Post Surgery Week 5: Monday Morning Meltdown

Monday, June 24

Yesterday’s Sunday New York Times crossword had a single word clue for 85-Across:  Fortitude.  

This should have been easy for me.  I’ve always thought of myself as someone with plenty of fortitude; as someone who is something of a stud.  After all, I ran 66 marathons!  One of those marathons was a 50-miler, with the first 15 miles or so on the Appalachian Trail which is, for anyone who hasn't experienced it, a bear to hike let alone to run.  Years ago, I broke my thumb skiing and stayed on the slopes until the bitter end of the day.  Years after that, I broke a rib or two skiing on a Saturday, and still skied again on Sunday.  This was a couple of months before my first Boston Marathon, and (if you’re catching the theme), I still managed to train for and run that 26.2 miler.  I got a stress fracture in my foot in one marathon and still finished.  In another trail race - my Kentucky marathon - I did a serious face plant somewhere around mile 14, breaking my nose and leaving a trail of blood a mile long, and still finished the race.  One time, I wasn’t feeling so great going into the Boston Marathon, but I still finished it.  It wasn’t until the next day that I was diagnosed with appendicitis and had to have emergency surgery.  I was the stud of the ER.

I’ve survived major bike wrecks and some minor car wrecks and a wrecked marriage and a bunch of crappy jobs before I found the right career.  I’ve survived more surgeries than I can count, and broken bones up the wazoo.  I've suffered from personal losses (too many to count) and failures, bad decisions and bad luck.  I've always found a way to get through them.

This is not to say I have not had joys in my life - way, way too many to mention here - so many loved ones and so many wonderful experiences and so many special people and places and times.  But those are not the things that make up fortitude.

And I thought I had it.  Fortitude.  But nothing I tried fit the space in the puzzle.  Strength?  Too long.  Stamina?  Ditto.  Grit?  Too short.  I struggled.

It was not a good day, yesterday, anyway;  I spent the weekend backsliding and experiencing major pain.  Again.  It started in earnest Saturday afternoon - just like the week before - and got just as intense just as quickly.  I cried.  I swore.  I swore more.  Ed helped me get around, but good heavens:  it’s one of the most helpless feelings in the world to not be able to stand up by yourself.  Especially when you think you’re a stud.

Sunday morning, the pain woke me up at 4 a.m.  I fought it until 4:30, and got up and walked around a little - something that has helped in the past.  This time, I was barely able to limp around, and I thought that it was smart that I have not returned the walkers I’ve borrowed to their owners, since it felt that the way things were going, I’d be using one again at any moment.  By 5 a.m., I decided to take all of my morning meds, even though it was four hours ahead of schedule.  I threw in an extra Valium for good measure.  At least that way I was able to sleep, even though it meant I was a groggy mess when I finally woke up several hours later.  And all that just meant that when the pain returned later in the afternoon, I was already at my max on the most helpful of the meds, and pretty much had no recourse.  (I walked across the street to ask our new neighbor, who is an anesthesiologist, if I could take more meloxicam than I already had.  His answer:  no.  So much for free medical advice.)

So by the time I got up and showered and got ready to go see Lindsey this morning, I was pretty much a basket case.  I yelled at Ed, who was only trying to help, and made him sad, and then I sat down and sobbed.  I’d become so scared of any movement, and how much pain it would bring, but mostly I was afraid that my knee, my leg, was totally screwed up.  I wanted more than anything in the world to go back five weeks and change my life.  I’ve been thinking:  how much do I need to ski anyway?  Do I really need to go for those big hikes?  Could I live a life without being the active person I once was?  Those thoughts terrify me.

Ed got me to my appointment just on time, and when Lindsey said, “how are you doing?” I just started to cry again.  That’s when she said:  it’s time for you to see the doctor - I’m calling them right now to get you in.

Dr. Miner has two PAs, Jason and Heather, and I’ve seen them both in the past.  Both are good.  This morning, the person I drew was Heather, and how perfect was that?  Heather exudes happiness and optimism and butterflies and pretty flowers and everything that is good in the world.  There is a happy rainbow over her head.  She was the perfect person for where I was when I walked into that office.

And she gets it:  how hard this is for someone who is usually active.  She worked on my knee, bending it this way and that; she took x-rays; she reviewed my activities and meds.  She assured us that my implant is healing perfectly, and showed us in detail on the x-rays.  Her overall assessment:  all the pain is in the soft tissue which is, in her words, “pissed off”.  There are no magic solutions, no silver bullets, but there are things we can change up.  Stop the drugs that don’t seem to be helping (especially the narcotic Tramadol, since its major side effect is depression), change up some others (since I’ve had luck with Aleve in the past, I’ll try that instead of the meloxicam).  If the CBD oil is helping:  great.  If I want to see my chiropractor who does the laser stuff:  great.  No need to elevate my knee any longer since the swelling is minimal.  I can back off on the icing.  I can start massaging the scar and working on minimizing it.  I can massage my quads.  In fact, she encouraged me to get a good gentle massage.  She gave me permission to walk farther than I have been - with the caveat that I need to go back to crutches in order to do that.  

And best of all, she said, “if it makes you feel better, have a glass of wine!”  Ed made her repeat that about seven times;  I was ready to take her on her word the first time she said it.

By the time I walked out of the appointment with Heather, I felt some hope again.  I felt a tiny bit of optimism.  I felt a tiny bit of my fortitude (or is it “spine”, which fits into 85-Across quite nicely) return.