Knee Rehab Is Getting Dangerous

My knee rehab is getting dangerous. I was just dozing off on my chaise lounge and woke up as I was falling over onto a little side table. Kersplat! That would NOT have been good. I’m not sure if I needed to wake up with my heart pounding, but that’s what happened. It’s been two weeks since my total knee replacement. According to all the medical professionals involved, I have had a tougher time than the average person. I have never striven to be “normal”. However, this time I’d kill for a little normalcy. I enjoy vegging out in front of the TV, and can almost always find something to watch. This morning was a bit of a challenge, though. Here are a few of my viewing choices:

Bra Infomercial: I only briefly landed on this show, just to see if I was reading the name correctly. Seriously? Can you fill a half hour chatting about brassieres? Apparently so. I heard a British woman say “If your boobs aren’t in the right place, it’s just not going to work”. I decided to move on down the guide (I must be confident that my boobs are where they should be).

19 Kids And Counting: The Duggars - just shoot me. 

Total Gym For $14.95: I didn’t even check this one out. Sounded like a rip off.

Keeping Up With The Kardashians: I’d rather watch the Duggars with a fork in my eye.

I ended up watching a crime show I’d already seen. I’d rather watch a rerun than even one Kardashian. Murder mysteries keep my attention like nothing else. I wonder what that says about me. I haven’t gone “stir crazy” yet, which is a good thing. I wonder where that term came from? Sounds like something that would happen to a demented baker or chef. I got lots of time to figure it out...

Plaid Pants - Day 6

When I got home from my knee surgery, I went hunting for my lounge pants. I had purchased these pants two years ago after having colon surgery. I have lost weight since then, so these pants were pretty big. However, my leg is swollen so I need to be wearing giant pants. I looked for my Snoopy lounge pants, but couldn’t find them. I told my daughter that I must have given them to Good Will since they looked too much like pajama pants. Molly looked at the Madras plaid pants I was wearing and said “Ummm... so do those”. Seriously? I thought I looked kind of preppy, or like I had just stepped off the golf course. Add some penny loafers and a sweater draped over my shoulders and the outfit would be complete. Oh well, I was housebound and mostly hanging out on the couch. My fashion sense would just have to take a little vacation. I went on the Old Navy site and ordered three more pair of lounge pants. (Why are pants called “pair”? It’s really one article of clothing, not two. Shouldn’t it be called “a pant”? Just wondering...) The delivery estimate was five days, meaning I would be wearing the Big Giant Plaid Pants for six days straight. Gross. Today is the delivery date, and I am so excited. I feel like one of my dogs, excitedly waiting to bark at the mailman. Only, I won’t try to bite the front door or yell my head off when the delivery arrives. I will rip open the package, take off all the labels, and then figure out how to get my new lounge pants washed. My laundry room is in the basement, down a long flight of stairs. I know I’m banned from doing stairs at this point in my recovery. Damn. I will have to wait until Rick gets home and ask him to be my lovely laundress. I am soooo ready to be out of the Big Giant Plaid Pants. At this point, I could fit three people in them. I don’t currently have three other people with me to test out this theory. I do have my three dogs, though. Hmmm...

Knee Rehab - Day 4

Now that I’m home from the hospital after having knee replacement surgery, I am in the throes of rehab. I have heard of this rehab thing. I keep seeing commercials for a facility called Passages Malibu. Hmmm... My treatment seems somewhat different. When I look out my living room window, I do not see the Pacific Ocean. I see my neighbor’s cars parked in front of their houses. I got all excited when told I would need to do rehab. Could I be rubbing elbows with the rich and famous? Earlier, I thought I heard something in the kitchen. I got my walker out and hurriedly cruised to the kitchen to investigate. Damn! No Lindsay Lohan... just a bunch of dirty dishes. I thought I saw the back of someone leaving the other side of my kitchen. Could Lindsay have brought her dad? Perhaps Robert Downey Jr. had a relapse and got lost in my kitchen. I picked up speed on my walker. Sparks were flying from the plastic wheels, which was probably not a good thing. Regardless, I pursued my fleeing celebrity. I rounded the corner by the bathroom... nothing. Down the hall and I just saw the usual stuff. Back in the living room where I started, I only encountered my three dogs snoring away on the couch. I don’t understand. My rehab has none of the perks of the Malibu place. I have yet to swim in a pool overlooking the ocean. There are no Roman columns or fountains in front of my house. Nobody has stopped by to give me acupuncture (a good thing - I’m so done with needles). I have yet to discover the fabulous gym seen in the TV commercial. Perhaps, this is a different kind of rehab. Well, duh. Looks like my rehab involves just a lot of exercises, pain, and one visiting physical therapist. Bummer. Malibu looks lovely.

Surviving Surgery

I had my knee replacement surgery, and as with all my other surgeries, it was traumatic. In addition to stressing about the IV, I also had to contend with having spinal anesthesia. I went over the procedure with the anesthesiologist, and was still terrified. He must have slipped me a mickie, though, as I kissed my husband good-bye one minute and the next minute I was being wheeled back up to my room by a nice man named Sam. There are so many un-fun things about a hospital stay - the 4 am blood draw, constantly being asked to swallow a thousand pills, and the neverending noises, beeps, bells and whistles. And then there’s the constant estimation of my pain level (1 to 10). The nurses ask, and I give my very best guess, and they write it down like it’s a real set-in-stone number. I’ve never given them a number that I felt good about, and always suspect that a wrong number would cosmically be entered on my Permanent Record (thank you, Catholic school). Pain can really mess you up. The first night, my pain wasn’t well under control. It was decided that I needed a nerve block... in my groin. OMG! And here I thought I had experienced all the heinous needle things under the sun. The doctor who performed the procedure was a friend of my husband’s. He was very nice and gentle, and tried his best to put me at ease. After the procedure, Rick asked how his doctor friend had done. “He saw my cooter” was probably not the expected response. Then, for more up-close-and-personal, I got to have a catheter... twice. The first time it took two nurses to manhandle my lady bits, and the second time it only took one. By the time I got to go home, I had been poked, prodded, sliced and diced, and sawed and drilled, while spending the much of the time in a narcotic fog. Not fun, but I hope the outcome is good. I deserve an awesome knee, one that possibly shoots fireworks or laser beams. Or, doesn’t keep me up at night. That’s really all I ask.

Clarice

In preparation for my upcoming knee replacement surgery, my doctor encouraged me to school myself in the procedure. This was not a good idea. I Googled “knee replacement” and came face to face with a photo of a knee with a large, nasty-looking scar running right down the middle. OMG! I wish I could scrub that image from my brain. This is when a DELETE button would come in handy. My sister told me I should baby my knee, honor it, and give it some TLC before the big event. So, where do I start? I had thought about giving my knee a name... “Clarice” popped into my head. Then I wondered if my other knee would feel slighted. I might be forced to give names to all my major body parts, just so nobody feels bad. I’m not sure I could come up with that many names. Some body parts are easier to work with than others. Elbows are great. Ears are also easy to work with. Then there are the toes, which are notoriously picky and tend to be jealous. I could totally see them revolting if not pleased with the names I pick out. Personally, I have always thought toes were revolting. So, the night before my surgery, I will let Clarice wear my birthday tiara. Maybe I’ll take her for a latte. Ok, I always take her with me but this time I will concentrate on making it special for her. It’s hard to look at my knee and know that in a few days it will be cut open and then stapled back together, with a bunch of other unpleasantness in between. My knee has a few battle scars from my childhood, plus a couple from previous arthroscopic surgeries. Compared to what’s in store for it, though, it’s a pretty pristine landscape. After surgery, it will look something like the Frankenstein monster, minus bolts in its neck. I wonder if I’ll wake up in the recovery room to the sound of tiny peasants with pitchforks and torches surrounding my hideous knee. I think I best be taking Clarice out for more than a latte. She might need a nice piece of coffee cake. It’s for her, not me... I’m just along for the ride.

Under The Knife... Again

I found out last week that I need to have a complete knee replacement. I have no cartilage left in my right knee, so my bones are rubbing together. Ick! I’m pretty bummed, as I had decided two years ago that my colon surgery would be my last. I’m not a fan of medical procedures or hospitals, but I guess nobody is. I have no idea where my cartilage went. Did it evaporate? Migrate south for the winter? It’s not like I’ve been extremely active and wore my knees out. Lately, I’ve only been in danger of my eyes bugging out as I try to get off the couch. Since my Big Giant Birthday two months ago, I’ve been pretty sensitive to the anything connected to old age. When I was consulting with the surgeon, he said “You are young and in relatively good health”. I looked around, trying to see who he was talking to. I assume this doctor sees elderly people all day long, so maybe I looked pretty damn good. It now seems that everybody I talk to about my upcoming surgery has either had a knee replacement, or knows someone who has had one. If “60 is the new 40”, then maybe knee replacements are the new tonsillectomies. Let me explain... When I was eight, it seemed that all my friends were getting their tonsils out. It was all the rage. Kids were promised ice cream after the procedure. This added to the allure, even though my family always had at least two different flavors of ice cream in our fridge. I asked my mom if I could get my tonsils out, because two of my friends were. She said “No”. Thinking back on it, I’m amazed I wasn’t the first one on the tonsillectomy train. I was ALWAYS getting sick and constantly had a sore throat. Somehow, though, I was the only one in the family to make it to adulthood with my tonsils intact. Talking to my friends after their procedure, it turned out to be painful and not-so-fun. When I was about ten, my younger sister had to get her tonsils removed. We always had to do stuff together, so my sense of self-preservation kicked in. I abandoned Mickey, and hid behind the couch until she was carted off to the hospital. Whew... that was a close call! I think I might call Mick as I head to the hospital for my knee replacement, so she can hide behind her couch. It might even things out.

Checkmate

I was getting a latte at my neighborhood coffee shop, and noticed a man playing chess with his daughter. She looked like she was maybe four years old... playing chess. OMG! I watched to make sure she wasn’t just messing with the horsey, or whatever it is you call that chess piece. She was actually making moves and listening to her dad. I’ve been told that chess is a game of military strategy, which would explain why I have never had the least bit of interest in playing. If I were in a military strategy meeting, I’m sure I would be more concerned about what everybody was going to wear than where to place men and bombs. Colors and fabric can be so important in life! Plus, they don’t explode. I suspect military strategy lives in the same area of the brain as math. That part of my brain is like pudding. Or maybe custard, which is the food equivalent of a thought problem (I dislike them both). Trust me. When I was four, I was not playing chess. Checkers were probably too advanced for me at that age. I think my focus back then was learning to stand on my head. I was skinny, so it was probably easy. I also enjoyed hanging by my knees from the top bar of our swing set. Maybe being upside down did something to my brain. I wish I would have thought of that during my battles in any math class I struggled with. It would have helped me to feel I was overcoming a handicap, instead of thinking I was just a numbskull. My kids attended chess club in elementary school. I’m not sure my daughter embraced the game, but I think my son went more than once. It made me feel dumb just to walk into the cafeteria after chess club. All those kids were learning such a mysterious game. I would have felt the same had they been assembling a nuclear bomb. So, to that little girl at the coffee shop... You go girl! Do battle with the boys but don’t forget about your fabulous wardrobe. You can do both. Checkmate!