You Do The Hokey Pokey...

Angry Crutches Game Face!!!

Ahh, Recovery.

A definition of it is this:

1. The act, process, duration, or an instance of recovering.

In the almost three weeks since my surgery I have been wished, many times, to have a good recovery. So much so that the word began to have no meaning. It started to remind me of the generic "get well soon" but of the you-chose-this-surgery-good-luck variety. So I decided to look up the actual meaning of the word. And ta daaaaa--it's a blog post. My world has consisted of pretty much the same routine for the past couple of weeks. I wake, I make breakfast, get on the stationary bike for an hour (and man does my butt hurt after), do PT exercises, get coffee and/or run simple errands, rest, nap, have or create dinner, attach myself to the CPM machine for 2-3 hours, go to bed. I will not mention the exact amount of time spent on the computer either watching something or talking to friends. Mostly because I don't keep track. But it is ongoing, constant and honestly, necessary for me to feel like I'm still a participant in the world.

2. A return to a normal condition.

I have chosen a life in the arts, so this may be an impossible request. But I've been telling people, when they ask how recovery is going, that it feels a bit like two steps forward and one step back. I'm obviously getting better, but my mind would like this to happen at a much faster rate than my body will allow.  I have never been incapacitatingly (might not be a word) ill for more than a week or so. And when I pull a muscle or run a race, within a few days, I'm back to feeling pretty fine again. And fine meaning that I can do all the things I normally do. This is not that. At all. This week (the third week in) has been the time to wean off crutches and it's been relatively slow going.  I have found that I'm able to walk around the house sans crutches fairly easily, but when I go outside, things are radically different. The ground is uneven, there is uphill and downhill and when someone is walking with me, they want to go a lot faster than I can go so I push it. So taking a crutch with me as I venture outside seems conservative, yet still a necessity. However on Friday, I woke up feeling really fantastic.  Walking without crutches seemed easy. I had very little pain, even with continuing to reduce the amount of ibuprofen I'm consuming, and took some risks--like trying to walk down the stairs normally (as opposed to one step at a time). I went out to lunch with RJ and walked back home without using my crutch! Awesome!! Score one for ME! Saturday I woke up feeling like someone had stolen my leg and sewed back on (poorly!) a limp sausage. Everything hurt, it hurt to walk, to stand, to do basically everything. Score one for sadness and tears.

3. Something gained or restored in recovering.

Ahh, yes. The quaint, dare I say cute, definition of recovery that allows me to tell you eloquently what I've been learning about this process. How it has changed me for the better and how I will be stronger because of it. And my need for zen and simplicity in my life will probably--no eventually--let me gain some insight. But at this point FUCK THIS! I dislike it. It makes me really moody all the time. One minute I'm hopeful and strong and happy for my progress and in another I'm pissed, frustrated and angry at my weakness. I don't really go out because I'm tired by 6pm. How awesome for me AND for my husband, who probably feels like I am in perpetual PMS.

4. The act of obtaining usable substances from unusable sources.

And this is when I tie everything back to the house. That RJ has done nothing on for several weeks... Partly because of taking care of me in Denver and at home in Creede, and partly because he's got to do the paying work first. There's been a bit of pressure to get on with the re-build and what our precise plans are for it, but we're just not there yet. And that's how I feel, people! That I'm just not there yet. And that has to be okay. I want to be there now, hell, I wanted to be there yesterday, but it's just not possible. (Yes, Zen, I HEAR you, thanks!) I guess what I'm saying is that I am where I am. It's different for everyone, it's frustrating for everyone and hopeful too, but it's like gutting a house and rebuilding I suppose. You have to strip it down and start over or you're just covering up a whole lot of shit. (Alright, enough with the damn metaphors.)

Onward!

Onward.

Nothin' To Do But Blog

Hey Everybody! It's Sunday Funday! And guess what I'm doing this fine, freezing morning in the mountains?! I'm hooked up to a CPM machine staring at facebook, patiently waiting for SOMEONE TO POST SOMETHING.

Just Say No To Crack: Part One

I should probably mention that my hip surgery was Tuesday. I'm sure all four of my gentle readers are anxious to know how it went in a horribly descriptive manner...

Let's start with the truth about my surgery and perhaps the most obvious part of surgery in general. It sucked. It was horrible. I hated it. I now truly understand what fuels most people to recover from these things because it blows big ass chunks of puke. Sometimes literally, but luckily not in my case.

RJ and I are to check in at the Surgery Center at 6:00am with my surgery scheduled for 7:30am. It was actually pretty chilled out and quiet for the car ride over and subsequent wait in the office. RJ was semi-comatose from being up that early in the day, so I drove us. I was quietly anxious. So, together, there was something resembling calm, though not quite. Once I filled out what seemed like an endless stream of paperwork, I was taken back to consult with my "primary nurse" who went over medical history. I was led to my recovery bed and given the classic hospital gown of shame complete with compression socks to prevent deadly blood clots, and an IV with fluids. As one can imagine, this is all incredibly sexy. Then I was told to chill out in the bed. Well, I don't think the primary nurse actually told me to "chill out" but that's what I tried to do. And no I don't remember her name. At that point I may have been contemplating what would happen if I didn't wake up, died or some other such horrible thing. Now, I'm normally a pretty positive person when it comes to life, except when I'm not.

Just Say No To Crack: Part Two

Over the next hour I was visited by three...wait, different story. I had a visit from a PA, my surgeon Dr. Vidal, some dude who was (supposedly) the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses to sign even more paperwork that essentially says, "if you die, totes not our fault," etc. I was also asked repeatedly which hip was being operated on with the surgeon finally marking my hip in Sharpie with her initials. Hey, anything to prevent a lawsuit. Also at this time, I was given a small medication patch behind my ear to prevent nausea from the general anesthesia. Side effects include dry mouth. Sounded fine to me. More on that later.

Everyone was very nice and made sure I understood everything, blah blah blah.

"We all float down here, Kate..."

And then it was time. I was wheeled into the surgery room and on the way there, almost had an incident with one of the doors--the handicap doors started to close on us as we went through them--something minor but caused the nurse and me to burst out laughing right as Dr. Vidal was entering the room. "Everything alright," she asked. "Fine, fine, just almost got attacked by a door," we answer, still laughing. So, I went into the surgery room cracking jokes and in fine spirits. This is going well, I think to myself. Yay! Then I see the setup.

I should also add that Dr. Vidal told me when she was describing the surgery to me that they would be separating my hip from its socket about 7mm (or maybe it was cm...anyway something terrible) as to allow for the camera and other devices to fit inside. (Did I mention this was arthroscopic surgery--minimally invasive, three incisions). The bed where I am to have surgery looks like a horror movie version of a trip to the OB/GYN. Gigantic. Stirrups. Spread to a terrifying distance. I mumble some lame attempt at humor and scooch myself over (yes, I believe scooch is the medical term) to the bed. The anesthesiologist greets me and immediately: "ohhhh, you've just done something." My parting words before entering the void.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! (Not Me)

From that point on it gets rather foggy. I had forgotten how FUCKING AWFUL general anesthesia is and how poorly I react to it. I will attempt to recount for you what the...afternoon?...felt like which was essentially a series of scenes with people asking me to do things like breathe deep, purse my lips and hey here's your husband, hi honey, zzzzzzz, what time is it? 11am wow, zzzzz, what time is it? 1:30, wow, her oxygen is low when she's asleep, breathe deep Kate, zzzzz, water please, juice please, juice too sweet, burns, ack, what time is it? zzzzzz, time to go, everything looks good. Car. Posted something on facebook (how did that even happen?!) In-laws house. Evening. My mouth is dry. Try to eat. No. My mouth is dry nothing tastes good. Let's give you ONE oxycodone. Mmmmokay. My tummy hurts. I can't cry any tears! My mouth is so DRY. Try to eat, honey, etc.

I must mention that RJ has been patient and kind and loving through this whole thing. Though he's back to giving me shit for nearly everything while still helping me out tremendously. He doesn't like me putting much of his life and/or doings on the interwebs, but he really was/is great. He's swell.

I also must mention that the tiny little dry mouth side effect from the anti-nausea patch was actually  like having all of the moisture in your body sucked out so that every drink of water stings, and every bite of something with less of a water count than a grape gets stuck to the inside of your mouth and stays there. Plus, I was extremely nauseous with nothing to barf up but a few carrots and grapes. As I came to over the course of the evening, I realized that the anti-nausea patch could indeed be the very thing making me nauseous. Or maybe it was the oxy, hmmmuh, gag, oh my god get it OFF!!!

I ripped off the patch and within 15 minutes, the dry mouth AND nausea began to subside. So. FYI: I don't know if these patches really work--perhaps they do, though I still felt nauseous after surgery--but for me, the side effect of EXTREME dry mouth was not worth it. God-AWFUL. I also decided to not take any more oxy after that and just went with a horse's dose of Advil. Yeah, bitches!!!!!

So, that brings us to today. Boring story short, the healing is slow but seems to be going well. They labral tear was clean and not as bad as they expected. They did shave off some excess bone, but again, much less than expected. Yes, I'm going stir-crazy, trying not to do too much (and this is WAY easy to do when you've got a personality like mine), and spending way to much time on the internet. Hopefully, I'll feel like reading a book soon and enriching my life in beneficial ways. But for now it's Elle magazine and a MacBook. I've got crutches for another couple weeks, though I can start weening myself off of them in the next 8 days or so. And I've got this damn CPM machine for another couple weeks. I just lie in bed and the machine moves my leg for me so it doesn't freeze up and fall off. Or something like that. Now if you excuse me, I'm behind on my fb posts of cats and feet.

CPM--continuous passive movement

Kittens

 

In Place of Our Regularly Scheduled Programming, We Now Bring You a Touch of Pre-Surgery Ennui.

This blog is and has been my attempt to detail the acquisition and creation of our little mountain house in southwestern Colorado. And in my humble opinion, any blog worth reading has got some thoughts on life thrown in there too and hopefully some funny. Life is not worth living if you can't laugh about shit. So today, I will do my best to fuse the two--new home and surgery. Hot damn! And being a graduate of a fine liberal arts program, I am confident I will succeed. (Thanks Knox College for helping me to link Chekhov to a beach towel in five easy steps!)

 

As I'm finding with buying a major fixer-upper that you are fix-uppering on your own, one is faced with the fear of the unknown. How long will it take? Can we pay it off when we agreed to pay it off? How much money will it require to get it where we want it?

The unknown is also what I face as I go in on Tuesday, Sept. 4th to have surgery on my hip. (See how I did that? Just like a college paper.) I have not had many surgeries in my life, being a pretty healthy and fit human. So this is big for me and more than just a little disconcerting. I am not a person that likes to slow down and being forced to do so is like cutting off a limb, which is essentially what will be happening. Thankfully it is temporary and no one will be eating it. (Long story.)

A bit of background about what is "wrong" with me: I have a torn labrum in my right hip. Yes, labrum looks like the word labia but thankfully one has nothing to do with the other except that they are located in the same general...anyway. The labrum is a type of cartilage that lines the hip socket so that your femur doesn't rub directly on it, which would cause lots of pain and unhappiness. You also have a labrum in your shoulder--see how that works boys and girls. Also, once torn, the labrum is unable to repair itself. It has been described to me like stretching Saran Wrap. It stretches apart until it tears, but can't go back together on its own.

How does one tear their sacred labrum, you might ask? Well, lots of things can cause it. A fall, activities on uneven ground, or years of wear and tear and then it just...comes apart. I'm actually not sure exactly how it all happened in my case, but during the run of The Importance of Being Earnest this winter in Arvada, I suddenly had what felt like a groin pull, but farther over in hip area. It sucked. It felt like a deep, deep muscle pull that couldn't be reached for relief and at the same time like my hip had come out of it's socket and wouldn't pop back in. This luckily wasn't the case, but if felt awful. After going through all the boring medical stuff like chiro, x-ray, MRI (which is an experience in it's own right. Two words: machine gun) and a surgical consult, I found out about the tear. And also that I have a bump on the head of my femur, which is common to have but makes you more prone to this type of injury especially if you are active. What they will do is make three small incisions, go in with a camera, shave off the excess bone, clean up and repair the labrum and get out. Very simple.

Okay, enough with the boring shit. The difficult part for me mentally is that this will completely change the way I move about the world for many, many weeks. Rehab is a 6 month process and in that time I cannot run at ALL, which sucks because running has been my mental and physical salvation for over 15 years. I have to wear a hip brace for several weeks that severely limits my movement. I have to ice it continuously for several days. I have to use a CPM (continual passive movement) machine for 4-6 hours a day that moves my hip around so scar tissue doesn't develop. I will have to be on crutches for 2-3 weeks, depending on the extent of the surgery and how much weight I can bear on it initially. See, they don't really know exactly how bad it is and what they have to do until they go in there, and for some reason, this makes me very depressed. I'd like to think I'm an open-minded person and ready for anything. But when it comes to not being able to drive, sleep on my right side, stand up in the shower and being a general helpless invalid, me no likey. In fact, me Hatey!

And I've heard it all from everyone. "Take this time to slow down, you'll be so glad you did it, let yourself heal, it's for the best." And RJ's personal favorite: "rub some dirt on it, you big baby." Yes. It's true. All of it is true. It'll be great in the long run. I'm lucky to have insurance and the time to do it and I'm in a first world country with all this available to me. It will force me to think differently. Work out in a different way! New pathways will be formed in my brain!! I may actually get smarter by doing this!!!

But yet it makes me sad. I like my independence. I'm an only child for chrissake! But maybe what it really is...is that I don't like asking for help. It makes me feel weak or not good enough. And I realize too, in this very moment even, that as my grandparents move OUT of the house they've lived in for almost 50 years and into assisted living because they are 90 years old and becoming more and more physically unable to care for themselves and each other, that this must be what getting older feels like and it's fucking inevitable.

Okay, who's feelin' great now?! Woooooohooo! Jesus, I'm boring myself with this ennui. But man, do I love the word ennui and what it represents. It's so...french-sexy. And honestly, getting this stuff out into the ether makes me feel better. So, Dear Reader, (if there's anyone left) as the French say, you must just fucking deal with it. And thank you for listening. There will be much more to come. And perhaps I'll blog while on oxycodone. Now THAT could be entertaining.

And now, I leave you with a combination of some of my favorite things, new and old. Cats, humor and ennui. I present, Henri: