Hi Friends,
Last we spoke, Britknee wasn't into being straight. Unfortunately, despite being straightened into submission by my PhysioTerrorist three times a week and performing prone "torture hangs" from my bed while my dog licks my heels, my fricken knee is happily stuck around the 5-7 degree mark. Ideally, you want the knee to extend to zero - straight. Five to seven degrees might not sound like much, but having the knee stuck in this awkward bendy position is painful, affects my ability to sleep, and causes me to walk like I'm dragging a drunk and disorderly Britknee behind me.
I briefly saw my surgeon for the first time since my surgery. He looked me up and down, declared me a success and instructed me to push harder for extension. He explained that there is likely scar tissue impeding my knee from straightening all the way, and encouraged me to "break down the scar tissue," until my knee let up and straightened.
Easy peasy. Break through scar tissue. I mean, how hard can that be?
The last time I had scar tissue that needed to broken through, I had a quick surgery where they cut the tissue and released the knee. I was under anesthetic. It was fine. Apparently we just need to do the same thing, but you know...without the anesthetic.
Cue my physio, the superhero who is tasked with breaking down said scar tissue.
I've known my physio friend now for over a year. I would say that we have a solid relationship. We have good-natured banter. I think that we appreciate each other's sense of humor - although when he requested a reminder to bring ice to our sessions and I messaged, "If there was a problem yo I'll solve it, check out the hook while my DJ revolves it..." he responded, "Huh? You have a DJ?" (That was the day I fully realized our age gap - Hello? Vanilla ICE). Yes, he hurts me, but it's with a purpose, he apologizes, and we carry on. I'm convinced that he's good at his job. He doesn't coddle me. He pushes me, and that's exactly what I need and want right now. You know why? Because I need to break this f'n scar tissue and get discharged from my 12 year relationship with physiotherapy! Anyone ever been a 12-year relationship that you desperately need to break out of? At this point I can genuinely say, "It's not you, it's me."
Once the surgeon gave the go-ahead, physio started a new therapy called "joint mobilization." I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, other than to say that he grips my knee/leg in different positions, forcefully pushing and pulling it, then repeats those motions over the course of the one hour session. Now...one of my pet peeves is an over-exaggeration of the pain rating scale. Nothing annoys me more than when a patient walks in with a coffee and exclaims, "It's a 10/10 pain today- or even worse...It's a 12." That drives me nuts because we need to respect the rating scale and the people who literally are experiencing 10/10 pain. If you stopped for a coffee and drove yourself here, you are NOT experiencing 10/10 pain. Sit your ass down, take a sip of your coffee and maybe consider a 5.
I digress. This "mobilization" therapy is a legit 8-9 out of 10...temporary pain. I sweat profusely. I grind my teeth. I scrunch up my face so hard that any botox I've ever received is slowly released out of my pores. It takes my breath away. I also laugh-cry - like a laugh that unexpectedly turns into a cry. It's like my brain can't process what is happening and is unable to control my emotions.
But worst of all, once the he releases the position, I take a breath, and then I utter terrible things to my physiotherapist. It's brutal. The therapy is brutal and the things that I say to my very nice physio friend are brutal.
I've comprised a short list:
"I hate your face"
"You're ruining my life."
"I hate your stupid accent." (He's British, and there's nothing I hate more right now than hearing that British accent count down: "3-2-1")
"You Motherf-er"
"You're such an asshole"'
"You are the worst."
"You psychopath!"
There's more, but you get the gist.
It's awful, I feel awful, and no human should be exposed to such a toxic work environment. I've apologized. I've brought cookies. It doesn't seem to hurt his feelings. But this is where we are right now. I can see that this is also frustrating for him. He visibly winces when I sit down with my legs out in front of me and Britknee outright refuses to touch the physio bed, "Hello! I'm up here!"
To add to this mess, I'm begun experiencing what I can only deduce to be a vasovagal syncope. A vasovagal syncope occurs when your nervous system freaks out in response to a trigger. It's like a flight or fight response. Your body thinks that you're in terrible danger and slows everything down, including your blood pressure, causing you to pass out, or experience the symptoms one faces just before fainting. This has happened to me in the past when I've received cortisone injections. I'm not afraid of needles, or see it as a threat in any way, but I think my body experiences the pain of the injection, and just freaks the hell out for no great reason at all. It's not really dangerous (unless you hurt yourself passing out), but it's embarrassing, and I've found myself suddenly on a few cold doctor office floors, apologizing for my melodramatic body. Falling dramatically to the ground should be reserved for legit emergencies like heart attacks. Like, c'mon, nervous system - be better.
During Friday's physiotherapy session, I had what only can be described as a dramatically tragic vasovagal syncope - like a terrible scene out of middle school play. I was sitting on the edge of the bed getting ready to leave and did not feel "right." When I went to sit up, I fell over forwards, blacking out for a few seconds and hitting the floor. My physio bud was at the computer and I heard him run over and say, "Shit, I should have caught her." (funny in retrospect). He quickly elevated my legs and I laid on the floor, shaking uncontrollably for a solid 25-minutes. I was shaking so hard that my teeth chatter was preventing me from talking. We both knew it was my vagus nerve and I continuously reminded myself that I was fine, but as I convulsed frantically on the floor, "fine" was a tough case to make to my body.
There were only two of us in the office and I could hear my poor physio pal talk through the situation, "I should get you food. Safety first. I can't leave you alone." Ugh. This poor guy. He quickly brought me a juice box, stuck the straw in, and spilled it all over my hair. I lay shaking, drowning in Jessica Alba's Honest Organic Fruit Punch. I could see the humor in this, and kinda laughed, but my fricken body would just not stop acting as if I had been shot...the performance of a lifetime.
In the end, another physio arrived, and we all assisted in moving my body out of the way, behind the curtain, as to not upset the new patient coming in (How's that for terrible advertising!) Eventually everything settled down, my superstar bud, Anna, came and got me (and also assisted me to the bathroom - good friends help you pee!) I went home and slept for 6 hours. What a fricken DAY.
Anyway, now I shall focus on controlling my breathing and convincing my nervous system that this 8/10 pain is temporary and I'm not going to die. I'm also avoiding driving for at least 15-minutes after my sessions. So, you know, at least have a responsible vasovagal syncope.
So that's the update. I do this three times a week. My poor physio gets to do this with me three times a week. I am so over this shit. It feels like it's never going to end. Go hug a physiotherapist. They deserve more love.
