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!"??