The first Monday meeting with Mitchell, my young, handsome physical therapist, started off with a bang. “Have you been to the restroom yet? You know, pooped?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said quietly.
“It’s really important, so let’s keep taking what you’re taking and drink lots of water. The more you walk the better it will be.”
Ya’ll, I have a friend who swears her mother used to ask her, “Have you do-do’d today?” Every time she feigned she was too sick to go to school, her mother would point her finger right at her face and ask the dreaded question, “When is the last time you do-do’d?”
Mitchell and I walked a loop through my house, with me on my walker and Mitchell right behind me, holding a white, thick belt tied to my waist so he could keep me from falling. He evaluated my uneven gait and chanted, “Heel-toe, heel-toe.” We then went through a ‘lofty’ set of exercises, to be done three times a day. Next, he checked my incision and reminded me, “When the pain ball runs out, probably Friday, you’ll feel a slight surge in pain levels. Just want you to keep that in mind.”
I was starting to get really scared. Scared about the pain ball (how much will it hurt to take it out?) and what will happen to me if I don’t, you know? Pain and poo, two very big topics that dominated my thoughts day and night. But, because I am a doctor on Google, I read everything I could about both topics and I must say I found out it could go either way…good or bad. Good, like an easy-peasy potty time and absolutely no pain in removing the wire inside my leg. Or bad, like missing the toilet and landing on my butt and twisting my new knee, causing me to have corrective surgery.
Friday morning Mitchell arrived with a smile. “Let’s check your pain ball.”
“No need,” I said. “It’s empty.”
“Ok then. Let’s take it out.”
“Should I take a shot of whiskey? Or bite a bullet?” I joked.
He laughed and said, “I know, right?”
I laid on the edge of my bed, closed my eyes, and he peeled the surgical tape off my thigh to reveal the wire, which had been threaded down the front nerve of my leg. I was trying to mentally prepare for the pain, when he said, “It’s over.” And just like that I was freed from the pain ball and looking forward to a new surge of discomfort.
“Remember,” Mitchell said, “Stay ahead of the pain and go to the restroom. See you Monday.”
After Mitchell left, I drank one more glass of Metamucil on top of all the other laxatives, just for good measure. Sadly, I realized too late, that it had not been necessary. At five o’clock, my stomach started to rumble, tumble, roll, and grumble. For some reason, I felt the need to tell Boo, “Something’s happening.”
“Let the games begin!!” he laughed.
Five o’clock also marked the onset of the dreaded ‘surge of pain.’ I will spare you the gory details, but when I felt I’d better head toward the restroom, I immediately knew my speed on the walker, was not as it should be. Never in my life could I have planned that the pain and the poo would happen on the same day and same time and stay all weekend long. Boo, hollered from the den, “Do you need some help?”
Banging my walker into the door frame, I screamed back, “Leave Me Alone!”
Truthfully, I have only screamed once during this whole ordeal, and this was it.
“No problem,” he answered.
The infamous ‘surge in pain’ was like my knee was waking up a week later from the surgery. Shooting pain, dull aching pain, and stabbing pain settled in on my incision and the very back behind my knee. I took every pain pill allowed me and still prayed to fall asleep. The pain came in waves, like a rolling storm off the coast, battering and ramming my body until I thought I would break. The only rest from the pain was from the sudden urge to run to the restroom because I needed a level head to maneuver my way through the bathroom door with the awkward walker. I was a very hot mess!
Things could only get better after this extremely low point because, after all, this was just the first week of my recovery.
Monday morning, Mitchell said I looked a little pale, but applauded my efforts and we set up a new pain med plan.
“Let’s get rid of the walker and go to a cane,” he said.
“How about tomorrow? I need a few more hours,” I said.
“Deal.”
That night I went to my closet and found the cane my grandpa actually carved for himself. It was the same cane my grandma used as well, and now I was the proud recipient. Who would have guessed it? The cane was a perfect simple shape and sanded smooth as silk. Grandpa had painted it a dark brown and shellacked it to a beautiful sheen. The grip was worn in places and as I stood to try it out, tears rolled down my face, imagining my grandparents’ touching this very same cane. I felt their spirit with me. This cane fit me just right and I felt safe and secure knowing my grandparents had in some way, been sent to take care of me.
I practiced that night and the next day it was trial by fire as I learned to walk with the cane. Does anyone remember Festus from Gunsmoke?
At the end of week two, I saw the physician’s assistant and she took off my bandage. I was predicting a Frankenstein scar, but it wasn’t quite that bad. Turns out my surgeon was a brilliant seamstress. One surprising thing about my knee now is that it feels hot at times from the swelling and has a slight pinkish color. They promised it will go away. But, part of my knee is numb, and that will not go away. As I was leaving, the P. A. said I could begin practicing driving. It was music to my ears, and I felt the breeze of freedom floating in my near future. Although it was another two weeks away, I had hope that I could recover and finally go somewhere by myself. No offense, Boo.
Soon Mitchell and I began to go for walks outside. On my 2nd walk, we ran straight into my neighborhood friend, which you may remember as my Walker Stalker. John wanted to know what had happened to me, where had I been, and “Who’s this?”
“This is Mitchell,” I said. “My physical therapist.”
But John never really registered what I said, until finally, he asked, “Now, who is this? Is this your grandson?”
We just smiled and said, “Well, I’ve gotta keep walking, John. See you soon.”
As time went on, I begged Boo to ride with me a half-mile down the road to our community mailboxes. “I don’t need to practice anymore,” I said, as I slightly hobbled to the car. But once to the car, I had to pick up my leg to actually get in. Bending my knee was torturous, in the beginning. I really didn’t realize how strenuous getting in and out of a car and driving one mile could be.
“I don’t think you’re quite ready,” Boo said as I came to a stop.
I knew he was right, but I also knew I was very close to my independence. “I’m on my way back, baby! Just wait and see!”
I finally graduated from Mitchell to outpatient physical therapy. My weeks of exercising, icing, resting, and walking have now turned into two months. My out-patient physical therapist is a seemingly sweet-looking, young woman named, Thea. Don’t let her smiling, girl-next-door exterior fool you, she’s no-nonsense and hell-on-wheels. But, thanks to her and Mitchell, I’m making great progress. At my 8-week check-up, my doctor was very pleased. “You’re one-third of the way healed. Keep up the good work.” He also told me it will take one full year to feel normal and strong, and I’m starting to believe him.
Everyday, there is a little less pain and stiffness, and everyday there is hope for better sleep. I’m walking, driving, sitting, standing. I’m off my addiction to Cheetos. I’ve gone on a trip, grocery shopped, and been to Costco twice. I’m still telling Boo, I may not be able to cook for another month or so, but he’s fine with that because it means fewer vegetables.
I’m grateful to have insurance and Medicare. I’m grateful to all my friends who loaned me the walker, icing machines, and tall potty chair. The friends who brought me food and visited when I was still in my wrinkled pajama pants and greasy hair, and I’m grateful to Boo who never left my side, even when he wanted to! Who has put up with my groaning and moaning and talking about myself until we are both sick of it.
Sometimes Boo is a saint.
Originally, I planned to have my other knee done in March, but as time goes on, I think it best to wait until July. We have a trip planned for the end of March and one in June. Feeling stronger and having a little fun will put me in the right frame of mind to do this all again. (I hope). And Boo will have a chance to rest up before his next nursing duty.
People continue to ask me, “Aren’t you so glad you had the surgery?”
“Not yet,” I answer, “But, I know I will be.” And that really is the truth. I know I will be, especially after the next surgery. As my grandma used to say, “If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.” I will be so, so glad I’ve had the opportunity to get my new pair of knees!”
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 