Knee Purgatory

 

Hey friends,

Last we spoke I was on the "final countdown" to my 15th and last-ish knee surgery for ever-ish. I was dreaming about a life with two solid knees - booking an Easter vacation in Europe, looking to adopt a dog in the spring, and considering an online University course in February. For the first time in a long time, I began making plans. 

Aside: When my Grandma used to tell stories that began jubilantly, we anticipated that the story would often end in tragedy: "They were such a nice little family in a nice little house and they had just a beautiful new baby...and then Bob was suddenly run over and killed by his combine."

(Can you sense the foreshadowing?)

Well...

Things didn't quite go the way that I had hoped. AT ALL. 

Despite having Covid in early November, the Anesthesiologist cleared me for surgery a week prior, and I was healthy, and ready to go. Unfortunately my pre-op Covid PCR came back positive the day before my surgery and the new knee was canceled...about 12 hours before my surgery.

Our PCR tests on island provide us with specific numbers - cycle thresholds that indicate how much virus is actually in your system. The higher the number, the less "sick" you are. You need a number of 35 to be considered Covid-free. My number was 32.5. I was not contagious; however, the virus was still detectable in my body - nearly 3 weeks after I had been sick. 

I pleaded with the Unit Clerk over the phone, "Please! I'm not even contagious. My mom flew in from Canada to look after me, I have no symptoms and anesthesiology cleared me! I just really Kneed this knee!"

No dice. 

Oh my God, to say I was disappointed is an understatement. 

I can't express just how upsetting it is to be completely and totally mentally, physically, and emotionally prepared for something only for it to dissipate with 2.5 Fu#$ing Covid threshold units. I had been "training" for this surgery for months. I was so ready to move on. I was so excited to start my new life. 

There were tears - the kind of tears that make you choke because you can't really inhale anymore without sucking up your snot. You know those ones? Ugh. It was ugly.

Thank God my mom was here. She just held me while I cried and poor Ev looked on in disbelief (trying to figure out how to "fix" the problem, I'm sure). 

Two days later I camped myself outside of my surgeon's office and waited patiently to plead my case. 

My Ortho was also disappointed that my surgery was canceled, and explained that it was simply a checkbox item - I had failed to meet the pre-op requirements. No exceptions made. He offered to place me on cancelation list for a week,  but warned that the OR schedule was very busy, and that after a week he was heading on holidays over the Christmas break. 

I held out a tiny bit of hope that perhaps I could still get in for surgery prior to Christmas, which would only delay all my hopes and dreams by a week. 

Like 16 year old Kirstie waiting for Jason Issel to call her back (he did.. eventually, and broke up with me), I waited on pins and needles, glued to my phone. Finally 5 days later, I received a call from a hospital number.

My hands shook with excitement as I frantically answered the phone (imagine being excited to get your knee chopped off?) 

"Hello. This is the Cayman Islands Hospital calling with a short survey about your surgery experience last week."

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU## right off. 

Like salt in my massive gaping wound. 

Spoiler alert...I did not get my Christmas miracle, I am obviously on the naughty list because Courtknee now has to wait until MARCH to get a new friend. That's THREE months away. 

UGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. It's all just so unbelievably disappointing. 

In a fit of defiance, Courtknee blew up with this news (I had promised her a friend that she was no longer getting), and for the first time since my knee replacement, I began struggling with swelling, and stay puft marshmallow Courtknee could barely bend (she's a bit of a drama queen). 

You see it? You see it?

So I was sad, swollen, and defeated. 

My wonderful Mom let me be miserable for a few days, encouraging me to help her decorate the Christmas tree, bake some cookies, and watch Christmas movies. It was so comforting to have her here. 

Once I processed the news and "accepted" my new reality, I tried to focus on just enjoying the time with mom during a really nice time of year on island. The Christmas breeze is blowing strong, the roundabouts are all decked out in blinking lights, and tropical holiday music plays in every store. Cayman is a beautiful place during the holidays, and it was really nice experiencing this with my mom (We also snuck in a decadent night at the Kimpton). 

But...I find myself back in a place where I had hoped to never be in again. 

I will be returning to work after the holidays with one good-ish knee and one knee that randomly locks and gives out on me. I will need to begin everyday with a strategy. How do I limit my number of steps? When can I take a pain-killer to ensure that I'm alert to see my students? How will I carry all my supplies to four different schools? What will I do if my knee locks up and I am unable to unlock it? In addition, I'm navigating physiotherapy challenges as progress with Courtknee is now limited by my broken knee. The right knee was ready and poised for retirement, so it's really not fair to her either. This was not the plan, dammit!

My dreams of touring Europe at Easter are over. The dog will have to wait. I will not be well enough to take write a university final exam in March. Everything has been pushed back and placed on hold - like the last 10 years of my life. I am well aware that this is really minor compared to what so many are going through right now. I will be fine. I know this. But I'm just so tired of being resilient. I feel so tired, and I think I'm going to feel sorry for myself for just a bit longer while I sit here wallowing in knee purgatory (currently with a pulled hamstring to add insult to injury...or injury to injury or whatever). 

Mom left this week and I miss her already. She and Lenny put their plans to travel down to California on hold so that she could help with the surgery that never happened. She will do the same for me in March. She is such a good mom. I am very grateful. 

Evan has wisely decided that a change of scenery will do me good, so he's booked us a flight to Miami on the 25th. Typically I plan all of our travels, but I just didn't have it in me, so he's in charge this time. I know that we are visiting his new Florida gym, I know that there is an RV involved (yes..an RV!), an NHL hockey game,  and a stop in Savannah (Georgia, not Cayman).  I'm not exactly sure what's happening, but I'm looking forward to getting a break from the island. I think it's really thoughtful of him to recognize that I need this right now. It's pretty great that people still love me even when I'm miserable and difficult to love these days. 

Cheers, friends. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas!

The "final" countdown...

"Where does your tongue need to be when you make your snake sound, Zachary?"

"In the front."

"That's right! And where are you blowing your air?"

"Out the middle of my mouth."

"Awesome! Let's give it a try. Smiley face. Tongue behind your teeth. Blow straight out the front!"

"SSSSSSHSHSHSHSHSHSSSSSSSSHSHSHSHSHSH"

I cringed as Zachary's lateral lisp hijacked his perfect /s/ positioning. Just as I was about to correct it with a verbal cue, I watched in horror as a giant wad of iridescent saliva exited the sides of Zachary's mouth, soared directly towards me, and entered my open mouth.

That's right. I swallowed Zachary's lateral lisp saliva. 

Occupational hazard of the speech-language pathologist. 

The next day, I received an email from Zachary's teacher, informing me that Zachary had tested positive for Covid and would be out for the next week. 

I mentally prepared myself for the fact that I would soon contract Covid. I mean...I had swallowed saliva infected with the virus! Certainly it was inevitable. It was halfway through a very long spring term. Half of my co-workers were in covid isolation. I was exhausted. A small part of me was secretly anticipating a little time at home for a week.  However, the positive test never came. Day after day, I tested negative. I had (somehow!) outran the 'vid. 

I had to assume that I was immune?

Fast forward ahead nine months. I'm home on medical leave, rehabbing Courtknee. I rarely leave my house, except to be tortured by my physiotherapist. I say "tortured" with respect, of course. I have many physiotherapy friends, and they truly are a helping profession, but a part of me suspects they were the kids who pulled wings off of insects at recess. I digress. I wake up one morning with a sore throat, fever, and severe aches. I call to cancel my physiotherapy session and am informed by the receptionist that my physio tested positive for covid. I swab my nose and 2 bright menacing lines immediately appear on my covid test. I had caught the 'vid! And in an ironic twist of fate, it wasn't from the hundreds of infected children I had been exposed to for 2.5 years, but in fact, it was contracted from my physiotherapist, the person who makes sick people cry for a living.

Disclaimer: My physio is a good guy. He's been immensely helpful in this recovery, and I appreciate him very much, Covid and all. 

Thankfully, it was quite mild and short-lived. I spent a few days shivering/sweating in bed, lamenting about how unfair the universe was, while Evan passed me food with a stick. Miraculously, he did not catch it!

There was speculation that my upcoming surgery would be postponed, but luckily the Anesthesiologist deemed me healthy and fit for surgery - so all systems go.

My right knee will be replaced on Tuesday. I am waiting to assess her personality before I commit to a name - but I do have a long list of very creative pu-knee names, as supplied by you guys! Thank you. I'm also going to to gently request that my surgeon at least attempt to make her look a little more attractive and composed (can we try for a straighter cut?) We'll see how that goes over, as surgeons are generally very open to feedback ;) 

"Stevie," our blind foster, enjoys tripping Courtknee. We call it "agility training."

Overall, I am moderately satisfied with Courtknee at the 2-month post surgery mark. I think the 'vid might have been good for her. After lying in bed for 3 days straight, I walked to the kitchen for some water and my gait was miraculously corrected! I stopped analyzing my hip hitch and just utilized Courtknee to get from point A to point B, which is what she was technically designed to do. Perhaps I was over-thinking things? NOOOOOOT MEEEEE ;) 

I'm in the gym daily, riding the bike, ellipticalling on the elliptical (what does one "do" on an elliptical?), rowing, and am even squatting and lifting weight again. I have been eating, breathing, and sleeping physiotherapy - man, I've worked my ass off the last two months - literally. Due to weight loss and muscle wasting, my ass has been reduced to a few bony bits connected by muscle knots. Courtknee still aches, and feels quite stiff, but she is stable. I've never had a stable knee before, so this is good. At least one of us is stable. I woke up a few days after the 'vid and couldn't remember if I was 42 or 43 years old. Evan informed me that I'm 43 and I cried. So...you know...I'm fragile.

This will be my 15th knee surgery. This will be the last knee surgery I will undergo in (hopefully) about 20 years. I will be closing a massive and challenging 10+ years chapter in my life, and starting a brand new chapter! Although it's dim, I can see a faint light at the end of this dark tunnel and am beginning to allow myself to fantasize about what lies ahead. I dream about taking a vacation where I can tour - like actually walk around a city. I dream about getting another dog and taking him for walks on the beach.  I dream about taking pilates classes, maybe swinging a golf club again,  and wakesurfing Candle in the summer. It's close. I can taste it (I didn't lose my sense of taste, thank God). 

This guy has been coming around lately - I feel like it's a good sign!

But first, I need to get through the whole chopping off of the knee bit. I'm mentally prepared for the bed pans, the puke, the tears, the broken CPM, the horrible hospital roommate, the barbaric first few physio sessions - even the blood transfusion if needed.  I can do this. Right? Yes! I CAN DO THIS.

Mom arrives on Sunday - what would I do without my mom??? I am so so so grateful for her! I'm sure she LOVES spending her time on a tropical island in the coldest, dankest, noisiest hospital on Earth. Yikes. That being said, I'm looking forward to watching Christmas movies together and maybe enjoying a modified pre-Christmas celebration together, once the dust settles after surgery. 

Cheers Friends - see you on the flip side!

Thankful for Mom 

Out on good behavior

Warning: I've just re-read this and realized that I've inserted a few f-bombs. I think they serve a purpose in this particular post, so I'm opting to leave them. You've been warned. 

Hey friends,

Well it's been an eventful month. I had my first knee replaced a month ago. Overall, it was Ok-ish. I dunno, it was my 14th knee surgery (hopefully the last on the left knee for 20 years), and I just had to get through it. 

My last 8 surgeries have been in Philadelphia, so this was my first experience having surgery in Cayman. As expected, it wasn't quite as...um..."refined" as my Penn Med experiences. When I was told that I would remain in hospital for at least 5 days post surgery, I already began dreading the experience. No one actually wants to be in the hospital, but the thought of 5 whole days in our island hospital definitely filled me with anxiety. 

I don't remember any of my surgery. As I was being wheeled into the OR, I asked the anesthesiologist to give me Propofol (it makes you forget). 

He responded, "Now?"

"Sure, why not?" Who wants to remember any of this shit? And with one push into my IV line... poof...I was out for the count. 

My first night in hospital sucked as I was not allowed to ambulate until an x-ray had been taken. Read: bed pans! Ugh. It wasn't great. However, the pain was not nearly as bad as my cartilage transplants had been. I took 2 hits of morphine and quickly decided that I didn't need the narcotics, which was a relief. 

I woke up at 7:30am to find five men standing at my feet, staring at me expectantly.  

"Oh hey.... I wasn't expecting company!"

I took a quick inventory of my appearance. I was a mess. I sheepishly tucked my boob back into my hospital gown, hoped that they couldn't smell the pee (there was a bed pan incident), and attempted to sort myself as best as I could. 

Once I put my glasses on and focused on the entourage standing at my bed, I realized that It was the whole HSA Orthopedic team. Wow. Good morning! How can I help you gentlemen today?

"How are you feeling?" asked the surgeon who sawed off my knee, as he roughly removed the blanket, revealing a gory blood-soaked bandage.   

"A little pain," I responded, now attempting to sit up and simultaneously cover my hoo-ha which was greeting the five surgeons at the foot of my bed. 

"Yes. You will feel pain now for 3 months!" he responded cheerfully, "She's had lots of surgery. Like 10 or something," he explained to the rest of the team.

"14!" I interjected. "I've had 14 surgeries." Don't freakin' underestimate what I've been through!

After efficiently changing my dressings he stated, "Ok. You do the physio. It will hurt. You rest. You have very soft bones. We'll see you tomorrow."

Good talk. 

By the way, "soft bones" is not great news. 

I soon began the excruciating task of physiotherapy. I've never participated in physio so soon after an operation, and my God, did it hurt. I'm not going to lie, I cried. But I powered through. I did everything she told me to do, tears streaming down my face the entire time, jaw shaking as I gulped back the tears. It F#CKING hurt. It blows my mind how you just suddenly can't do simple tasks like lift your freaking leg. I tried showing the left leg how easy it was by demonstrating with the right. "Look! It's not that hard!"

It soon became apparent that I needed to get out of that hospital as quickly as possible.

I had the roommate from hell (doesn't everyone end up with the roommate from hell in hospital? Wait, was I a roommate from hell too?" Ugh).

This woman was loud. Her TV was loud. Her visitors watched Tik Toks/IG stories on the loudest volume possible. All I could hear was constant streaming of Tik Toks (from 3 different phones!) and Judge Judy shows on full blast....not to mention religious sermons at an unacceptable volume when her mother came to visit. Mom and I tried to distract ourselves, but things just got worse. A maintenance man then entered my room and began drilling holes in the wall - like with an actual drill. To top it all off my IV ended and began to beep. Despite calling the nurses multiple times, no one came to replace or turn off the beeping IV.

Finally I snapped. "Mom!!! I can't take it. Do something!!!" I was so completely overstimulated that I had resorted to placing a pillow over my head, with intent to suffocate myself. 

Please kill me now.

Poor mom. "What should I do?" she asked. 

I unhooked the IV pole from my IV site and shoved it away from the bed.

"Just put this pole outside!" I demanded.

Mom obediently pushed my beeping IV pole (past the man drilling my wall) into the hall.

A few minutes later, a nurse exclaimed, "You can't just put this here!"

Ya ya. Ok. 

Ugh. It was the most disturbing few days of my life....and not at all conducive to healing. 

I began to concoct a plan.  A prison-break of sorts. 

The next morning when my entourage of bone-splitters stood at my bedside, I was a little more prepared. My boob and hoo-ha were safely put away, my hair was brushed, and my teeth were clean. 

"When can I go home?" I implored my surgeon.

"How much are you bending the knee?" he asked.

"I'm at about 45 degrees," I responded.

"If you can get it to 90, you can leave tomorrow. But our patients typically stay 5-7 days."

Ya ya. Ok. 

When my physio arrived a few hours later, I pleaded with her to help me get to 90 degrees and break out of this place as quickly as possible. 

She had one solution. But it was risky. 

"Have you ever heard of the CPM?" she questioned.

Have I? Have I? Oh man, visions of sitting on the knee bending torture device for months after my cartilage transplant flooded back to me. Anyone remember the #neverbendingstory of 2017? I spent 6 hours a day on this machine for 3 months straight. LAWD JESUS.

"Let's do it!" This was my hail Mary.

My lovely Physio, who makes sick people cry for a living, soon wheeled in the Continuous Passive Motion (CPM) device. This thing was ancient. Like from 1984. 

"Sometimes it doesn't work. It's old," she warned.

We strapped my knee in it, turned it on and began the arduous task of bending the knee.

Mom and I soon realized the glitch of this ancient machine. Imagine trying to play Smurfs on Calecovision circa 1982. Every 10 minutes or so, the machine would stop, but only when the knee was at its most uncomfortable point at peak bend. I would scream and mom would unplug it as quickly as possible, and then re-plug it in, hoping that the knee would then begin it's journey out of the tortuous bend. Sometimes she would have to re-plug it multiple times. Good F#cking times. I sat on the CPM for about 3 hours, stopping and starting every 10-20 minutes when it glitched.  

The good 'ol CPM circa 1985

That night, I hatched my ultimate plan to spring loose. I got Mom to lay out some respectable clothing, and place my makeup and toothbrush by my side. I set my alarm for 7am and then laid in bed all night listening to my roommates TV blaring at 80 decibels. 

The next morning I carefully dressed myself (even donned a bra!), and dragged my wretched body to the chair beside my bed. I applied some lip gloss, brushed my hair and eagerly awaited my ortho entourage.

By the time the surgeons arrived, I was seated in my chair, hair neatly placed in a not-so-messy bun, eating eggs, and performing heel slides which displayed my incredible range that I had acquired on the CPM the night before. It was the performance of a lifetime. 

My surgeon took one look at me and stopped suddenly in his tracks.  I saw his eyebrows raise in surprise, and in that moment I felt completely vindicated (Side note: I am fully aware that I have created an imaginary war between me and my ortho, to which he knows nothing about). 

"Oh, you're up. Any pain?"

"I've had worse. Can I please go home?"

"Did you hit 90 degrees?"

"F#ck ya!" (Okay, I didn't say the "f" word, but you can imagine that I said "yes" with as much gusto as a patient who recently had a knee chopped off and hasn't slept for 2 days could possibly say it with).  I gritted my teeth and forced my knee to a perfect right angle, hoping that he didn't see the tear slip down my cheek. TA-DA!

"Well, Ok. I guess you can go home," he replied, "Most knee replacement patients don't go home this early. It must be because you have such a great surgeon," he continued cheekily. 

ya ya, ok, buddy. It's all you. I know this game. 

I silently high-fived myself. My plan had worked! I was soooo awesome and confidence was high. 

Just as they were discussing my discharge, the nurse entered with my latest blood work results.

"Her hemoglobin is very low. She needs a blood transfusion."

SHIT.

There was no way that I could fake high hemoglobin. I begged and pleaded with the hospital staff to let me go after the transfusion. They agreed.

I didn't foresee it taking 7 hours to get the transfusion. But I finally got some fresh blood. And I went home...4 days post surgery. So, you know, not that it's a competition, but it is ... and I won. 

I have never been so relieved to be back in my own house. 

It's now been a month. My life revolves around physio, naps, and visits. In an ironic twist of fate, my knee is bending beautifully but cannot fully straighten. Who saw this plot twist? I'm stuck around 3-4 degrees, and it's definitely affecting my comfort - especially with sleeping. I have various tortuous exercises that I faithfully perform multiple times a day to straighten the knee. I lay in the "torture hang" (I named it), and cry, hoping this will all pay off and I'll get closer to 0 degrees. Other than the straightening, my knee is doing well. She's walking quite nicely, and even had her first legit jump yesterday! I've named her "Courtknee," in hopes that it'll feel less like a corpse attached to my body and more like a real knee. Unfortunately, the surgeon was unable to save my patella (it was too diseased), so none of my original knee remains. This can make proprioception (knowing where my knee is in space) a little more tricky.  It feels strange. It's hard work, but it's currently my full-time job. I've had little control over this rotten disease the past 10 years, but I do have control over how hard I work to rehabilitate this new one. I have no other option. 

Nothing to see here - just a torture hang

Straightening Courtknee into submission

Recovery is lonely. I've been here so many times before. I am dedicating my entire life right now to getting Courtknee as close to normal as possible before they chop off my right knee at the end of November. It's physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting. I am so thankful for visits from friends, texts, lunches, etc. Thank you friends! I was also very fortunate to have my mom here for 2 weeks post surgery as well. My mom knows exactly what I need and how to make me feel better. In addition, I've got my Ev, who knows the drill, and does his best to keep me comfy and entertained while working long days. Unfortunately Ev gets to experience the worst side of me during these times. It's not easy. I'd also like to give a special shout out to my island fam who showed up to my blood transfusion with wine in hand ("I'll take a bag of B positive, please!"). They knew that I was at the end of my rope, it was Friday, and it was happy hour. Thank you. I am a lucky girl. 

I'm also currently surrounding myself with random cats. That's right...cats. I'm desperately missing Biloxi. He was always such a comfort to me during recovery, and I find myself inadvertently looking for him multiple times a day. After my super bud, Stacey, watched me pathetically try and entice feral cats into my house, he began kindly lending cats for me to "petsit" during my recovery. Unfortunately I am fragile and vulnerable, and I keep breaking the cardinal rule of petsitting by developing deep feelings for each and every one of them. We currently have "Stevie," a sweet little blind kitty who is winning over my heart. When I lay awake from 3-5am, she nuzzles her face into mine and I profess my undying love for her in the darkness. I'm beginning to think that I may be too needy for her. Thank god I'm not single right now. I'd be a dating disaster. If a boy so much as touched my hand, I would be wedding dress shopping. Love me!!!!

This woman is soooo needy

Thanks for all of the support. I appreciate each and every message and kind word. It really helps. 

I go in for the other knee on November 29. I am currently accepting applications for knee names...Haha! I am hopeful that this will be my last knee surgery for 20 years. Can you imagine?  I can't. Man, I hope hope hope that number 15 is the last...for a very long time. 

Cheers friends!

Most crooked scar ever. Was my surgeon like, "time me!"??

Tough Times

 Hey friends,

It's been awhile! I have a lot to share, so grab yourself a coffee, wine, whatever, and prepare to stay awhile. 

I actually composed a blog a few weeks ago, but before I had time to hit "publish," everything in our world seemed to change drastically. So, I sat on it for a while. 

The Lindsay house has had a rough month. 

We lost our best bud, the Most Interesting Cat in the World, Biloxi. 

Evan went to the States for a couple of weeks, so it was just me and Bilox. Everything was status quo, except for this strange thing Biloxi began doing when Evan left. Every evening, when I laid on the couch to watch TV, Biloxi would sit beside me, place his paw on my chest, and gaze into my eyes. This daily occurrence would last about 2-3 minutes. It was kind of unnerving, and given that I've read how animals can sense illness, naturally in typical "Kirstie fashion," I began to worry that perhaps he was trying communicate a health issue - like an irregular heart rhythm or maybe even breast cancer. It just seemed really strange that this 21-year old cat initiated a new ritual when Evan left. 

The day after Ev returned, Biloxi suddenly lost control of his back leg. We took him to the vet, who wasn't sure what was going on, but prescribed potassium for overall weakness. Less than 24-hours later, Biloxi was unable to move his hind end, it appeared as though he threw a blot clot, and we made the heartbreaking decision to euthanize him. 

The last 24-hours with Biloxi was bittersweet. Because he was unable to hold himself up, Evan and I took turns holding him in our arms. His little orange head was soaked with our tears, as we looked through photo albums and talked to him about all of our favorite memories together.

We talked about how he pooped on Evan's hand in the pet store - that's how he knew he was choosing us!

We talked about all the hockey road trips he endured. We laughed about the time that Evan and Biloxi drove all the way to Tulsa, Oklahoma (Biloxi in Evan's lap, with his paws on the steering wheel), only to turn around after the first (bad bad) hockey game and drive all the way back to Canada.

We talked about that tumultuous period in our relationship when we considered breaking up, and how Biloxi always seemed to have a way of bringing us back together.

We talked about the day Evan proposed - how Biloxi jumped on his lap mid-proposal, desperately wanting to be a part of the action.

We talked about our wedding day. Biloxi greeted us at the door and rubbed his face on my veil.

We talked about all the moves, flights, trains, pet passports and journeys that Biloxi endured like a trooper. 

We talked about the time Biloxi chased a fox out of our yard - he was fearless. 

We talked about all the surgeries that Biloxi nursed me through, licking the tears off my face, and placing his paw on my arm for comfort. I've always felt like Biloxi is my Guardian Angel. I still do. 

We talked about all the successes and losses that Biloxi had experienced with us through 21 years of our lives. 

We talked about how Biloxi reacted when Dundee died - he seemed to be relieved to be the only animal in our house again. His last 2 years were probably his happiest. 

Biloxi really was an important part of our family, and as we held him in our arms and watched him drift peacefully to sleep for the last time, we both felt absolutely devastated.

Maybe that sounds dramatic to you - I can't think of any other word to describe how I felt. 

Evan, Biloxi, Dundee, and I were a family. When we lost Dundee, our family felt fractured. When we lost Biloxi, our family felt decimated. 

So...it's a huge loss for us. We are so so saddened to have lost such an important part of our lives. 

In retrospect, I think that Biloxi knew. I think that he was preparing me for this, perhaps placing his paw on my chest to comfort me - to communicate that he'll always be in my heart. I'd like to think this is why. 

We didn't have much time to grieve, as we were suddenly faced with Hurricane Ian. 

Let me tell you, waiting for a hurricane is one of the most confusing and stressful experiences that I have endured. You have days to prepare; however, the spaghetti models, indicating the path of the storm, changes every 2-3 hours. One hour, you're preparing for a direct hit from category 2 hurricane, and the next you're celebrating a near miss. It's just so difficult to prepare for something that changes so quickly. The vibe on the island is pure chaos. Everyone loses their damn minds, running into each other in parking lots and hoarding batteries and toilet paper. Just the atmosphere of pure mayhem is enough to give you a heart attack. 

We shuttered up our windows, and awaited the storm. In the end, it wasn't too bad on our end of the island. Although places in the south experienced flooding due to storm surge, our little island lucked out as Hurricane Ian side-swept us, cruising 60 miles west of Grand.  Florida, on the other hand, took a vicious beating. It really hurts my heart to see my island bestie's hometown, Sanibel, completely destroyed. Those poor people have lost everything!

And, finally...

My last piece of news is that I'm getting both of my knees replaced. 

I will have my left knee replaced on Tuesday, and my right knee 8 weeks later. The surgeries will be taking place in Cayman. 

When I met with the Orthopedic surgeon, he initially attempted to dissuade me from total knee replacements, citing I was too young, I wouldn't be happy with them, and that there were too many risk factors. I agreed but then implored, "What am I supposed to do?" 

I explained that I have had 13 knee surgeries in 10 years - due to the progression of this disease, no doctor will touch me anymore. I explained that I'm reliant on Opioids for pain relief. I explained that I can't even work a full day anymore. I explained that I just want to walk on the beach again. I explained that I am in constant pain. 

He listened, nodded, and asked, "Do you want them both done at once or one at a time?

Whoa, buddy, slow down here!

So I've decided to do the worst knee first, and the right knee 8 weeks later. 

To be 100% honest, I don't feel great about this. 

I've spent the last 3 weeks trying to change my mindset, listing the positives, attempting to shift my mood and build enthusiasm. But I just feel kinda sad, scared, and disappointed. I feel like I've failed. This has always been the end of the road, and I've hit it. I'm typically pretty confident going into surgery, and I've been worrying that this feeling I have is a gut reaction - that perhaps I should cancel this surgery. 

I spoke to my wise bud, Colleen, an Occupational Therapist in Canada, with whom I worked at the hospital in PA. She was with me the day that I was diagnosed, and has seen me struggle for 10 years. She always provides sound, rational advice. 

She said, "It's totally natural that you feel this way. You've spent the last 10 years of your life fighting to avoid this surgery. And now it's here. You don't have to go into surgery like a rockstar, confident and energized - it's okay to just feel how you feel." 

Thank you, Colleen. You put words to my feelings.

I also enlisted the expertise of my good bud, Lisa, a Physiotherapist, who also worked with me in PA. Lisa was one of my biggest supporters when I was diagnosed and struggling 10 years ago. She got me through many difficult work days. She works with total knee replacements on a daily. She reiterated that this isn't a failure. Because I worked so hard, I was able to give my knees an extra 10 years. Lisa explained that I've done all that I could and it's time. In fact, she encouraged me to channel Lizzo  - "It's about damn time."

Both friends painted a picture of pain-free days and mobility - walks on the beach, trips and tours - I can't even imagine being able to move freely without pain. It all sounds pretty good. 

So...it's time. I will be saying bon voyage to the first knee on Tuesday. It tried. It really did. But it's tired. 

I am so thankful for everyone who is supporting us right now. Although my heart has felt so empty with the loss of Biloxi, it's filling fast with cards, messages, plants, flowers, treats, "friend"cations, and words of encouragement from people who love and care about us. I don't have the energy right now to do these surgeries alone, but it's been apparent to me in the last week that I won't be alone. I'm going to lean into the help. I'm going to just feel how I feel and be okay with it. 

Mom comes tomorrow for back-up...or maybe "front-up"  - I hope she realizes we're not staycationing at a 4-star resort this time! 😑 ha!

Thanks to everyone who has reached out. When I'm feeling sad/scared/upset, I often re-read messages of support. It helps. It really helps. Thank you. You make me feel loved and supported. 

Take it nice and knee-sy and feel free to reach out any-knee-time (Sorry, I couldn't resist). 

The tragic tale of the Hollywood Ribs

 "They" say that when a man enters his 40's, he will develop a keen interest in one of three things: world history, younger women, or smoked meats. Luckily for me, Ev has gone with the latter. 

As creatures of routine, every weekend, Ev purchases a plethora of random meats, seasons and marinates them, we head to the beach, and Ev cooks all the food for the week on his little charcoal grill.  I one hundred percent support this hobby, and happily drink wine and encourage the meat grilling while enjoying an island sunset. We usually sample a bit of everything from our beach chair and then pack up the rest of the meat, which typically feeds us until Wednesday. It's our weekend tradition and makes us pretty happy...and it's not lost on me that this statement supports the fact that we are getting oooooold.

On our last weekend on island before our trip back, Ev returned from the grocery story excited about his latest find. "Look! the Hollywood ribs are back!" he cried. Ev loves Hollywood ribs and immediately got to work marinating them in garlic, lemon, seasonings, and parmesan cheese. The smell of the marinade made my mouth water. We packed up the meats, grill, beer, and wine, and headed to the beach.

Barbequing on a charcoal grill is not for the faint of heart. A few years ago, when Ev began his charcoal adventures, he quickly learned that charcoal grilling is not as simple as just starting it up and throwing the meat on the grill. This thing takes time! After years of patience and practice, and evenings where we hungrily starved until 10pm, Ev has finally perfected the charcoal experience. 

Ev begins by surveying his space. He checks the wind direction and ensures that the grill won't be blowing smoke directly at us or at sunbathers in our vicinity. He throws his special hickory-scented charcoal on the grill, uses his fancy fire starter blocks, and adds bourbon-soaked wood chips for extra flavor. And...get this...he sets up 3 solar powered fans around the grill to ensure the most consistent burning of the coals. This is serious business, people. It's a process. It's a JOB. Ev receives a great amount of pleasure from  creating the perfect charcoal grill and frankly if I must choose between world history, younger women, and smoked meats, I will happily support this hobby. 

This particular weekend was the same as any other. Ev set up his grill, the fans, and the chairs, and began the grilling process. He cooked his famous prosciutto cheesy bites (like a grilled cheese appie), a porterhouse steak, and the grand finale -  the Hollywood ribs. By the time the ribs were fully smoked, the sun had set, the mosquitos were buzzing, and we were pretty full from consuming our meat sampler. "We should have enough food to feed us all week," he stated proudly as we packed the meat up in a giant Tupperware container. We disposed of the hot coals, gathered all our items off the beach, and headed towards the Jeep. 

Given the fact that I'm pretty useless on my crutches, Ev has to do most of the packing on his own, and as quickly as possible in order to escape the blood thirsty mosquitos. I waited patiently in the vehicle, listening to Bob Marley (Monty's CD - the ONLY music allowed in the jeep!). Ev hopped in the jeep, slapping the mozzies away, and we were off, wind blowing in our hair (well, my hair, anyway ;)

Just as our vehicle turned onto the main road, we heard a terrible noise. 

"What was that?" I said, turning around quickly in my seat. 

My heart sank as my eyes surveyed the carnage.

There, lying on the road behind us, was the giant Tupperware full of meat. Ev had forgot it on the roof of the Jeep!

I watched Ev quickly pull the vehicle over and cycle through the 5 stages of grief in about 15 seconds flat. 

Denial "That can't be our meat! I can still save it!" (he actually opened the door with intent to save).

Anger: "I can't believe I left it on the roof!"

Bargaining: "This jeep needs a roof rack. I need to get one! This shouldn't have happened. Next time we need stronger Tupperware!"

Depression: "Not the Hollywood ribs. Anything but the Hollywood ribs."

Acceptance: "I hope the chickens and stray dogs enjoy it for dinner."

It was sad. Very very sad. We sat in silence, listening to vehicle after vehicle pummel the already-destroyed Tupperware. Sprays of seasonings and lemon garlic ribs flew through the air. Not even Bob's "Every little thing's gonna be all right" could save this one. 

And just like that I got the giggles. I couldn't help myself. I just began laughing until tears were streaming down my face. This was so tragic. Yet so epic. It was TREPIC.

Ev stoically continued to drive while my body heaved with the laughter. He stopped the vehicle suddenly at Foster's grocery store. He returned a few minutes later with a tub of ice cream. Like a scorned lover, he drowned his sorrows in monster cookie ice cream. 

Once the shock wore off and the laughter tears subsided, Ev went through our Tupperware drawer and returned with an air tight container. Flinging it across the room, he cried, "See! This would have survived that crash!" (back to denial). I nodded, again, tears streaming down my face as I convulsed with giggles.  Would this ever stop?

Suddenly, Ev experienced a revelation and stopped throwing the Tupperware. 

"So...I just realized that your crutch was also on the roof of the Jeep."

Dammit. 

Luckily I had backup crutches. You never know when you will need crutches, so multiples exist in my vehicle, closets, etc.

The crutch can be replaced. The Hollywood ribs, however, cannot. 

Luckily, Ev ordered a new charcoal grill (and very fancy fan that LIGHTS up!) for Candle Lake, so the meat-cooking can continue all summer long, no transfers required! In fact, our cabin at the lake constantly smells of hickory smoked barbeque, which brings all the 40-something men to our yard. 

Sprinkle pudding, vaginas, and warm hugs: Saying goodbye to dear Grandma MacDonald

 When people question the downside of living on a tropical island, I always respond, "being so far away from friends and family." 

My sweet and loving Grandma MacDonald passed away on June 19, 2022. She had been ill for only about a week, so despite the fact that she was 91 years old, her passing was quite unexpected. When I envisioned my summer at home, I had pictured afternoon tea visits with my Grandma in her new home at Good Shepherd Villas. Once I had processed the news, I went to work trying to find a flight home. Panic immediately set in as flights were obviously sparse, with trips to Saskatoon taking 65 + hours or more. In the last eight years on island, we have missed so many functions and events, and I knew that I couldn't miss a proper goodbye to my very special Grandma. 

Luckily I was able to find a route that got me home in two days with an overnight in Houston. Other than the wheelchair assistance forgetting about me (oops!),  resulting in barely making a connection, the trip was quite smooth and I was hugging my dad at the Saskatoon airport within 48 hours of leaving Cayman. This is a huge "win" in today's day of horrific airline travel!

My Grandma's service was really lovely. It took place at the church my Grandma attended for years, by the Minister who was a close friend of Grandmas. The music, flowers, and words spoken were heartfelt and very personal. When it sunk in that I wouldn't be visiting with my Grandma again, I felt so incredibly sad and empty; however, as the service continued, my heart also felt full - it truly was a celebration of an incredible woman. When I hugged Nora, the Minister who delivered the eulogy, I said, "Grandma would have really loved this!" and I meant it. She would have been so touched to see all her family and friends together, celebrating her. I feel comforted knowing that she's been reunited with the love of her life, my Grandpa Ken. 

I was able to catch up with cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends whom I haven't seen for years - some I had only met on Facebook (shout out to Harriett!) It felt so good to be among everyone, sharing Grandma stories, and remembering the good times. We laughed, we cried - I know this sounds cheesy, but it was really good for my soul. I needed to be there. 

Many stories were told about Grandma that day, but one of most memorable is the story that the family refer to as the "vagina project." My cousin, Donovan, lived with my Grandma for a year while he attended grade 12. This was the year after my Grandpa had passed, and I'm sure having Donovan there with her during that difficult time was a game changer for Grandma. Donovan was assigned a biology project in which he had to create a model of a human body system. Donovan chose the female reproductive system, and Grandma got to work helping him with a system she was very much familiar with! 

They made play dough together to shape the ovaries, fallopian tubes, and formed the uterus and vagina. Donovan went to bed after working all evening, and Grandma decided to stay up and spice up the model. She collected her ceramic paints and decided to make the model more life-like by applying various shades of pink. The next morning Donovan looked at his new and improved anatomically correct model and thought, "I'm going to ace this project!" Grandma modestly covered the model with a tea towel and sent Donovan on his way to school. As the Minister retold this story during the service, she admitted, "This is the first time I've said the word, 'vagina' in church!" Haha. What a Grandma! Ironically, cousin Donovan is now Dr. Donovan. He's an ER Doc, however, not a Gynecologist, which would have made this story even more amusing! 

I was lucky enough to spend almost everyday of my childhood at my Grandma and Grandpa's house. They lived close to my elementary school, and they looked after me during my lunch and after-school time. I can still remember the feeling of walking into that warm, cozy house. Grandpa would enthusiastically shout, "Kirstie!" and Grandma would peek her head around the kitchen, and say, "Lunch is almost ready!" Grandma made me a grilled cheese sandwich and pudding with cream and sprinkles for dessert every day. I washed this all down with a big glass of whole milk. Needless to say, I turned into a little chunky monkey for a few years! To this day, when I feel sad or lonely, I crave grandma's pudding with cream and sprinkles. That house was the epitome of comfort and love. To me, that's what Grandma was - comfort and love - like a big warm hug! She made all of us feel so loved so special.  I hope she felt the same way. 

Evan and Biloxi arrived a week after I did, and we are settling in to our house at the lake. We purchased a cabin across the street from our house,  and Evan's mom and aunty will be spending a few weeks there this summer. I'm looking forward to a summer surrounded by friends and family, and some warm-ish weather would be an added bonus!

It feels so good to be home. I am a true believer that you can fool your brain and reduce your pain, and although my knees are not good, overall, I feel more comfortable and calm being at the lake right now. Sometimes you just need a change of scenery to alter your mindset. 

Happy Summer, Friends!

Don't Worry Be Happy?

When I was around 10 years old, I recall rushing home from school to announce that I had achieved the highest mark in my class. This was nothing new for me, as I typically scored within the the top 3 throughout my elementary school "career." But, nevertheless, I was excited and pretty proud of my accomplishment. My dad made a comment that smacked me right in my chubby little 10 year old cheeks. He said, "You know, someday when you go to University, you won't be the smartest person in the class anymore. But it will be okay." To be fair, my dad is a realist, and I don't think that he was trying to rain on my parade, but merely preparing me for the real world. 

This startling revelation threw me for a loop! It kept me up at night. I studied harder, hoping that this surely would never transpire. It really upset me! I pictured myself at the University of Nova Scotia (that's where I intended to go, despite the fact that that particular University does not exist. I found out my later that it was called Dalhousie), sitting at my desk, defeated, as students all around me raised their hand, responding to questions that I could not answer. This worry consumed my little brain for years. 

You will not be shocked to learn that I developed an ulcer at age 12! 

Why are they dressing me like this? Have I been enrolled in the Navy?? 

I was, and still am, a worrier.  My worries have always been wound into a tight little ball, knotted, and frayed, sitting stagnant in the pit of my stomach. 

Last we spoke, I explained that my Osteochondritis Dessicans is no longer treatable. As incredible as my cartilage specialist has been over the past 8 years, I basically received a "Dear John" email, wishing me luck on my "journey." Although I've been fortunate enough to suffer through very few hurtful break-ups throughout my life, this one stung a little....like could we at least say proper goodbyes over zoom and coffee? I then met with the Orthopaedic Team in Cayman to discuss the next step, and they shrugged their shoulders and immediately passed me on to the best knee replacement guy on island. Here's the plot twist...are you ready for it? The island's knee replacement extraordinaire is the same guy who referred to me as a "lost cause" eight years ago. Ugh. I'm currently on his very long waitlist, brainstorming ways to repair our relationship before he chops my knees apart. 

So, you know, I got some worries. Don't we all?

But I'm an overachieving proactive kind of person, so I decided to "science" the worries out of me. 

I follow a well-balanced diet, although I don't deprive myself. 

I continue to remain dedicated to physiotherapy and exercise. We are now calling therapy "prehab." Sure. Let's will go with that....sounds sporty, and Yes, I am STILL on the crutch. It's been 8 consecutive months for anyone who is counting. 

I meditate regularly. Often on a beach as waves gently lap on the shore. Like how much better can meditating get???

I am very conservative with the pain meds and follow a pain plan created by my Pain Specialist.

I attend every acupuncture, massage, and chiro appointment that I can possibly fit into my schedule.

I spend time laughing and joking with colleagues and friends, and continue to attend social events when the pain is under control. 

I religiously follow all of the recommendations from my pain psychologist. 

I spend hours watching cute puppy and kitten videos on You Tube. 

Dude. I get an "A" for effort in this "don't worry be happy" course that I've contrived! I'm the Valedictorian!

I may be able to hide the worry by pushing it down below the surface, but my body knows, and is seriously revolting against my efforts. 

In the last month, I developed an "immune response" in my eye that resulted in an angry pink eyeball. The Optometrist informed me that it could be a result of increased cortisol (stress hormones) in my body. My worries are literally seeping from my eyeballs. Yep, sounds about right. My blood pressure is equivalent to that of a 85 year old obese diabetic alcoholic smoker (note: telling an anxious patient to take deep breaths and calm down to lower blood pressure is not helpful!), and I've been experiencing terrible nightmares that awaken me in the throes of a panic attack. What the actual hell? 

All the books tell you to create a safe and comforting environment to sleep in. You guys!!!! I spray my luxurious satin pillow with a soothing lavender scent, turn on my sound machine to calming white noise, and gently cover myself with a fluffy white cover comprised of the softest bamboo leaves and baby hair (jokes)...I even have a freaking cooling system that maintains a comfortable 68 degree mattress to prevent overheating! I'm more invested in this safe and comforting sleep environment than you all were in the Amber Heard/Johnny Depp trial!!! I calmly drop my CBD oil under my tongue, curl up next to my purring cat, read a neutral novel without too much suspense or drama, and fall into a cozy slumber...only to awaken 4 hours later, dripping in sweat, struggling to breathe, and attempting to climb under my bed because, in my dream, an intruder has broken into my house with intent to kill me. 

So now I'm stressed out that I can't seem to prevent the stress in my subconscious during sleep, despite the fact that I've actioned every freaking stress-relieving activity on my list. Yes, I am 100% aware of how ridiculous this sounds. 

So...that's where I'm currently at. I've totally come to terms with the fact that I am most definitely NOT the smartest anymore. In fact, don't tell Ev, but I'm pretty sure that he has surpassed me in the "smarts" department. That's cool. Now if I could only convince my body that I do not need to be in fight or flight mode at 4am, that would be perfect. 

We are heading home July 3 and I am soooo ready. Perhaps a change of environment will do me good? I miss my family and friends so much that it hurts almost as bad as my shitty knees. I can't wait to get back to Candle Lake. 

Cheers friends!

Pity party, party of one....

 You've been cordially invited to Kirstie's pity party. Party of one. 

I totally understand if you'd like to decline. It's not much of a party. You've been fully warned. 

If you're a little curious,  please proceed...but feel free to vacate the premises at any time. 

My 43rd birthday is next week. Birthdays are a good time for reflection - a marker to evaluate the past year, and if you want to get really deep - your entire life thus far. 

I did the math. In the last 12 months, I have been on a crutch/crutches for 9 months. That's 3/4 of the year for those of you who enjoy fractions. In the last 10 years I have had 13 surgeries. I can't even begin to count how may of those years I've spent on crutches, but I would imagine that I've spent more time on crutches than off of them. 

Despite my diligence to water walking, light weight lifting, stretching, stationary bike riding, and performing every single freaking exercise and stretch assigned to me, I was never able to fully recover from surgery #13 in December. A myriad of complications interfered with recovery including suspected bursitis, a back sprain (who the hell sprains their back?) and a nice little bout of Norovirus for good measure. My rehab team expanded to include a Physiotherapist, Chiropractor, Massage Therapist, Acupuncturist, as well as my Doctor, Pain Specialist, Cartilage Specialist, and Pain Psychologist. My team is stacked! Like I have the Wayne Gretzky's and Bobby Orr's of teams!

Unfortunately, it looks as though my pain, catching, and immobility are due, yet again, to cartilage. Previously a scope and clean out of the knee provided me with about a year or so of pain relief, but it would appear as though this disease is taking over. My team, despite its awesomeness,  is no match for Osteochondritis Dissecans.

It's funny how certain words will stick with you. My friends and family rally around me, referring to me as "strong," "a warrior," "brave," and "resilient." Yet, about 7 years ago, as I begged a Doctor to sign off on documents that would allow me to see my cartilage specialist in Philly, five words were uttered to me that are currently playing on repeat in my brain. These words are so loud that they are drowning out all of the positive ones:

"YOU ARE A LOST CAUSE."

The Doctor was trying to warn me that these surgeries would likely not be effective, given the nature and presentation of my disease. In retrospect, maybe he was right. Maybe he was trying to be funny? (Orthos can be eccentric people!) But those words...man....those words haunt me!

I've pulled out my thick book of notes from my Pain Psychologist and reminded myself that mindset is pivotal in managing this disease. I put my ear buds in and sing, "I've got to keep on moving," as I work through challenging physio exercises. When I am overwhelmed by a staircase looming, I tell myself, "One step at a time. You got this." I imagine my body thanking me when I stretch and gently keep moving after a long day of work. Yet, "You are a lost cause" wakes me up with panic in the middle of the night. "You are a lost cause" takes ahold of me when I can't see through the pain. Dammit, I can't meditate those words out of my brain. 

I am tired. I am so so exhausted. The pain is relentless and at times, all consuming. I carry on, heading to work each day, attending each therapy appointment, and I hear myself saying, "All good!" "Getting there!" and my personal favorite, "No worries!" Those are all lies. I actually have ALL the worries. So so many worries! 

Each and every Specialist has advised me to avoid a knee replacement until there are no other options left to consider. I always suspected it was looming in my future, but the goal was to get to  at least age 55 before venturing down that path. Language is powerful to me, and the last 10 years I've heard countless phrases such as "We're not throwing in the towel yet," or "We haven't reached the end of the road yet." These phrases suggest defeat. I have been conditioned to believe that choosing a knee replacement means that I've lost the battle or that I am a quitter. I know many of you are reading this and thinking, "My dad had a knee replacement and is doing great!" or "Knee replacements aren't a big deal, why doesn't she just get one of those?" I'm not about to get into it now, but I am far from an ideal candidate for this procedure. It's a permanent surgery and there is no reversing that decision if I'm left with regrets.  However, at this point, it's about quality of life, and despite having so many fantastic people on my side, my quality of life is currently poor. I have come to a crossroads where I am faced with deciding between my current quality of life and "future Kirstie's" challenges. 

So after conferring with my all-star team, I realize that I have, indeed, come to the end of the road (Can you all hear Boyz To Men right now?). Today a Specialist eloquently stated, "Your knees are really really lousy." Got it. I appreciate the directness. But I have an option. It's not lost on me that many people get shit news and have no options. 

I have armed myself with a stacked team with incredible knowledge who all reiterate that I am NOT a lost cause. But...it's hard. It's really hard, and I'm not afraid to admit that. So rather than post a picture of a beautiful island sunset,  I'm just going to be honest and admit that I do not feel #blessed right now and things kinda suck at the moment. I need some time to process and come to terms with the fact that I am not accepting defeat, but rather, accepting that I've taken my knees as far as I can possibly take them. And not for lack of freaking trying!

In the meantime, I've been pumped full of cortisone, and although I'm currently experiencing the "cortisone flare" side effect (not awesome),  I am hopeful that I will soon experience some temporary relief. I desperately need a break from pain and a clear mind to make some decisions. 

My mom arrives on Thursday. I had visions of us going for nice beach walks, which ain't gonna happen, but I know that just having her here with me will lift my spirits. I need my mom, and am so thankful that she can be here with me!

Cheers. Thanks for coming to my pity party...and staying until the end!  

I've got to keep on moving

 Hey Friends!

Have you watched the documentary about the olympic ski racer, Lindsey Vonn, called "The Climb"? It documents Lindsey's recovery and rehabilitation after 2 major knee injuries and her return to sport. It's really inspirational and provides a lot of insight about the physical, mental, and emotional challenges of rehabilitation after injury. 

Now I'm by no means an Olympic athlete - although I was Miss PA Highland Dancer in1985 and a silver medalist at the YBC National Bowling Championship in 1991 😜- but when I watched this documentary a few years ago, I was absolutely glued to the TV, captivated by Lindsey's experience.   Lindsey's rehab was so intense and grueling, and I could relate to how defeating and mentally exhausting recovery can be. 

I'm now 4 weeks post surgery #13 and doing pretty okay-ish. Every week since my surgery I've been able to step up my physiotherapy and can feel myself slowly gaining strength and confidence. I've managed to wean off of Gabapentin (the brain fogger med), so that's one huge goal accomplished! It occurred to me the other day during my pool water walking that my rehabilitation and the state of my mind during recovery has significantly shifted since my first few surgeries. 

The very first knee surgery (about 10 years ago) was meant to be a simple meniscus repair. Once my Ortho got a look inside my knee and realized that I had this disease, Osteochondritis Dissecans, he had to completely change gears mid-surgery and perform micro fracture surgery on my knee. The surgeons drilled holes into my bone to stimulate cartilage growth (I was wide awake for that one, by the way, but was drugged to the point of oblivion), and I was told post surgery that my 3 week recovery was now a 4-6 month recovery. 

I listened to my surgeon explain the severity of the situation. I had a rare cartilage disease. I would never be the same. I heard the words but didn't fully process them and I absolutely refused to accept them. I was provided with a physio protocol for recovery and vowed to "beat" every single goal in that booklet. 

I was insufferable. I cringe now when I think about how I threw myself head-first into that recovery. Although I followed all the rules (no weight bearing for 6 weeks), as soon as I was given the go ahead to begin therapy, I made it my mission to surpass every benchmark. I attempted to convince my surgeon that the recovery bar needed to be raised because I was a superior patient who overachieved in all areas. If anyone asked how recovery was going, I would boast about how awesome I was doing, and demonstrate party tricks on my crutches (no lie). When my surgeon suggested that I might not be strong enough to wakesurf, I sent him video of myself wakesurfing with my crutch, eventually tossing the crutch away. That video was a giant "eff you and eff this disease." (I'm still sorry about that).  Like I said...insufferable. In my mind I was an ideal patient - motivated and determined. But in reality, I was trying to win a game that was impossible to win. 

Haha! Remember that time I covered my knee brace in "motivational" sayings? No? Me neither. 🙈

In retrospect, I was completely in denial about my diagnosis. I was going to be normal, despite this stupid disease that I apparently had. That first surgery, by the way, failed. I'm not saying it was a "me" problem, but my stubborn, "I will be victorious" attitude did not promote success. 

Well...thank the Lord things have changed. The biggest thing that I have learned to accept over the years is that my body and I are on the same team. When I said things like, "I'm going to beat this!" I was implying that I was in a fight or a competition against my body. This was a terrible mindset and I spent so much of my time angry and resentful that my body dared to defy me in this manner. Like it or not, this body belongs to me and I've learned to be kinder and more patient with it. After all, we are literally in this together.

Secondly, I've learned that these physio benchmarks are simply guidelines. I don't focus so much on imposed timelines. If I'm not off the crutches in 3 weeks, I no longer lay in the dark listening to Linkin Park, sobbing, "In the end, it doesn't even matter." (True story 😞). Although I still require reminders, I do realize that the guidelines don't take into consideration the fact that my knees have endured 13 surgeries. They have been through a lot! So my squat might be more of a "dip" at the moment, but that's just where my knees are at this point in time. And I am perfectly okay-ish with that! 

Finally, my mindset about recovery has flipped a complete 180. Rehabilitation used to be a roller coaster of high highs and super low lows. I would play "Rage Against the Machine" and lunge until my knees would shake and then fall into a heap on the floor and cry for hours when I was still 10 degrees off my target. The pressures that I placed on myself were insane - and I'm not an Olympic athlete - it's not like I had a major competition looming! Yikes.  Today I ride the bike while listening to "Break my Stride" by Matthew Wilder, and focus on moving forward slowly and purposefully. I quietly celebrate my accomplishments and try...yes try...to not get frustrated when recovery is not a neat linear path. 

I'm not going to pretend like it's all roses and butterflies. I'm relieved that I'm not that super intense, angry rehabilitation patient any more; however, I still feel frustrated and anxious with my recovery. 

I worry that I will require a walking aide for the rest of my life. Prior to this surgery, I was using a crutch or both crutches for about 2 months. I'm still using 1 crutch for longer distances, but I have anxiety about walking independently again. Many years ago I used a cane for a few months. There was something about that cane that signaled "permanent handicap" to me, and although I would never judge anyone else for using a cane, that cane really messed with my mental and emotional state. I try not to contemplate the what ifs, but in all honesty, I worry that I might eventually enter "cane territory" again. 

I know that I'm not training for an Olympic event, but I now see the purpose of my rehabilitation as training for life. I want to work a full day of school without pain meds. I want to sit down with my students and not worry about standing back up. I want to take short walks on the beach. I want to go to a friend's house and not fret about climbing stairs. I want to feel confident that I can walk to a table in a restaurant and not fall down. This is why I faithfully participate in my physiotherapy every single day. 

Evan described something called "Game Theory" that he often discusses with his business clients. There are two types of games: a finite game and an infinite game. A finite game has a distinct beginning and end. Someone wins and someone loses. In an infinite game the purpose is to keep the game going. You only drop out of the game due to lack of will or resources. No one wins and no one loses. Your goal is to simply stay in the game - to keep the game going. After almost 10 years since my diagnosis, I have (thankfully) learned that I cannot "win" this game. My goal is to play the infinite game. And I'm doing a pretty okay-ish job at it right now ;) In the words of Matthew Wilder, "I've got to keep on moving." 

Cheers Friends!