Post Surgery, Three and a Half Months: Welcome to the rest of your (traveling) life

Sunday, September 15

We’ve just returned from our first foray into the world of traveling via air with metal body parts.  The information provided by my surgeon and his staff had confirmed that yes, your new bionic knee is made of metal (titanium in my case), and yes, as a result, you will set off the metal detectors at airports.  They advised that you don’t need a TSA identification card, but you should just tell the security folks about the metal in your knee.  This all seemed pretty simple stuff.

On Thursday, September 5, we set off for the East Coast to visit family in Philadelphia and Maine.  With TSA Pre, we typically sail through security.  Not so this morning.  I put my carryon and purse on the belt to get screened, and then walked through the metal detector.  I was not surprised when it beeped;  I would have been disappointed if it had not sounded after all!  Then it got fun.  I told the TSA agent that it had sounded because of my knee, rolling up my jeans to show her my scar, but she was having none of it.  “Take off your belt and go through again!” she barked at me.  Well, alrighty, then.  My belt came off and went into a bin to get through the scanner, and I walked through the detector again, and once again it beeped.  The same very unfriendly TSA agent scowled at me and pointed to the full body scanner one aisle over.  I made it through the scanner without incident, and went to find Ed.

Ed was detained because of a multi-tool that he travels with:  this thing often catches TSA’s attention even though it doesn’t contain a knife.  While I was gathering my belt and other stuff, a small, white-haired woman came walking spritely from the scanner, shaking her head.  She looked at me and said, “I have metal in both hips and both knees and in my spine, and this always takes forever!”  Then she reunited with her family and tootled off on her way.  I started to think that maybe this metal detector facet of my bionic knee was not going to be as much fun as one would hope for.

There were a few more things that I had worried about when it came to flying with this new knee.  First, I was afraid of swelling.  And yet, what can you do about that?  I’m not sure that you’re allowed to bring a big knee-sized ice pack (made of gel) through security.  And even if you are allowed, how do you keep it cold long enough to get use out of it on a plane?  The second concern was simply the fact that this knee gets very cranky if it’s in the same position for any length of time.  And a four hour flight qualifies for long enough for it to get very cranky, indeed.  Finally, I’ve barely worn long pants at all since the surgery;  for the most part, it’s been too warm to warrant wearing them.  But more importantly there’s that whole thing with having something rub against a still-sensitive scar that makes shorts and skirts seem just fine, thank you very much.

Happily, these worries all went for naught.  There was no noticeable swelling as a result of the flight.  Hallelujah!  And we had exit row seats - with an empty seat in our row - so lots of leg room, so lots of room to stretch my legs and change up positions.  Finally, my jeans didn’t annoy my scar at all, so it was all good.

Liberty Bell

Independence Hall

Now, the trip to the tourist area in Philly was a horse of another color.  Here’s a flash:  the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall each require a trip through a metal detector.  We visited the Liberty Bell first, and my knee set the thing off.  It was a beautiful sunny day, so I was wearing shorts.  I told the park ranger that I have a titanium knee, pointing to my scar.  That was met with a stone face, and I was then thoroughly and obnoxiously wanded.  I still think that park ranger thought I was hiding a bomb somewhere on my body, but she finally let me pass.  Independence Hall is a separate facility so - guess what - another metal detector!  I was getting myself mentally prepared for another obnoxious wanting session when, of all things, I didn’t activate the detector.  Go figure.

Smiliest 2 1/2 month old ever

Engagement photos (with a borrowed nephew)

But really, it was all so very worth it.  We got serious doses of kid time.  We are blessed with four grandnephews in Philly - ages 10, 8, 3 and 2 1/2 months, and another grandnephew and two grandnieces in Bar Harbor, Maine:  7, 6 and 3.  We had serious doses of fun times with Ed’s sister and her husband, all four of their daughters / our nieces (who are responsible for all those little ones), and the husbands of the nieces.  We also got to meet the fiancé of the youngest niece, and so, now approve heartily of their upcoming wedding.  The bonus relative of the trip was my cousin Susie who, after a lifetime of living in Iowa and raising her family there (including seeing her granddaughter through college), finally retired a few years back and up and moved to Portland, Maine!  What a major life change, and how fun to spend a short time with her, hearing about all of her new adventures.

Lulu lobster boat

Along the Shore Path, Bar Harbor

In Maine, we availed ourselves of great food, stunning vistas, beautiful ocean walks and drives.  Our brother-in-law Galen works as a tour guide on the lobster boat Lulu, and the highlight of the entire trip was going on one of his trips.  This was watching him in his finest hour.  He is a natural talker and teller of tales, and it was a hoot to sit in the back of the boat and watch all of the other passengers warm to him and laugh at his jokes.

Return visit to the place we got engaged 5 years ago

All good things must come to an end, and so we headed to Bangor on Saturday for our flight back.  Bangor is a smaller airport so doesn’t really have a separate TSA Pre line;  you just get a laminated card that tells the security agents of your status.  This time, in an effort to avoid all of the belt-taking off and wanding and all that folderol, I simply told the first TSA agent I came to that I needed to go through the scanner rather than the metal detector.  She said, incredulously, “so you’re opting IN” for the scanner?  I started to say it really wasn’t an option, bionic knee, all that good blather, and then stopped myself.  “Sure,” I said.  “I’m opting in.”  I stepped into the scanner, stopped with my hands in the air, and then walked on through.  It was a good trip, but we were happy to be on our way home.

Post Surgery 15 weeks: Refueling

Wednesday, September 4

The other day, I got in my car to drive myself to a haircut, and the low fuel alarm dinged.  So in addition to going to the bank, and getting to the salon on time, I made a stop at a gas station.  There’s an app on my iPhone that I use to track my mileage and fuel usage, and when I added this purchase, I noticed that the last time I bought gas was in early May.  Sadly, this isn’t an indication of my great gas mileage (Ed’s Prius gets the credit for that in our family). Rather, it tells the tale of the fact that I’m just recently starting to take responsibility for my own transportation again, after all these months, leaving behind that post-surgery helpless state.

There is a kind of perverse pleasure in giving yourself to the helplessness of a post-surgery state.  You get wheeled into an operating room, and within moments, you’re off into la-la land.  When you wake up again, you’re in a recovery suite, and there’s somebody there to give you their full attention.  Ice chips?  Sure, here you go.  You graduate to apple juice, and then to some crackers, all the while the fogginess starts to lift.

You matriculate from there to a hospital room, or maybe immediately to home.  There’s somebody to take care of you, to issue edicts about all the things you shouldn’t do, and to make sure that you concentrate on the one thing that you can do:  heal.  Healing can be a full time job;  the thing is, it kind of goes on on its own merry way, and your job is to just lay around and allow it to happen.

Now, none of this acknowledges pain you might experience, or the indignities of not being able to get to the bathroom by yourself, or the fact that you feel nauseous and are lucky if you have an appetite at all.  Those memories fade.  It’s a wonderful survival mechanism of the human race that we can remember that we were in pain, and that something hurt, and even that something hurt like hell, but we actually don’t relive that pain when we think about it.  Even now, just going on 15 weeks after surgery, I can remember that, as the nerve block and the anesthesia wore off, my knee started to hurt, and to hurt like, well, like nothing you ever want to experience.  And I can remember that I couldn’t get comfortable, and as a result of the pain and discomfort, I couldn’t sleep.  But, thankfully, thinking of that experience doesn’t bring the pain or discomfort back.

But that pleasure, the perverse pleasure of the disability?  Oh, how lovely.  How lovely  to have somebody bring you food, and water, and ice, and to track your meds.  Nothing to be done but lay there and let the magic of healing take place.  Everyone and everything is designed to take care of your needs.  

In my TKR recovery, Ed set up the living room so that everything I needed was within my reach.  He cooked for me - but that’s nothing new, he always does that.  But now, over the course of the summer, he forbade me from doing the dishes, or even helping to put things away.  He took over my chores, the most heinous being cat box duty every morning.  He drove me to every PT appointment, and every surgical checkup, and he went to the pharmacy to pick up my new or refilled meds.  We were lucky that he had a slow summer with work;  taking care of me was his full time job, and I’m blessed that he took on the role of caregiver so joyfully.

So I gave myself into it.  I let Ed take on pretty much all of our home chores.  I thought about watering the plants, but that was as far as I got - at least until they started wilting and dropping leaves.  I wore the same clothes day after day, and when I finally did some laundry, I let the dry clothes sit in the dryer for hours, or, sometimes, days before I rescued them.  The stuff I absolutely needed to iron just stayed in the laundry basket.  The other stuff, I wore all wrinkled.  The line from “must be ironed” to “this is good enough” got very blurred.  It’s a good thing that I love showers, or else it could have been dire.  As it was, I was clean, but makeup?  Nah.  Hair styling?  Sure seemed like letting my hair dry on its own was the best, most environmentally sound solution - as well as the one requiring the least energy on my part.

But eventually, all good things come to an end.  You get antsy, and it’s time to start picking up the pieces and parts of life that you’ve abandoned.  And caregivers need to get back to their own lives.  One night, Ed let me wash a couple of dishes.  A week or two later, I figured out that I can sit on a little step stool and clean the litter boxes.  Another night Ed headed out to a work thing, and I learned the drill of refilling the ice machine.  And so it goes.  One day, Ed wasn’t available to take me to PT, so I drove myself - only in his car, because it doesn’t have a clutch.  Then several weeks later, Ed had an errand at the same time I had a PT appointment, so I ventured into my own car, and voila - there’s yet one more dependency gone.

My recovery has, essentially, eaten up the entire summer.  Surgery was the Thursday before Memorial Day, and here we are on the back side of Labor Day.   We spent some time out shopping for a new couch on Saturday - a chore we started in the spring, before surgery, and then put on the back burner.  It was a lot of walking, in addition to the walking we did to go to breakfast, and to coffee;  and all this walking on some of the hottest days of the summer.  I managed to finish a load or two of laundry, including the dreaded ironing of the stuff that got too wrinkled to wear.  And it all wore me out much more than I expected.

So I took some time this weekend, giving myself permission to continue to refuel.  We turned on the AC and hunkered down Sunday afternoon and watched a couple of movies.  The plants need to be watered (again), and the bird feeders need to be filled (again).  But the flock of Bushtits that just flitted through our yard seemed to find enough to feed them, so I figure, all things in good time.  Ed’s making dinner while I sit on the deck and contemplate the other stuff that needs to be one:  packing for a trip back East next weekend; cleaning the tufts of cat hair that seem to multiply on their own accord - but only on the dark wood floor;  cleaning Doug’s ice machine so we can return it to him before we travel.  For another moment or two, I’ll sit here with the breeze finally cooling things off, and let myself refuel a bit more before I take another step towards moving out of the post-surgery mode.