Post Surgery Week 7 - Bright Days, Bleak Moods

Friday, July 5

Ed tasked me with this today:  every once in a while, smile - even if you have to fake it, at least for a few moments.

That’s harder than it sounds.  I’ve gotten to a dark place.  I’m depressed, despondent, disheartened.  Hugely, hugely, hugely disappointed.  Distrustful, distressed, dejected.  Disillusioned.

Yesterday morning, on a day when friends and family were going to parades and celebrations, shooting off fireworks, waving flags, I crawled into the shower while Ed was out for a run, and started crying, and couldn’t stop.  I felt hopeless, helpless, crippled, maimed, ruined.  I. Could. Not. Stop. Crying.  Ed got home before the water went cold, and pulled me out.  Even then, I was still convulsing with huge wracking sobs.  I put my pajamas back on and crawled back into bed.

Thankfully, magically, heavenly:  friends and family to help.  Rose and Andrew had asked us over for a pancake brunch, so I pulled myself together for that.  Andrew gave me a Reiki session;  Rose made me a cup of strong coffee;  the pancakes had chocolate chips.  Black-capped Chickadees flitted in the trees, and a Spotted Towhee started to sing.

We came home and Ed watched an episode of the Great British Baking Show with me - and for anyone who knows how much he hates anything that smells of reality TV - you’ll know that he was making a sacrifice.  Boston, my older kitty, came to comfort me.  He doesn’t do this much these days - lay on my lap - but I’m pretty sure he knew how much I needed that show of love.  I elevated my *&^%(* knee, and, of course, iced it.  We had a lovely break when our niece Julia called to cheer me up.  (There’s always LIFE when Julia calls, between the chaos of keeping three young kids under some semblance of control, and especially after those three young ones have gathered up loads of Fourth of July parade candy.)  Then we went back to the baking show, and once the Star Baker had been named, Ed and I talked about what to do next.

So I pretty much decided to fire Lindsey.  Sorry, nice physical therapist, but you’re not working for me anymore.  It was a virtual firing:  the only remaining appointment I had with her was for today, and she had already told me there wasn’t much need for me to come, so I called this morning and said Adios.  I mean, really, what’s the point if I’m not making progress?

We started practicing the message for Dr. Miner when we see him Monday morning:  That this situation is not okay.  That I feel abandoned.  That I won’t accept a result that leaves me worse off than before the surgery.  I’m in more pain now - by a lot - and unable to do really basic stuff that I could do pre-surgery.  Like walk to my local coffee shop - or just to the end of the block.  It’s the height of summer, and I can’t get on a bike - not even a stationary bike.  I know that everyone has different results, but Holy Crap:  This. Is. Not. Okay.

I’m also practicing a bit of civil disobedience.  I threw my effing cane across the yard this morning.  (Okay, I picked it up and used it again, but criminy - I am so ready to be done with it.)  I have started walking up and down the stairs reciprocally, even though it’s one of the forbidden items by PT.  What the hell isn’t forbidden?  Ed even walked to the end of the block and back with me this morning - without crutches:  another PT-forbidden activity.  Of course, I’m doing these things defiantly, but also with a fair amount of trepidation.  I don’t want the worst of the soft tissue pain to come back, and even moreso, I don’t want anything I do to screw things up so much that it ruins the implant.  Our friends Doug and Rose have both had knees that had to be replaced twice, and, holy cow, I don’t know how I could go through any of this again.

Our friends Doug and Kathy had us over for a lovely and quiet (well, mostly quiet, except for firecrackers exploding in the neighborhood) dinner on their back deck.  Ed and I got married in their lovely yard almost four years ago, so it’s a special place for us.  We sat on the deck while it was almost too hot, but then the clouds moved in and the rain came, followed by hail, and then it was almost too cool.  But not quite.  They let me try a different CBD oil that works well for them (remember, this is Doug who has had his knee replaced twice), and it seemed to be a bit more effective than the mix I had (maybe the mixture including arnica and other good stuff helped?), so they just gave me the rest of the bottle.  Kathy opened a bottle of nice red wine, and fed us a yummy dinner.  We got home between bouts of rain and hail.  With another special family call - this from my sister-in-law Janice who always makes me feel better - there was even more brightness in the day, even as the clouds and wet made for a different kind of Fourth of July.  Tucson, my younger cat, came and sat this us as we watched an episode of Madam Secretary after we got home.  This cat doesn’t typically hang out with us when we watch TV, so I took his presence as a gift.  I almost made it through the rest of the day, but something - that sense of helplessness and hopelessness - set me off again before bedtime, and Ed held me until I could stop crying.  Again.

A well-meaning friend suggested, a couple of days ago, that I was spending too much time and energy on thinking about my knee, and the pain, and the lack of healing.  Don’t you have other hobbies than running that you could do?  Well, WTF!  That’s enough to piss off a person.  Yeah, sure.  I bike, but, well, geez, I can’t even ride a stationary bike now.  I hike, but, well, think about it.  I’m a birder, but that requires - wait for it - walking!  Even if just going to the local park!  I do a little photography, but it, too, requires mobility.  The same person suggested I do some water exercises, but, well.  My medical orders were to not immerse my leg in water until after six weeks, which I’ve just passed, and there’s that whole question of whether swimming would be good or bad for the ever-so-touchy soft tissue.  I’ve tried to access my musical side, but when I sit at the piano to play or compose, I either end up just pounding on the keys, or crying, so I’m not quite ready for that.  We love to travel, and Ed and I have been trying to dream up vacation ideas for the fall, but there’s a huge, black-hole sized unknown:  how mobile will I be, and when?  The whole question and answer just served to make me really, really angry.

For now, I’d rather be pissed off than weepy.  It’s not an ideal way to get through the day, but I’m worn out from all the crying.  So for now, I’ll try not to cry again today (at least not too much), and I'll work another crossword puzzle from the archives, and I'll watch another baking show (although I think Ed has reached his limit for the week).  And another day will have passed with a bunch more hours of ice on my leg, and handfuls more of Tylenol and Advil and whatever other drugs seem like a solution at the time.  And maybe I’ll figure out how to deal with this fracked up situation.  In the meantime, I’ll work on that fake smile.  It’s not much, but it’s the best I’ve got today.