Better bend than break

I survived knee surgery #10, AKA "Bend It Like Beckham." It was fine. Not the passive aggressive "fine," that you use with your spouse when you are pissed. It was legitimately fine - a satisfactory experience.

Surgery goals

The build-up to the surgery was the worst, and I honestly thought that they would have to drag me into that OR kicking and screaming; however, once I arrived at Pennsylvania Hospital (the correct hospital this time), I went into automatic surgery mode and willingly followed my surgery team into the operating room with no tears or panic.  Like a crack whore, I immediately began begging staff for versed (the drug that makes you loose and not give a care). As I met my OR Nurses, my Anesthesiologist, and my Surgeon, I greeted each with, "Hello. Can I have my versed?" I even attempted to wow and sway them with my surgery experience, "It's my 10th knee surgery. Can I please have versed?" After 2 hours of mounting anxiety and versed rejections, I finally got my shot  and contentedly entered the land of apathy. As I lay freezing and high as a kite on the operating room table, arms splayed out and restrained, it occurred on me that the Anesthesiologist was MIA. I could hear the surgery team discussing amongst themselves, "I texted him. He should be here soon." To distract me, my Surgeon's fabulous PA, Sabrina, exclaimed, "All right. It's Kirstie's 10th surgery! Let's play some tunes. What can we play for you?" I immediately requested White Snake, "Here I go again," as it seemed rather appropriate for my 10th knee surgery. So for the next 10 minutes I lay on the cold metal operating table and belted out tunes with the OR staff. I closed my eyes and sang Chumbawamba, "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down," I serenaded the Nurse with Backstreet Boys, "I want it that way," and finally I channelled Calvin Harris and happily sang, "Don't be afraid to catch feels." I was stoned. I was content. I was having the time of my life with all of my friends!  At some point the Anesthesiologist realized that he had missed several dozen texts and arrived at my Operating room. I requested one more chorus of "Feels," but instantly fell asleep as he placed the mask on my face, and the Nurse bid me goodnight with, "Sweet dreams, sweetheart."

I'm smiling, but what I'm really thinking is, "Where the f is my versed?"

I woke up as I typically do, high on life and as chatty as Kathie Lee and Hoda on Wine Wednesday. As I listened to my fellow patients in recovery moan and groan with confusion and discomfort, I sat up, alert and happy, discussing Candace Cameron's fabulous wardrobe on "Fuller House" with my recovery Nurse. The pain eventually did hit, but it was fine. I dealt with it. The nausea hit a few hours later, and lasted for a few days, but it was fine. I dealt with it. Overall, I will chalk it up as a fine experience.

At this point, I am conditioned to hear "bad news" post surgery (i.e. "It was worse than we expected" and "It's deteriorating faster than expected"), but this time, I was pleasantly surprised to receive relatively positive news from my surgeon. There was a LOT of scar tissue removed which subsequently allowed the surgeon to "gently" bend my knee to 130 degrees (I even have the creepy surgery pics to prove it). The cartilage that was implanted in May is healing well, with no new lesions in my weight bearing region. My new meniscus also looks solid. The cartilage under my kneecap looks shitty, but you can't win 'em all, right? Overall, the surgery was successful. I hope and pray that I can have a break from surgeries for a while. I need a break.

Another one for the album: The equivalent of the passed out Frat party pic. Did I do that? 

I crutched into Penn Med Physiotherapy 2 days post surgery, and easily bent my knee to 122 degrees! 122 degrees! After being stuck around 87 degrees for months, this was a huge accomplishment. I've spent the last 6 months feeling like a physio failure (through no fault of my physiotherapists). I am super pumped and proud that my knee is finally doing what it is supposed to do. I can now fit in the backseat of a car, cross my legs, and even lay in my natural "flamingo" sleeping position. What a freakin' relief! I can officially announce that #theneverbendingstory is over!

As per usual, My fabulous team consisting of Mom and Ev were there with me through it all. I love them to bits and pieces. How lucky am I to have such an incredible support system! In the words of our Millennial friends, Mom and Ev are my ride and die.

Out of bed! Cruisin' the Jersey Shore with Ev 

Nausea has passed - time for fudge with Mom!

Check out these beautiful flowers from my Aunty Barb and Cousin Courtney.  Love you guys!

Ev has since flown off to Orlando for work and Mom is staying with me on the island for a week. I am so grateful that she is here with me. It was apparent as I crutched through the door that Biloxi and Dundee were relieved to see Mom as well, "Yes! She will keep us alive!"

I'm now on the road to recovery, doing my physio exercises regularly and ensuring that my knee continues to bend. I will show anyone who demonstrates even the tiniest bit of interest that my knee can now bend, "Look at me! Watch this!" Although it's been difficult to keep the swelling down since I flew back to the island, the knee is feeling stronger each day and is doing just fine.

Thanks for the love and support, friends.
Cheers to bendy knees!

Look at me! Watch this!

Preparing for Bend It Like Beckham with brunch

Happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian friends and family - miss you and love you guys!

It's been a challenging month for me. In preparation for surgery #10 on October 16 - that's right, Surgery NUMBER FREAKIN' TEN, my Pain Specialist and I decided that it was time to wean off of the Gabapentin, the drug that is effective in reducing my pain, but has temporarily lowered my IQ by 50 points. He suggested a rapid wean as Gabapentin's half life (the time it remains in your body) is quite short. So, you know, get 'er done. I'll save you the messy details, but let's just say that there was twitching, multiple panic attacks, tears, and horrible itchiness. It was like the worst hangover of my life, but persisting for an entire week. I was adamant that I wanted to keep my schedule as regular as possible, waking up early, getting dressed like a regular person, and heading to work every day. I think that maintaining a consistent schedule kept me sane during that awful time.  I held it together while I was at work, then collapsed on my couch at 4:00 and madly scratched the bottoms of my feet while uttering judgmental comments to the contestants on the Food Network's "Donut Showdown" ("Too much yeast you idiot!") Good times. I've since begun a new painkiller and although my dose is not therapeutic yet, the pain relief is improving, and I'm smart again. I can problem solve, produce complex sentences, and follow 2 step commands. I got my smarts back!

One might think that after 9 knee surgeries, surgery would become a routine procedure for me. It's not. With each surgery, my anxiety and fears increase. Thankfully, #10 is not a major operation. The plan is to remove the scar tissue that is preventing my knee from bending past 90 degrees and then bend my knee until my ankle hits my ass. You know, a little "Bend It Like Beckham." They've warned me that there will be pain post surgery. NO SHIT! Anyway, when I begin to think about going under anesthetic, waking up confused, in pain, and pleading for more drugs, "The pain is a 10/10!" (Aside: save your 10 for when you really need it. No one believes you if you claim 10/10 pain too frequently), it evokes sheer panic. I just have to focus on getting through this, knowing that with some hard work my range of motion will return, and my left knee can continue to get stronger. Right? I am cautiously optimistic.

In the meantime, I'm back to pre-surgery bulking. My scrawny little frame took a bit of a beating during the Gabapentin wean, and I know that I will likely lose at least 5 pounds after "Bend It Like Beckham," so I'm currently eating and drinking everything in sight...cue BRUNCH.

I thought I knew "Brunch" prior to moving here. But I was wrong. I had no idea. Here on island, brunch is an experience of pure, unapologetic gluttony, immediately followed by regret, shame, and a terrible hangover. Brunch is comprised of 4 distinct phases. Let me explain:

1) Phase 1: Pre-brunch planning and brunch strategy

It is important to select your brunch attire accordingly. Some people choose to fancy up quite a bit for brunch and others take the more casual route - that's not important. What is important, my friends, is the fit of your clothing. Ensure that you choose something loose with ample give. The biggest mistake one can make is donning a tight sexy dress, only to discover 3 courses in that you look to be 3 months along. Also, avoid long flowy sleeves. Strappy dresses are best. You don't want billowy fabric dipping in the cocktail sauce.

The perfect brunch attire: loose and sleeveless

 Brunch strategy, on the other hand, involves preplanning how to the get the most bang for your buck, and consume as much decadent food in 3 hours as humanely possible. Some suggestions include: 1) Avoid the bread and other inexpensive fillers that you can easily eat at home, 2) Load up on seafood and pricey cuts of meat, and  3) At the dessert bar, avoid things that you could easily make yourself like cookies and brownies. Choose the creme brûlées and tiramisu. Strategy is key. Brunch smartly.

Look away from the bread!

2) Phase 2: My life is soooo awesome

Around 1pm, as you are simultaneously consuming champagne, rum punch, and sangria, a warm fuzzy glow overtakes your body. You look around the table at the friends that have joined you for such a joyous event. You LOVE these people. This is the BEST day ever. You moved to a tropical island and your life is soooo awesome. You are truly living the dream. This is when the person seated next to you with whom you've only ever shared work files hugs you tightly and proclaims, "I love you!" You return from the sushi bar with a new friend and introduce her, "This is Stephanie, the amazing person who handed me wasabi!" Phase 2 is characterized by being enveloped by the warm protective bubble that shields you from the rest of the scary scary world. You have no recollection of horrible world events, troubles at home, or even the fact that you have to go to work tomorrow. Tomorrow? Is there really a tomorrow? Live in the moment! Bottom's up! You have officially achieved the ultimate (legal) high.

We are awesome. Obviously. 

Look! My new friend is holding my crutch!

3) Phase 3: SHIT!

Now phase 3 can attack as early as 5pm, in which case, you still stand a chance of survival. If phase 3 hits, however, around 9pm or later, you are screwed. I repeat, SCREWED.

It's all about the decision that you make once brunch is complete. If the adulting part of your brain hasn't been completely drowned in alcohol, you will make the responsible choice to go home and hydrate. If, on the other hand, all sense of responsibility has been washed away with bubbles, you will make the fatal error to continue your shenanigans at the beach bar, Royal Palms. If this is the case, the warm and fuzzy comfort of Phase 2 will continue to overtake your body...until it doesn't.

Once phase 3 hits, you begin to feel regret, "Oh my God. It's Sunday. I am drunk. I have to work tomorrow! What was I thinking?" You madly guzzle water and rub your extended bloated belly. You examine your reflection in the mirror. You wipe the mascara that is dripping down your face and note that you resemble a Picasso - one eye here, one eye there- your face has literally fallen off. You retreat to a dark room and ponder how you could have been so damn irresponsible. How could something that feels so right be so wrong? You are so freakin' thirsty.

Phase 4: My is life is NOT awesome

This phase occurs once you awaken from passing out  post brunch slumber. It could be midnight. It could be 6am. It all depends on whether or not you took part in post brunch beach shenanigans. Waking up on Monday morning with a furry tongue, alcohol seeping from your pores, and vague memories of what you may or may not have said or participated in is a horrifying way to start your work week. You immediately reach for your phone and groan in despair as you realize you've been tagged in 32 pictures that display your Picasso-ish brunch face to the world. You feel shame. You feel regret. Think of the waste! Think of the starving children! How many glasses of bubbles did you drink? You have no idea. It was bottomless! You consumed infinity glasses of champagne! No wonder you feel so terrible.  You solemnly swear at that moment that you will never do brunch again. Until you do.

I drank this many. 

Cheers friends!