Alternate Title: The Big Day
Alternate Title: Cortisone Shots Rock!
Dance Recital is less than 8 hours away.
I am utterly terrified.
OH! But before I say anymore about that, let me show you a video of my cortisone shot to the knee experience from last week. If you are squicked out by needles you may want to skip this next part. (PSSSST! Hiccups! That would be your cue to scroll down PAST the video.)
Oh and btw - that is NOT my hairy masculine leg in the video. Ahem. Ever the faithful blogger, I was planning to video the procedure, but the camera on my cell phone didn't react well to the X-Ray machine (iow, it was RUINED!) and so I was left without tools to document this wonderful hopefully once-in-a-lifetime experience. So I turned to YouTube and wouldn't you know there are TONS of videos to choose from, but they're mostly male knees. Go figure.
First the doctor drains the knee of extra fluid that has built up inside the joint that is causing the stiffness and pain. Then the cortisone is injected.
My experience was a little more interesting than that video, because when the doctor removed the extra fluid from my knee, my thigh muscles, which due to local anesthetic were no longer under my direct control, contracted and pulled the kneecap down on the needle, which caused me a little bit of concern (i.e. pain), and caused the doctor to admonish me to relax, whereupon I tried my very best to relax but couldn't, even after employing my best active-labor breathing relaxation techniques. So we were in limbo for a minute or two, with the doctor not wanting to force the needle and damage something in there, and with me regretting the whole thing and wishing for sudden, instant, and immediate death. But then she had the brilliant idea for me to bend the knee just a tiny bit, which helped my quad muscles release, which relaxed the kneecap, which ended the pain, which enabled the doctor to complete the procedure, and then it was all over.
Ta DA!
After three days of babying my stupid leg (and getting alarmingly out of shape in the process) the swelling was almost completely gone and I could dance again! Yee HAW!! To say I am thankful for modern technology that keeps me walking would be an understatment. Also, Dr. Melissa McLane at Utah Valley Orthopedics simply RAWKS!!! :waves madly: If you live in Utah County and have a joint injury, go to see her first. You'll love her, I promise.
Fast forward 10 days to today. The good news: My knee is still working great. YAY! The bad news: I feel waaaay less prepared than I did for my last recital. Hence the terror.
I think it's justified. At least a little. Getting up on stage in front of hundreds of people is terrifying even when I'm rock solid prepared. Getting up on stage when I haven't physically been able to practice near as much as I needed to is almost paralyzingly scary. I am literally sick over it.
Everyone keeps telling me not to worry, that no one is expecting me to dance wonderfully so soon after surgery. They tell me they're amazed that I am dancing at all. They tell me not to be so hard on myself. They tell me to just have fun.
And I know they're right. In my logical mind, I agree that I should just relax and not worry about doing a great job and just be happy that I'm walking normally again, let alone dancing, however badly. But that perfectionistic deep-down-very-center-core-of-Who-I-Am has a really hard time playing the cripple card. I don't want to dance well enough for someone who had surgery 7 months ago (which is a nice way of saying "you suck but you have a good excuse so I won't tell you the truth"). I want to dance GREAT! And even though the audience probably wouldn't notice the difference, I notice. And I hate mediocrity, most especially in myself.
But maybe this time I don't have a choice. I've practiced as much as the knee will allow. I am not in control of how fast it heals or how much it will let me do. And at 5pm Mountain Time tonight, I'll get up on that stage and do the best I can, and it will just have to be good enough.
And who knows... maybe it will go better than I think it will. Maybe by some miracle I'll remember all the steps and the formations and I'll remember to look up at the audience and grin like I'm having the time of my life and my knee won't buckle and throw me to the ground and to everyone else it will look amazing or at least not awful.
It could happen, couldn't it?
Showing posts with label knee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label knee. Show all posts
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Nothing to do but fret
Yesterday I got a cortisone shot in my troublesome knee that decided to swell and be generally annoying with only 10 days to go to recital. The doctor was awesome (thanks to Andrew for getting me in to see her!) and almost immediately my range of motion was improved. She sent me home with some painkillers and an order to stay off it AMAP for 24 hours and told me I'd be dancing again by Saturday. That gives me a week left to get my routines polished before going on stage on December 13. I guess that will have to be good enough.
Yesterday my favorite mother-in-law had breast cancer surgery. The cancer has spread farther than they had hoped, and so she'll have to follow up with radiation and chemotherapy. I am worried about her and wish there was something I could do to help. Sending flowers seems like such a paltry offering in the face of such a serious illness, you know?
Today my best friend's 4-year-old son goes under the knife to remove a thyroglossal duct cyst. I know! I had no idea what it was either. His parents are understandably very concerned about him. I am concerned about my friend. Again, there is not a thing I can do.
So I'll sit here and worry and wait for news while I worry and wait for my knee to feel better. I need a good book or something.
Yesterday my favorite mother-in-law had breast cancer surgery. The cancer has spread farther than they had hoped, and so she'll have to follow up with radiation and chemotherapy. I am worried about her and wish there was something I could do to help. Sending flowers seems like such a paltry offering in the face of such a serious illness, you know?
Today my best friend's 4-year-old son goes under the knife to remove a thyroglossal duct cyst. I know! I had no idea what it was either. His parents are understandably very concerned about him. I am concerned about my friend. Again, there is not a thing I can do.
So I'll sit here and worry and wait for news while I worry and wait for my knee to feel better. I need a good book or something.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Occasionally Asked Questions
Welcome to my OAQ (pronounced 'oh-wack'). I know that it doesn't have the same clever ring as a FAQ, but since this blog doesn't get all that much traffic, most questions only get asked once or maybe twice, and hence the term "frequently" doesn't quite apply here. And I'm okay with that. Popularity is over-rated, anyway. Honestly, it's not a big deal to me! Really.
Chicken Update: they're about as big as breadboxes now. Does anyone actually know how big a breadbox is supposed to be? So yeah. They're dark orange feathered, white tailed, chicken-shaped breadboxes on legs. If you follow the link there is a picture of them. We've sent all the cockerels and meat birds on to that great pasture in the sky. Now that we're down to just the four hens (who will start laying in late September or so), I've been letting them run around the yard during the day. Actually, for the past week or so, I've pretty much been ignoring them. I changed their water yesterday. I think. They find a sheltered spot to spend the night, and spend their days scratching in all the flowerbeds, garden beds, and yes, eating my blackberries and grape tomatoes and windfall apples. I toss out leftovers and overripe ears of corn. They eat the cat's food if someone leaves it out on the porch. The siamese cat, Baby, is my chicken herder. She is never far from the flock, watching them with fascinated eyes. They are not afraid of her in the least, and often come in for a closer look, at which point the cat turns and flees to a safer spot. The other day I looked out the kitchen window, and one of the hens was actually chasing her across the lawn! She ran to the screen door and meowed piteously for me to save her! I must start keeping the camera closer at hand!
Knee Update: I am recovering nicely after falling out of my house nearly two weeks ago. After about a week, the swelling and painful stiffness began to recede and I am back to riding bike and walking to condition the leg. Clogging starts in just under a week and I hope to be ready to join the class on September 2nd. I got the green light from my surgeon to slowly re-engage in normal activities of my choice, so now I am just waiting for my knee to read the memo. Wish me luck!
The Kitchen: Ugh. I am trapped in indecision. Do I go for the cheap re-staining of cabinets and a spray-on countertop facelift that I can afford now, or do I save up another year or so for the complete renovation, including new flooring, appliances, and a cabinet/appliance configuration designed by someone who actually spends time working in a kitchen (aka: a woman)? Or maybe a middle of the road, fence sitter approach: stain the cabinets and buy a new laminate countertop? I think the problem is that I don't really know what I want. I guess when I really get serious about doing something, I will actually do the research and shopping required to make a decision. The real question is: will my desire for an updated kitchen ever be stronger than my aversion to shopping?
The Harvest: This is the time of year that I am glad that I forced myself to plant stuff in the spring. We are currently eating our fill of table grapes, corn, green beans, and zucchini, as well as sharing with neighbors. Green peppers are sizing up and will be ready soon, along with raspberries and peaches. We would be eating grape tomatoes and blackberries if I would keep the chickens penned up. Salad tomatoes are still green, and the cantaloupes are racing to ripen before cooler weather comes. I am cautiously optimistic.
The Garden: I think that this is my poorest gardening year yet. Last year I was ambitious and energetic, and we planted the entire back and side of the neighbor's yard. This year, I've let everything go.
Ever since my mother's passing last September I haven't felt the passion for working in the garden that I once did. I wonder if maybe I loved gardening because my mother did and I was subconsciously trying to be like her? I don't know. Now that she's gone, I don't care so much any more. Add lack of interest to being crippled for most of the spring and early summer, and the result is a weed patch. Even now that I can work outside again, I don't much. I feel faintly embarrassed when I actually open my eyes and see how bad my yard looks, but even then I don't care enough to do anything about it.
Maybe next year.
The Bishop: Hiccups asked, "What's it like being interviewed by the new bishop?" Uh... I don't understand the question, really. The bishop doesn't interview me, unless you count pillow talk.
Which I don't.
He puts in a 10 - 12 hour day most Sundays and has interviews or visits two other nights per week. He's out doing good a lot. Even when he's home he's often preoccupied with the problems of ward members or talking to them on the phone. I'm just the support personnel at home that irons his shirts and prepares meals so that when he walks in the door after a long day at work he can go right back out and do good. It's a good thing I'm a strong independent woman with my own interests and friends, otherwise I'd miss him too much. Then I might be forced to schedule an interview.
Stay tuned for more true confessions...
Anything else you wanna know?
Chicken Update: they're about as big as breadboxes now. Does anyone actually know how big a breadbox is supposed to be? So yeah. They're dark orange feathered, white tailed, chicken-shaped breadboxes on legs. If you follow the link there is a picture of them. We've sent all the cockerels and meat birds on to that great pasture in the sky. Now that we're down to just the four hens (who will start laying in late September or so), I've been letting them run around the yard during the day. Actually, for the past week or so, I've pretty much been ignoring them. I changed their water yesterday. I think. They find a sheltered spot to spend the night, and spend their days scratching in all the flowerbeds, garden beds, and yes, eating my blackberries and grape tomatoes and windfall apples. I toss out leftovers and overripe ears of corn. They eat the cat's food if someone leaves it out on the porch. The siamese cat, Baby, is my chicken herder. She is never far from the flock, watching them with fascinated eyes. They are not afraid of her in the least, and often come in for a closer look, at which point the cat turns and flees to a safer spot. The other day I looked out the kitchen window, and one of the hens was actually chasing her across the lawn! She ran to the screen door and meowed piteously for me to save her! I must start keeping the camera closer at hand!
Knee Update: I am recovering nicely after falling out of my house nearly two weeks ago. After about a week, the swelling and painful stiffness began to recede and I am back to riding bike and walking to condition the leg. Clogging starts in just under a week and I hope to be ready to join the class on September 2nd. I got the green light from my surgeon to slowly re-engage in normal activities of my choice, so now I am just waiting for my knee to read the memo. Wish me luck!
The Kitchen: Ugh. I am trapped in indecision. Do I go for the cheap re-staining of cabinets and a spray-on countertop facelift that I can afford now, or do I save up another year or so for the complete renovation, including new flooring, appliances, and a cabinet/appliance configuration designed by someone who actually spends time working in a kitchen (aka: a woman)? Or maybe a middle of the road, fence sitter approach: stain the cabinets and buy a new laminate countertop? I think the problem is that I don't really know what I want. I guess when I really get serious about doing something, I will actually do the research and shopping required to make a decision. The real question is: will my desire for an updated kitchen ever be stronger than my aversion to shopping?
The Harvest: This is the time of year that I am glad that I forced myself to plant stuff in the spring. We are currently eating our fill of table grapes, corn, green beans, and zucchini, as well as sharing with neighbors. Green peppers are sizing up and will be ready soon, along with raspberries and peaches. We would be eating grape tomatoes and blackberries if I would keep the chickens penned up. Salad tomatoes are still green, and the cantaloupes are racing to ripen before cooler weather comes. I am cautiously optimistic.
The Garden: I think that this is my poorest gardening year yet. Last year I was ambitious and energetic, and we planted the entire back and side of the neighbor's yard. This year, I've let everything go.
Ever since my mother's passing last September I haven't felt the passion for working in the garden that I once did. I wonder if maybe I loved gardening because my mother did and I was subconsciously trying to be like her? I don't know. Now that she's gone, I don't care so much any more. Add lack of interest to being crippled for most of the spring and early summer, and the result is a weed patch. Even now that I can work outside again, I don't much. I feel faintly embarrassed when I actually open my eyes and see how bad my yard looks, but even then I don't care enough to do anything about it.
Maybe next year.
The Bishop: Hiccups asked, "What's it like being interviewed by the new bishop?" Uh... I don't understand the question, really. The bishop doesn't interview me, unless you count pillow talk.
Which I don't.
He puts in a 10 - 12 hour day most Sundays and has interviews or visits two other nights per week. He's out doing good a lot. Even when he's home he's often preoccupied with the problems of ward members or talking to them on the phone. I'm just the support personnel at home that irons his shirts and prepares meals so that when he walks in the door after a long day at work he can go right back out and do good. It's a good thing I'm a strong independent woman with my own interests and friends, otherwise I'd miss him too much. Then I might be forced to schedule an interview.
Stay tuned for more true confessions...
Anything else you wanna know?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
And we all fall down
It was a perfect summer's evening. The sun had just set, and stars were beginning to pop out of the deepening blue sky overhead. And then the fun started. There was screaming. Children were traumatized. Neighbors came running. No big deal, really. It's just a day in the life at the bishop's house.
The knee that has been the bane of my spring and summer has been improving dramatically in recent days and I have been working hard on getting my full range of motion back and re-training myself to walk without a limp. Last week my physical therapist, Ed (aka The Dungeon Master) was so happy with my progress that he said I only needed to come in once a week. I even did a tiny bit of clogging - yes, dad, I was careful! - to help Nathan and Megan practice for summer lessons. I am jazzed about getting my mobility back, and with it, my life.
Life is good.
Oh, except for one little detail.
Last night I fell out the front door and hurt myself. Again.
It was one of those stupid things that you keep going over in your mind and see all the ways it could have been avoided. If only I'd taken my stupid waffle stomper shoes off earlier so that my toe didn't catch on the threshold. Or maybe if I'd picked my feet up or -- oh here's a good one -- watched where I was going instead of scanning the horizon for a stupid planet we'd been watching for all summer. If only I'd declined my husband's offer to come and see Venus in the sunset instead of brushing my teeth. I had the toothpaste on my brush. I already had two buttons undone on my shirt. It all happened so fast. One moment I was stepping out the front door to see the sunset and the next I was on the porch, kneeling a step down on the welcome mat with my feet pinned behind me on the threshold above, my still tender knee bent as far as it would go-- far more than it had been bent in the last five months since I first hurt it.
I made quite a spectacle of myself. Tom was standing right behind me when it happened, and although it seemed like forever, within seconds he had lifted me off the porch and drug me backwards into the house so that I sat clutching my knee with both hands, my feet dangling out the door down onto the wide top step. I don't remember why the screen door didn't close on me. Was he holding it open or was I? I could hear Megan wailing in the kitchen. A door slammed somewhere in the house. The floor was shifting and the walls began to spin slowly. Someone was groaning loudly. It made me mad. SHUT UP, already! Oh wait... that would be me. Quick, somebody get a sock and stuff it in my mouth to stop that pitiful mewling noise!
Just then the neighbors arrived. Are you ok?! Oh... hi! Uhhhhh - yes I'm fine, but could you do me a really big favor and maybe get a gun and just shoot me? Right now would be real, real good.
One burly guy helped Tom hoist my great bulk the rest of the way into the house and onto the couch. Karianne, ever the calm one, filled ice packs and brought them to pack around me leg. I think maybe she should go into nursing or something. That girl has nerves of steel. Tom went to comfort the sobbing Megan and checked on Susan, who had fled to her room in tears.
So now I'm on the couch propped up on pillows and my knee is blessedly numb from the ice. I am telling the kids that I will be okay and I that I don't think I did any more damage. I'm telling them that I'll be back up and around again in no time.
But there's one burning question in my mind that I don't have an answer for...
Did I ever button my shirt back up?
The knee that has been the bane of my spring and summer has been improving dramatically in recent days and I have been working hard on getting my full range of motion back and re-training myself to walk without a limp. Last week my physical therapist, Ed (aka The Dungeon Master) was so happy with my progress that he said I only needed to come in once a week. I even did a tiny bit of clogging - yes, dad, I was careful! - to help Nathan and Megan practice for summer lessons. I am jazzed about getting my mobility back, and with it, my life.
Life is good.
Oh, except for one little detail.
Last night I fell out the front door and hurt myself. Again.
It was one of those stupid things that you keep going over in your mind and see all the ways it could have been avoided. If only I'd taken my stupid waffle stomper shoes off earlier so that my toe didn't catch on the threshold. Or maybe if I'd picked my feet up or -- oh here's a good one -- watched where I was going instead of scanning the horizon for a stupid planet we'd been watching for all summer. If only I'd declined my husband's offer to come and see Venus in the sunset instead of brushing my teeth. I had the toothpaste on my brush. I already had two buttons undone on my shirt. It all happened so fast. One moment I was stepping out the front door to see the sunset and the next I was on the porch, kneeling a step down on the welcome mat with my feet pinned behind me on the threshold above, my still tender knee bent as far as it would go-- far more than it had been bent in the last five months since I first hurt it.
I made quite a spectacle of myself. Tom was standing right behind me when it happened, and although it seemed like forever, within seconds he had lifted me off the porch and drug me backwards into the house so that I sat clutching my knee with both hands, my feet dangling out the door down onto the wide top step. I don't remember why the screen door didn't close on me. Was he holding it open or was I? I could hear Megan wailing in the kitchen. A door slammed somewhere in the house. The floor was shifting and the walls began to spin slowly. Someone was groaning loudly. It made me mad. SHUT UP, already! Oh wait... that would be me. Quick, somebody get a sock and stuff it in my mouth to stop that pitiful mewling noise!
Just then the neighbors arrived. Are you ok?! Oh... hi! Uhhhhh - yes I'm fine, but could you do me a really big favor and maybe get a gun and just shoot me? Right now would be real, real good.
One burly guy helped Tom hoist my great bulk the rest of the way into the house and onto the couch. Karianne, ever the calm one, filled ice packs and brought them to pack around me leg. I think maybe she should go into nursing or something. That girl has nerves of steel. Tom went to comfort the sobbing Megan and checked on Susan, who had fled to her room in tears.
So now I'm on the couch propped up on pillows and my knee is blessedly numb from the ice. I am telling the kids that I will be okay and I that I don't think I did any more damage. I'm telling them that I'll be back up and around again in no time.
But there's one burning question in my mind that I don't have an answer for...
Did I ever button my shirt back up?
Monday, June 23, 2008
He made me cry today.
Ed is his name. Ed is my physical therapist. And I hate him.
The last lovely thing I got to do in therapy today was a another stretching method: face down on the training table, with my knees just off the edge, and let gravity pull the knee straight. For 10 minutes. When the buzzer rang and I was done, I stayed there and cried for a minute. Or two. One of the techs brought me tissue. After I had regained a measure of composure, I limped out to my car. Ed wisely hid somewhere until I was out of the building.
Have you ever heard that tears are healing? "Let it all out, honey, you'll feel better!" I think we've all heard that from some aunt. I don't believe it. At least not today; giving in to the tears made me feel worse. It made me feel like a wimp. And even now, nearly two hours later, I'm still on the brink of tears just thinking about it.
Warning to my family: everybody better be reeeeeelly nice to me tonight unless you wanna see momma cry.
P.S. - Ed says that if I will hang my leg for 10 minutes every morning and night, my leg will be straight in ten days. I forgot to ask how long it would take if I didn't do it.
Anybody know a good voodoo artist?
The last lovely thing I got to do in therapy today was a another stretching method: face down on the training table, with my knees just off the edge, and let gravity pull the knee straight. For 10 minutes. When the buzzer rang and I was done, I stayed there and cried for a minute. Or two. One of the techs brought me tissue. After I had regained a measure of composure, I limped out to my car. Ed wisely hid somewhere until I was out of the building.
Have you ever heard that tears are healing? "Let it all out, honey, you'll feel better!" I think we've all heard that from some aunt. I don't believe it. At least not today; giving in to the tears made me feel worse. It made me feel like a wimp. And even now, nearly two hours later, I'm still on the brink of tears just thinking about it.
Warning to my family: everybody better be reeeeeelly nice to me tonight unless you wanna see momma cry.
P.S. - Ed says that if I will hang my leg for 10 minutes every morning and night, my leg will be straight in ten days. I forgot to ask how long it would take if I didn't do it.
Anybody know a good voodoo artist?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Knee update
On Tuesday I ditched my crutches. Six weeks has passed since surgery, and supposedly my knee is healed inside, and we've moved into the physical therapy phase.
It feels pretty good, and although my gait resembles a zombie-lurch more than walking, I'm happy to be able to get around without those pesky crutches. I'm back to gardening again, and it is actually enjoyable to hoe weeds. Who'da thunk it? My cat is happy that I am now able to carry her around as I lurch to and fro, except for when she decides she's had enough and digs her claws in my back to signal that she would like to be let down now, thank you very much.
My first day of PT was Tuesday. The therapist did an evaluation, asked a bunch of questions, and measured my range of motion. FTR, it was 20 degrees (at it's straightest) to 120 degrees. I know y'all don't give a flying fig about this stat, but I am recording this for my own reference.
So. The next step was to use an ultrasound machine to produce "deep heat" inside the joint. I didn't feel a thing. It reminded me of pregnancy, except there was no video monitor with a shrimp-like thing writhing on the screen. Then he put me on the stationary bike. After a couple of minutes of rocking back and forth, I was able to completely turn the pedals, despite some pressure and discomfort in the knee. After five minutes, it had loosened up nicely and I was pedaling fine. After a total of 10 minutes on the bike, he put some electrode things on my knee to help reduce swelling, along with the mother of all ice packs. And then I was done. Wha? I was a little disappointed - we were barely getting started!
Sheesh. And they billed the insurance company $300 for that. What a racket, huh?
I think the fancy schmancy machines really do make a difference though. I was able to bend my knee further than I could manage by myself at home. It was more swollen and tender Tuesday night, but felt ok Wed morning.
So thus begins 4-6 weeks of therapy 2-3 times per week. Let's get this party started!!!
It feels pretty good, and although my gait resembles a zombie-lurch more than walking, I'm happy to be able to get around without those pesky crutches. I'm back to gardening again, and it is actually enjoyable to hoe weeds. Who'da thunk it? My cat is happy that I am now able to carry her around as I lurch to and fro, except for when she decides she's had enough and digs her claws in my back to signal that she would like to be let down now, thank you very much.
My first day of PT was Tuesday. The therapist did an evaluation, asked a bunch of questions, and measured my range of motion. FTR, it was 20 degrees (at it's straightest) to 120 degrees. I know y'all don't give a flying fig about this stat, but I am recording this for my own reference.
So. The next step was to use an ultrasound machine to produce "deep heat" inside the joint. I didn't feel a thing. It reminded me of pregnancy, except there was no video monitor with a shrimp-like thing writhing on the screen. Then he put me on the stationary bike. After a couple of minutes of rocking back and forth, I was able to completely turn the pedals, despite some pressure and discomfort in the knee. After five minutes, it had loosened up nicely and I was pedaling fine. After a total of 10 minutes on the bike, he put some electrode things on my knee to help reduce swelling, along with the mother of all ice packs. And then I was done. Wha? I was a little disappointed - we were barely getting started!
Sheesh. And they billed the insurance company $300 for that. What a racket, huh?
I think the fancy schmancy machines really do make a difference though. I was able to bend my knee further than I could manage by myself at home. It was more swollen and tender Tuesday night, but felt ok Wed morning.
So thus begins 4-6 weeks of therapy 2-3 times per week. Let's get this party started!!!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Knee update
So the knee was getting better, and I hiked at Zion's over spring break; everything looked rosy. Then the next week I twisted it again, and it was worse than before. I went back to the orthopedist, and he recommended arthroscopic surgery to fix what he was certain was a tear in the meniscus cartilage that cushions the joint. He figured I'd be on crutches for 1-2 days, with average recovery at 4-6 weeks.
Tuesday May 6 was the big day. Monday evening at FHE we were discussing what would happen, and I expressed that I was a little nervous about being put to sleep for the surgery. Megan (who had surgery for a broken arm at age 5) smiled wisely and patted my arm and said "Don't worry mommy, it's not scary at all! You just get really sleepy and warm and then you wake up!" Wait a minute. Who is the child here?
The paperwork instructed me that I would need a babysitter for 24 hours after surgery. My wonderful father drove down Tuesday morning to provide domestic support (interpretation: do everything for me) for a couple of days until I was back on my feet. We arrived at the surgical center at 12:35pm and the fun began.
I traded my snap-up warmup pants and tee shirt for a stylish, faded hospital gown, a surgical cap, and disposable brown footies. Then a urine sample to ensure I wasn't pregnant, and it was time for bloodwork. After two painful strikes, the pre-op nurse finally got my IV in. Once I was on the operating table and belted on (click it, or ticket!), the anesthesiologist warned me that I would get dizzy really quick once he put the meds in my IV. He was right. Wheeeeee! The last thing I remember was saying, "Gee, I've never been high before...."
Then some annoying woman was shouting at me to wake up. And someone had stolen my knee and replaced it with a thousand blazing suns. I whined until she gave me both a pill and put medication in my veins. And then I asked my father what time it was at least four times in 2 minutes. I babbled on about who knows what for who knows how long -- I don't remember anything I said. I hope I didn't divulge any information critical to national security.
So we sat there and I dozed in between inane bursts of gutteral noises, and then the doctor was standing at the foot of my bed. He said something ridiculous about removing a quarter sized piece of cartilage and then joked that I had to be on crutches for four weeks. I laughed and shook his hand and then he left. Wait.
Then a nurse who moonlights as an auctioneer came and rattled off the post-op instructions. Whatever, lady. She also said something about no weight bearing on the left leg for a month. I told her I'd already heard that joke. Then another nurse came in and took out my IV and helped me get back into my cool warmup pants and put my socks and shoes on my feet, which is harder than it sounds, and then wheeled me out to the van.
My daddy bought me an oreo raspberry shake at Arctic Circle and I ate it while he picked up my Lortab pills. And then we went home and I took up residence in the same place I am writing this post from: the recliner on the living room couch. And I think it's time for another pill. Hello, lover.
Tuesday May 6 was the big day. Monday evening at FHE we were discussing what would happen, and I expressed that I was a little nervous about being put to sleep for the surgery. Megan (who had surgery for a broken arm at age 5) smiled wisely and patted my arm and said "Don't worry mommy, it's not scary at all! You just get really sleepy and warm and then you wake up!" Wait a minute. Who is the child here?
The paperwork instructed me that I would need a babysitter for 24 hours after surgery. My wonderful father drove down Tuesday morning to provide domestic support (interpretation: do everything for me) for a couple of days until I was back on my feet. We arrived at the surgical center at 12:35pm and the fun began.
I traded my snap-up warmup pants and tee shirt for a stylish, faded hospital gown, a surgical cap, and disposable brown footies. Then a urine sample to ensure I wasn't pregnant, and it was time for bloodwork. After two painful strikes, the pre-op nurse finally got my IV in. Once I was on the operating table and belted on (click it, or ticket!), the anesthesiologist warned me that I would get dizzy really quick once he put the meds in my IV. He was right. Wheeeeee! The last thing I remember was saying, "Gee, I've never been high before...."
Then some annoying woman was shouting at me to wake up. And someone had stolen my knee and replaced it with a thousand blazing suns. I whined until she gave me both a pill and put medication in my veins. And then I asked my father what time it was at least four times in 2 minutes. I babbled on about who knows what for who knows how long -- I don't remember anything I said. I hope I didn't divulge any information critical to national security.
So we sat there and I dozed in between inane bursts of gutteral noises, and then the doctor was standing at the foot of my bed. He said something ridiculous about removing a quarter sized piece of cartilage and then joked that I had to be on crutches for four weeks. I laughed and shook his hand and then he left. Wait.
Then a nurse who moonlights as an auctioneer came and rattled off the post-op instructions. Whatever, lady. She also said something about no weight bearing on the left leg for a month. I told her I'd already heard that joke. Then another nurse came in and took out my IV and helped me get back into my cool warmup pants and put my socks and shoes on my feet, which is harder than it sounds, and then wheeled me out to the van.
My daddy bought me an oreo raspberry shake at Arctic Circle and I ate it while he picked up my Lortab pills. And then we went home and I took up residence in the same place I am writing this post from: the recliner on the living room couch. And I think it's time for another pill. Hello, lover.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Gettin' Old Is Hard to Do...
I'll be turning 39 soon. The number itself doesn't bother me, but I am opposed to the aches and pains that go with it. I feel like I'm falling apart a little more each year.
At 30 it was a thyroid infection. Thirty-two found me fighting horrible post partum depression. At thirty-four I injured my shoulder while water skiing, and spent over a year rehabilitating my throwing arm. For my thirty-sixth birthday I hobbled about with plantar fascitis. And now as I approach 39, my knee has gone on strike.
I don't know what happened, really. On the last Tuesday in March, I ran around the church building with my Cub Scout Den (and came in second), and three hours later I suddenly couldn't walk right. The left knee had swollen and there was a painful click and pop with every step. Wednesday morning I went to a family practice doctor, who took x-rays, and couldn't see anything wrong. He prescribed ibuprofen, sent me to a physical therapist and made an appointment for me to see an orthopedist the next week. The physical therapist helped reduce the swelling some on Thursday afternoon, but I still had to limp around, dragging my left leg behind me like a zombie.
Against my better judgment, I went to my clogging class Thursday night. My original plan (and what I ensured Tom I would do) was to just sit and watch to learn the new steps. But I took my clogging shoes with me anyway. Why? Because I am not a sit and watch person. I am a highly competitive, impatient, perfectionistic person. I had to know if I could still clog, even a little bit. It went quite a bit better than I thought it would, actually. I did everything I could during class in a clumsy effort not to fall behind, and although my dancing was pretty ugly and there was some pain, I didn't feel any instability in the joint. Jessica had a good laugh watching me hop around like and idiot and got kicked in the patootie for her disrespect. I went home somewhat encouraged, and went to bed with bags of ice.
The ibuprofen seemed to help reduce the swelling, and by Saturday afternoon I was able to walk without that painful popping - which was huge to me. Monday morning I awoke with my leg feeling better than it had yet - and I went to see the orthopedist, feeling like a hypochondriac.
The orthopedist was optimistic; there's nothing structurally wrong, and while he suspects a minor cartilage tear, he thinks there's a really good chance the knee may heal on its own. So I'm to wait for 4 weeks, and if it's still giving me trouble, then he'll do an MRI.
In the meantime I'm supposed to stay off it as much as possible. Hah. I've cut clogging practice to once every other day or so, but I still need to walk around, climb stairs, and stand while cooking every day. This morning I did some light garden work, sat through four hours of conference, and stood for a couple hours while cooking, and tonight my knee is more painful and swollen than it's been in over a week. I was going to practice clogging after the second session of conference, but it was already so stiff and sore that I decided not to.
Maybe it's a two steps forward, one step back kind of deal. But I wonder how am I ever going to keep up in clogging while trying to rest this leg? Thursday's class was really frustrating, because already I'm falling behind and forgetting steps. I was mediocre at best when I had two good legs. Now I'll be the class idiot.
I've still got eight weeks before recital. Will it be enough?
At 30 it was a thyroid infection. Thirty-two found me fighting horrible post partum depression. At thirty-four I injured my shoulder while water skiing, and spent over a year rehabilitating my throwing arm. For my thirty-sixth birthday I hobbled about with plantar fascitis. And now as I approach 39, my knee has gone on strike.
I don't know what happened, really. On the last Tuesday in March, I ran around the church building with my Cub Scout Den (and came in second), and three hours later I suddenly couldn't walk right. The left knee had swollen and there was a painful click and pop with every step. Wednesday morning I went to a family practice doctor, who took x-rays, and couldn't see anything wrong. He prescribed ibuprofen, sent me to a physical therapist and made an appointment for me to see an orthopedist the next week. The physical therapist helped reduce the swelling some on Thursday afternoon, but I still had to limp around, dragging my left leg behind me like a zombie.
Against my better judgment, I went to my clogging class Thursday night. My original plan (and what I ensured Tom I would do) was to just sit and watch to learn the new steps. But I took my clogging shoes with me anyway. Why? Because I am not a sit and watch person. I am a highly competitive, impatient, perfectionistic person. I had to know if I could still clog, even a little bit. It went quite a bit better than I thought it would, actually. I did everything I could during class in a clumsy effort not to fall behind, and although my dancing was pretty ugly and there was some pain, I didn't feel any instability in the joint. Jessica had a good laugh watching me hop around like and idiot and got kicked in the patootie for her disrespect. I went home somewhat encouraged, and went to bed with bags of ice.
The ibuprofen seemed to help reduce the swelling, and by Saturday afternoon I was able to walk without that painful popping - which was huge to me. Monday morning I awoke with my leg feeling better than it had yet - and I went to see the orthopedist, feeling like a hypochondriac.
The orthopedist was optimistic; there's nothing structurally wrong, and while he suspects a minor cartilage tear, he thinks there's a really good chance the knee may heal on its own. So I'm to wait for 4 weeks, and if it's still giving me trouble, then he'll do an MRI.
In the meantime I'm supposed to stay off it as much as possible. Hah. I've cut clogging practice to once every other day or so, but I still need to walk around, climb stairs, and stand while cooking every day. This morning I did some light garden work, sat through four hours of conference, and stood for a couple hours while cooking, and tonight my knee is more painful and swollen than it's been in over a week. I was going to practice clogging after the second session of conference, but it was already so stiff and sore that I decided not to.
Maybe it's a two steps forward, one step back kind of deal. But I wonder how am I ever going to keep up in clogging while trying to rest this leg? Thursday's class was really frustrating, because already I'm falling behind and forgetting steps. I was mediocre at best when I had two good legs. Now I'll be the class idiot.
I've still got eight weeks before recital. Will it be enough?
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