtrooper boot with lots of Velcro and buckles. Feeling all commiseratey, I commended her on how well she was getting around and asked what happened to her foot.

“I got trampled by a horse.”

Not a terribly surprising answer, I suppose, given our rural cow town.

We chatted for a bit, every second of which I was grateful she didn’t inquire how I ended up with so much Durable Medical Equipment as fashion accessories. For if she had asked, I would have had to admit to one of the lamest reasons EVER to end up in an operating room: I stepped on a stick.

Yep. Not even kidding.

It happened last June and it was a stick about the size of a Costco hotdog. I was stupidly texting and walking at the same time (DON'T DO IT, kids!). In a flash of white pain, my ankle rolled and my knee went wonky and my back started spasming. It all calmed down enough for me to drive home, but later that night my knee buckled under me and made noises I never want to hear again. And thus began The Year of the Knee.

See?  Right here is where it hurts.

I did seek medical attention but for various reasons I didn’t get an MRI until December. The results clearly explained why six months later my knee was still achy and wobbly and I didn’t trust it: I had one large piece of meniscus flapping around and a decidedly torn ACL. I sound so sportsy, right? Me and my torn ACL? And my stick?

For other various reasons, I didn’t have the surgery until April 21. Key among them was a “I DON’T WANNA” resistance to canceling a long-planned escape to a warm sunny place. The other was my chosen surgeon’s busy schedule.

As anyone who knows me would expect, I did quite a bit of research to find my doctor. I got recommendations, stalked the Internet, went to several appointments, prayed, and trusted my gut.

All of that lead to a doctor who is the knee guy for Portland’s professional basketball team. So he is busy and in demand...not to mention the playoffs.  I swear to God and Steph Curry, I am putting shots in the trash can and recycling bin with freakish accuracy ever since my surgery. Good thing, too, since it currently takes quite a bit of effort to retrieve misses off the floor.

I also did a fair amount of research about the surgery experience itself, short of understanding precisely how the doctor was going to access part of my hamstring and turn into a new ACL. Even post-op I’m not sure my delicate countenance can handle the imagery of that medical magic.

There seemed to be a general consensus that the first week post-op would be hellish. Pain, swelling, pain med issues, bruising, immobility, body functions slow to rebound after anesthesia, etc. And now that I am two days away from being two weeks post-op I can safely say, not really that hellish at all.

Sure, yes, there have been some moments. Like the prickly frustration of trying to figure out how to potty in a small room with one leg completely straight in a brace. Let me just say that I spent several long days bitterly envying you standup boy folk.

And there was one particularly ugly instance of pain and panic and fear and frustration when Rob was doing all he could to try to put an anti-swelling compression stocking on my surgical leg. Putting pantyhose on oneself is torture enough. Asking an inexperienced male to put an exceptionally snug, intentionally undersized stocking on someone with fresh sutures is just stupid. It was infinitely worse than asking Rob to paint my toenails or cut my hair (both true and sore subjects).

If this had been my first time down the Steri-stripped path of surgical fun, I think I might still be a little shell-shocked. An immobile, swollen, painful knee is a lot to work around in trying to figure out basic activities like walking and bathing and getting dressed and sleeping. But with my default surgery mindset being that for a spinal fusion, I gotta say, this knee thing ain’t nothing. Yes, hard and lots of work. But regrettably I’ve experienced harder and workier.

I have been and remain and will continue to be a Very Determined Physical Therapy Patient. My first appointment was less than 24 hours post-op (doc's choice, not mine).

I have learned the hard way that you only get out of PT what you put into it. Like most of life. So I am working hard to be a Gold Star, A+ student. I have a notebook and a variety of apps tracking my progress and reminding me to exercise.  I am the poster child for the philosophy of “what gets measured gets done.”

Bendy at Day 5!

My determination is paying off so far. I actually made two physical therapists laugh and smile yesterday – LAUGH AND SMILE – because they were so amazed at how well I am doing. If you have ever been through physical therapy, you know the truth that is the best physical therapists make you mad at them.

Physical therapists exist to make you do stuff you don’t want to do and are certain you can’t do. And they do it with minimal emotion; the best ones have a permanent “don’t be a wimp” purse to their lips. So to have both Steve and Ben giving me smiles and wide eyes and head shakes and double checking the files that I was indeed only 11 days post-op was a HUGE boost. And stoked my fire to continue being the top student in their clinic.

As more evidence of my progress, my nurse cat Zak abandoned me a few days ago. When I first got home – like within minutes – that 15 pounds of purring love was on me and wouldn’t budge except for his nightly treat. (And now we know why he’s 15 pounds). For the first week, Zak was my ever present buddy and I had to keep a pillow handy to protect my knee from his enthusiasm. He knew – like animals do – that I was hurting and compromised and needed some love and attention and encouragement to just lie there.

But then around Day 8 or 9, I noticed he was gone. I found him on our bed, happily curled up in his normal spot. He raised his head for a pat and looked at me as if to say, “You’re good now, my work is done, let me get back to my nap please.” And such it has been. He still visits my lap during the day but for the most part he’s back to his normal routine of rotating through sun spots and cardboard boxes and fuzzy blankets.

Don’t get me wrong – despite this uncommonly good start I still have a LONG way to go. Like six more months. I still can’t figure out how to walk normally, for instance. Even out of my brace and with only one crutch, I too closely resemble the dad on “Fraiser.”

My knee, leg, and foot are still swollen despite lots of elevation and ice. Adding fashion insult to my stick injury, the only shoes I can comfortably wear at the moment are my orthopedic Crocs. Yes, with one white compression stocking, men’s basketball shorts, and Crocs, I am a vision of post-op loveliness.

And this brings us to Rob.

In the midst of watching Rob take care of every last little thing in our lives during my two back surgeries, I made a life decision and finally changed my last name to his after ten years of marriage. Something about watching him live out our vows every single day.

Nearly 16 years later, I am once again watching Rob prepare meals, clean the house, take care of several acres in the Grow-an-Inch-Everyday grass season, routinely hunt down several Alaskan villages worth of ice for my fancypants icing machine, and adjust his schedule so he can chauffeur me around to physical therapy and the grocery store and the post office just to get out of the house. He is adeptly wearing Loving Husband hat, Biggest Cheerleader hat, and Pushy Physical Therapist Assistant hat. (The challenge is for me to keep up when he changes hats. Expecting Loving Husband and getting Pushy PT Assistant is not pretty…for anyone.)

All Rob wants in return is for me to get better. I know because he keeps telling me this every time I thank him for all he is doing. Nevertheless, I remain grateful and humbled.

Yet another reason I am so determined to be the Best Physical Therapy Patient EVER.

Just a few ways he is taking care of me