Sunday, June 16
It’s been another round of tough days here in Lake Woe-Be-Me.
Thursday promised to be a better day: between feeling a wee bit better, I had my first big outing post-surgery. Ed, who works in the film business, also has ties to the local theatre scene, and a friend of his had written a play that is in production at a local theatre. The tickets were bought long before we knew how long this recovery would take, and I was determined to make it work. It felt weird to take car drive longer than a mile, which is the distance to all my health care providers: the hospital where I had surgery, the surgeon’s offices, and - most importantly these days - the PT practice. I felt like I was seeing an entirely new world!
The play was good - very thought-provoking, some good laughs, and lots to talk about afterwards. Ed had called the theatre ahead of time and moved our seats to an aisle location so I could stretch my leg when I needed to, so it all worked out well. We were home and headed to bed by ten p.m., and I was looking forward to - needing desperately - a good night of sleep at long last.
Our neighbors had other ideas.
We live a couple of blocks from the University of Denver, and as a result, our residential neighborhood is very mixed. We (mostly) like that: we get a nice cross-section of young families, young couples or roomies just starting out who rent houses here, empty-nesters, professionals who have the McMansions that have sprung up between the bungalows, the confirmed bachelor at the end of the block who has been here for forty years or more. We also get a fair number of college students who are renters.
For the most part, the renters are decent and respectful. But there are always exceptions to that rule, and for the last year, the problem house has been directly across the alley from ours. These young folks held a hum-dinger of a party Thursday night that was just getting started at ten p.m., and only got louder through 2 a.m. and beyond. Over the years, we’ve pretty much learned that calling the police with noise complaints is a waste of time: the police always tell us that they have to come out for us to swear out a complaint, and even when we agree, they are always (ALWAYS!) no-shows. (When we call back to find out the status of their arrival, they are always handling “higher priority calls”.) That means that we are essentially SOL when there is a loud party.
This week, it meant another sleepless night for me. Between knee pain and general discomfort and loud noises, it just wasn’t happening for me.
Friday morning was yet another outpatient PT experience, and I walked in feeling like a zombie. It was frustrating to have gone a few degrees backwards on my flexion, but really, I was too tired and too depressed to care much. The good news was that I had some stationary bike time, and a lesson in how to walk downstairs reciprocally - in other words, somewhat like a normal person, just with a cane. Lindsey gave me permission to do this once a day at home, and that was a day brightener. We reviewed all of my PT exercises, did a bit of tweaking (Lindsey: “these are non-negotiable!” and “do these if you feel like doing a bit more”). Finally, Friday night came and I (finally) slept through much of the night. It was glorious.
Until late Saturday afternoon. I was elevating and icing on the couch, as usual, and turned my knee just ever so slightly, and the world turned upside down. SO MUCH FREAKING PAIN! This was the kind of pain that I had prior to surgery - the very thing that made me decide to go through with it - and that I had hoped I would never have again in my life. There was just no making it better. It continued through the evening and night - just the slightest movement of my knee could set it off. It was back to barely sleeping: I was trying to protect against moving my knee in the way that set off the knife-stabbing pains, and I never really slept deeply.
By this morning, I was pretty much done in. Ed helped me get out of bed, and I still screamed. He helped me get settled on the couch, and when I got up the first time, I still screamed. I sat on the couch and sobbed until I was out of breath. Ed brought me a plateful of meds - all the stuff I had been cutting back on, now I’ve taken maximum dosages of each again, and am getting a bit loopy as a result. Ed’s helping me keep on a schedule of ice for 20 minutes, then get up and move about for a little while, then back to ice. As long as he moves my leg for me, I don’t have to bend it much to stand up, and that helps.
I’ve been reading all the literature I can find about post-surgery pain: all the stuff my surgeon provided, plus everything the great internets has to offer. The pain thing seems to vary greatly, and to last anywhere up to 4 to 6 weeks post-surgery, with most people getting relief after 3-4 weeks. It appears that I’m not falling into that lucky 3-week group. The only thing I can figure out to do is to keep doing all of the above: ice and elevate, move when I can (especially with Ed’s help - thank heavens he is able to stay home with me all day today), take as much pain meds as I can tolerate.
It’s easy to understand how animals in pain just chew off their offending joint. If things don’t get better soon, I may resort to that strategy.
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