Home from surgery, so that is good. Don't remember much about yesterday, so that is weird. I went to the hospital, go checked in, got my knee shaved (ladies, you're welcome), and got knocked the fuck out by some incredible drugs. Apparently everything went well.
That means I have a zombie part. I'm okay with that. Now my life revolves around a rehab schedule that still has to be worked out. Until then, I am at the mercy of a cooling machine, a tube of morphine going into my leg, and a couple of prescriptions that I take "when needed." I don't know how much of anything I am going to be able to do. I can type, obviously, and I can sleep, but other than that, as of right now, I am stuck in my bed, dozing off when I can, and laying about doing nothing for the other hours of the day.
My parents have been awesome throughout this ordeal. I crashed at their house yesterday. After surgery, I was essentially passed out for the remainder of the day. I would be awake when someone spoke to me or wanted to move me, but for the most part, I was out. Now I know what a cat's life is like.
As I was in recovery, I remember the nurse trying to get me to pee. I recall her being insistent that I go because I had taken in 2 liters of fluid, and I would surely have to pee. There was no flow. Nothing. I might as well have been given a camel part because that was how well I was using my fluids.
Moving from place to place hasn't been easy. It hasn't been hard, really, but getting up stairs is fun. Sitting on the stair, I had to push myself up with my good leg and my arms, which were bringing me to the next stair. I don't know how I will be able to go down stairs, but I don't think that this will be much of a problem for a few days.
I am happy to be home, with my comfortable bed and knowledge of where everything is. I have plenty to do here, so I won't be without ways to pass the insane amount of time that I possess now.
I need a hobby.
SD
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Tomorrow
I'm getting sliced and diced tomorrow. I don't know how I feel about this. I know, fundamentally, that this is the start of the process of rebuilding my life to the point where it was. I don't know, however, how this will all work. I know about the surgery, and I know that in a short few months, I will be able to be walk without pain. I know that in 6-9 months, I will be back to 100% and ready to restart my gymnastics career (or not, haven't gotten that far yet).
I am anxious about a few things, though. I truly fear the anesthesia wearing off halfway through and waking up with some dude drilling into my femur. The thought of that freaks me the fuck out. The other thing that freaks me out is the post-op pain. I want to know how much this is going to hurt. I don't want to be dependent on pills to kill the pain, but I feel as though I might be forced into that corner. I want to man up and tough it out as much as possible, but I think that might be a stupid idea. I don't know. I don't like not knowing these things.
I don't know how long I am going to be useless. I don't know when I can get back to an ordinary routine. I don't know when I am going to be able to walk. That is an intimidating thought.
I want someone to tell me that everything is going to be fine, and I want them to NOT be talking out of their ass. Encouragement is nice, but it seems as though everyone that I know has never had anything like this. We, as a generation, are too young to have reconstructed joints.
I also have to figure out what to do about work. This is a problem for the first time in my life. I am going to have to fins a job that has more sitting and less wet floors. Luckily for me I am going to have my degree in May, so as long as I can tread water until then, and maybe I can get a little bit of luck. So if anyone knows about a job for a college grad with knowledge of literature and history, let me know. I'm interested.
As of now, however, I am left with my thoughts and anxieties. My brain is telling me that I'll be fine sooner than later, but my inexperience is telling me that I am going to be fucked.
I liked my life, before the universe rudely interrupted it. I want that feeling back. I guess I just have to plow forward. Be a Man. Tough it out.
This is going to suck.
SD
I am anxious about a few things, though. I truly fear the anesthesia wearing off halfway through and waking up with some dude drilling into my femur. The thought of that freaks me the fuck out. The other thing that freaks me out is the post-op pain. I want to know how much this is going to hurt. I don't want to be dependent on pills to kill the pain, but I feel as though I might be forced into that corner. I want to man up and tough it out as much as possible, but I think that might be a stupid idea. I don't know. I don't like not knowing these things.
I don't know how long I am going to be useless. I don't know when I can get back to an ordinary routine. I don't know when I am going to be able to walk. That is an intimidating thought.
I want someone to tell me that everything is going to be fine, and I want them to NOT be talking out of their ass. Encouragement is nice, but it seems as though everyone that I know has never had anything like this. We, as a generation, are too young to have reconstructed joints.
I also have to figure out what to do about work. This is a problem for the first time in my life. I am going to have to fins a job that has more sitting and less wet floors. Luckily for me I am going to have my degree in May, so as long as I can tread water until then, and maybe I can get a little bit of luck. So if anyone knows about a job for a college grad with knowledge of literature and history, let me know. I'm interested.
As of now, however, I am left with my thoughts and anxieties. My brain is telling me that I'll be fine sooner than later, but my inexperience is telling me that I am going to be fucked.
I liked my life, before the universe rudely interrupted it. I want that feeling back. I guess I just have to plow forward. Be a Man. Tough it out.
This is going to suck.
SD
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Baseball Started....kinda
The baseball season is officially underway, however, it is still spring training.
What?
Apparently, Major League Baseball decided to have an opening series. In Japan. It features the Seattle Mariners and the Oakland A's, two West Coast teams with small markets that virtually no one outside of those cities cares about. But they both have large Asian followings thanks to Ichiro and Kurt Suzuki, so I understand why those clubs were chosen to participate in this event.
The problem for me is that there are still Spring Training games going on. Granted, there are only one or two days left in the preseason and the regular season starts next week, but this still seems off to me. I would think that every team would start at the same time. The Mariners and A's are going to have more off days in the season, which is a big deal as the games pile up and players get worn out or hurt, and that gives them a slight competitive advantage, no? Of course, being small market teams, they have to fight with the Yankees, Red Sox, Angels, and other teams who spend money like an insane monarch would.
Eventually these teams will fade away and, again, no one outside of Seattle and Oakland will care about either of them. This goes double here, where for the next 6 months the universe will revolve around New York and Boston and fans will lament not being able to stay up stupid late to watch their team play on the West Coast.
I'm happy that baseball is back. The dark ages between the Super Bowl and Opening Day is coming to its anticlimactic end. Soon the cathedrals of American sport will fill up with hopeful spectators who are convinced that this is the year their team wins it all. They will live and die with each pitch, and yell at the top of their lungs like 40,000 carny barkers at an unaffected umpire who has heard it all before. As fans, we don't care. We yell at everything. Our televisions, the players at the stadium, other fans in bars and in the streets. Blood boils for 6 months until one team finishes better than all the rest.
Until the end of the season, Yankees fans will have to bear Red Sox fans whining about the incongruity between the two teams, when, in fact, they are essentially the same. Generations of bitterness and envy have created raw emotional venom that Yankees fans have endured with class and dignity. Never have I seen so much rancor towards one team, especially when that team is playing 1000 miles away. One summer weekend, I was in Boston, and the Sox were at home playing a series against some random team. At the same time the Yankees were in Texas playing against the Rangers. On the streets surrounding Fenway, vendors were peddling t-shirts and other items attacking Yankees players. Why? Why not aim that fury at the team that is actually playing your beloved Sox?
Baseball lives on a different plane. It penetrates the soul of die hard fans and constricts their attention spans to one thing. Box scores in newspapers are read before headlines, and debates over the merits of random players fill the void of silence across the nation. There are baseball fans everywhere, and during the season, a great pride is taken by each one in their ability to talk to other fans unknown to them before sitting down next to each other and watching a game. Friendships are forged over pints and pitchers, and debates rage for weeks without an answer.
Baseball season has started, and this is our year.
SD
What?
Apparently, Major League Baseball decided to have an opening series. In Japan. It features the Seattle Mariners and the Oakland A's, two West Coast teams with small markets that virtually no one outside of those cities cares about. But they both have large Asian followings thanks to Ichiro and Kurt Suzuki, so I understand why those clubs were chosen to participate in this event.
The problem for me is that there are still Spring Training games going on. Granted, there are only one or two days left in the preseason and the regular season starts next week, but this still seems off to me. I would think that every team would start at the same time. The Mariners and A's are going to have more off days in the season, which is a big deal as the games pile up and players get worn out or hurt, and that gives them a slight competitive advantage, no? Of course, being small market teams, they have to fight with the Yankees, Red Sox, Angels, and other teams who spend money like an insane monarch would.
Eventually these teams will fade away and, again, no one outside of Seattle and Oakland will care about either of them. This goes double here, where for the next 6 months the universe will revolve around New York and Boston and fans will lament not being able to stay up stupid late to watch their team play on the West Coast.
I'm happy that baseball is back. The dark ages between the Super Bowl and Opening Day is coming to its anticlimactic end. Soon the cathedrals of American sport will fill up with hopeful spectators who are convinced that this is the year their team wins it all. They will live and die with each pitch, and yell at the top of their lungs like 40,000 carny barkers at an unaffected umpire who has heard it all before. As fans, we don't care. We yell at everything. Our televisions, the players at the stadium, other fans in bars and in the streets. Blood boils for 6 months until one team finishes better than all the rest.
Until the end of the season, Yankees fans will have to bear Red Sox fans whining about the incongruity between the two teams, when, in fact, they are essentially the same. Generations of bitterness and envy have created raw emotional venom that Yankees fans have endured with class and dignity. Never have I seen so much rancor towards one team, especially when that team is playing 1000 miles away. One summer weekend, I was in Boston, and the Sox were at home playing a series against some random team. At the same time the Yankees were in Texas playing against the Rangers. On the streets surrounding Fenway, vendors were peddling t-shirts and other items attacking Yankees players. Why? Why not aim that fury at the team that is actually playing your beloved Sox?
Baseball lives on a different plane. It penetrates the soul of die hard fans and constricts their attention spans to one thing. Box scores in newspapers are read before headlines, and debates over the merits of random players fill the void of silence across the nation. There are baseball fans everywhere, and during the season, a great pride is taken by each one in their ability to talk to other fans unknown to them before sitting down next to each other and watching a game. Friendships are forged over pints and pitchers, and debates rage for weeks without an answer.
Baseball season has started, and this is our year.
SD
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
This really shouldn't be that hard.
For the life of me, I don't understand why simple things are made so difficult. It seems as though everything that seems as though it should be one of the ordinary tasks of modern culture, but there is always a wrinkle. There is always something getting in the way of simplicity, of efficiency.
I like doing things with as few steps as possible, I think that being efficient is one of those qualities that makes people different from each other. Some people like to take their time with their life, to stop and smell the roses. There are those who break down each step to the simplest degree and make certain that they understand every facet before they move on to the next one. Experience in life has taught me that certain things do not need to be analyzed. I do not need the instructions to tell me to plug in my new gadget, or to charge the battery. Those are things that are inherent in today's lifestyle. I am of the belief that the best way to do something may also be the simplest, and taking the pragmatic and learned way eliminates many extra steps. That elimination of steps leads to more efficiency. Small steps are the foundation of everything. Because of that, they can be skipped, as they are already rote in my mind.
All this being said, Why is doing my laundry such a pain in the sack? It seems as though ever since I have been on my own, I have been in a battle with the Universe over the cleaning of my clothes. I always find a way to get them washed, but it seems as though there is something that creates a wrinkle in the relatively smooth plan of doing laundry.
When I was living at Blitzkrieg, the washing machine spent years being dodgy. Sometimes it would work fine, and others it wouldn't. It had a habit of flooding the basement, when everyone who lived in that house did everything in their power to avoid that trick. Of course, when the washer was behaving itself, the next obstacle would be getting your wet clothes to the dryer. This was only a challenge because the dryer was clear on the other side of the basement, and there was a maze of asbestos and mold to navigate. The carcinogen count in that basement must have been astronomical. There was a pile of asbestos dust next to the cans of lead paint and dead air conditioners.
Eventually the one of the machines would die off, and be sent to the washing machine graveyard in the corner of the basement. When that would happen, I would be forced to the laundromat down the street. This isn't such a big deal, I suppose, other than the fact that I would have to walk to it, as I was without a car at that point in my life. I have no real qualms with the laundromat. I do hate the people who go there, though. There are the ones who wash their sneakers, one pair to a machine and dryer. I can understand wanting your shoes to be bright, but when they are black, I don't see the purpose. There are those who have piles and piles of wash. Are they doing the wash for their entire building? How many weeks worth of clothes is this? Children would run around without supervision, fighting with each other. This isn't Chuck E Cheese.
All I wanted to do was get my wash done in the simplest way possible, and maybe get some reading in. Every other trip to this particular slice of Hell would end with me trudging home, frustrated. But then we got our washer fixed, and I was able to run out my days in that house doing wash in the basement. The cancerous, vile basement that lacked enough light to do anything at night and the neighbors who were too interesting in what I was doing for my liking.
I thought that all of this nonsense would change once I moved. I lived in a house that had, much like the place that I moved out of, had a washer and dryer in the basement. The washer was new and fancy. it sounded like a jet engine when it spun. It was awesome. Know what isn't awesome? The dryer was broken. I couldn't dry anything. There was no clothesline, so I couldn't even hang my drawers outside for the world to see. I would have liked that. Instead of drying my clothes like a human, I was forced to bring the pile of wet clothes back to my room and splay them out on shelves and other places so they could air dry. My room was on the 3rd floor and it was summer, so heat was never a problem. The problem was my entire life would smell like wet cotton for 3 days after everything was dry. No fun.
So I move again. I move to a place that has one washer and one dryer for the entire floor. There is my apartment, a dude next to me, and a family with small children on the other side. Small children who wear cloth diapers. Goddamit. The machines cost a buck apiece, which is cheaper than the laundromat. The problem here is that the damn family seemed to do laundry 6 days a week, and those days rotated randomly, so I had to guess when the machines would be available. At all hours of day and night, they would be up and down the hall with baskets of clothes. They must have a Macy's worth of clothes in their apartment. The children would run, loudly, up and down the hall. Children this small should not sound like a fat person when they run.
Then the fun began. The washing machine started to go wonky. It wouldn't fill. Then it wouldn't turn on. Then it wouldn't stop running (a month worth of free laundry was nice). Then the landlord raised the price to $2.00 for each machine. Then the washer wouldn't start. Then I gave up. I went back, tail fixed firmly between my legs, to the laundromat. But this time it wasn't so bad. I was able to do my wash without harassment and with relative ease. There were still the dryer hogs, but I was able to get one and get out with a minimum of anguish.
Last weekend I heard something. It sounded a lot like the washing machine in the hallway. I was confused. It was broken, but it works now. Has it cured itself? Did something happen that I didn't know about? Did the washer fairies come through and magic it back to health? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON????
I was intrigued. I payed the two dollars and ran the washer, with nothing in it. It worked fine. I got happy. I did some laundry. It was easy. Everything worked, and even though it was a little pricey, I am in no condition to drive right now, so the convenience of this fixed marvel is work the extra money.
Something good happened. Who the hell am I to question it?
SD
I like doing things with as few steps as possible, I think that being efficient is one of those qualities that makes people different from each other. Some people like to take their time with their life, to stop and smell the roses. There are those who break down each step to the simplest degree and make certain that they understand every facet before they move on to the next one. Experience in life has taught me that certain things do not need to be analyzed. I do not need the instructions to tell me to plug in my new gadget, or to charge the battery. Those are things that are inherent in today's lifestyle. I am of the belief that the best way to do something may also be the simplest, and taking the pragmatic and learned way eliminates many extra steps. That elimination of steps leads to more efficiency. Small steps are the foundation of everything. Because of that, they can be skipped, as they are already rote in my mind.
All this being said, Why is doing my laundry such a pain in the sack? It seems as though ever since I have been on my own, I have been in a battle with the Universe over the cleaning of my clothes. I always find a way to get them washed, but it seems as though there is something that creates a wrinkle in the relatively smooth plan of doing laundry.
When I was living at Blitzkrieg, the washing machine spent years being dodgy. Sometimes it would work fine, and others it wouldn't. It had a habit of flooding the basement, when everyone who lived in that house did everything in their power to avoid that trick. Of course, when the washer was behaving itself, the next obstacle would be getting your wet clothes to the dryer. This was only a challenge because the dryer was clear on the other side of the basement, and there was a maze of asbestos and mold to navigate. The carcinogen count in that basement must have been astronomical. There was a pile of asbestos dust next to the cans of lead paint and dead air conditioners.
Eventually the one of the machines would die off, and be sent to the washing machine graveyard in the corner of the basement. When that would happen, I would be forced to the laundromat down the street. This isn't such a big deal, I suppose, other than the fact that I would have to walk to it, as I was without a car at that point in my life. I have no real qualms with the laundromat. I do hate the people who go there, though. There are the ones who wash their sneakers, one pair to a machine and dryer. I can understand wanting your shoes to be bright, but when they are black, I don't see the purpose. There are those who have piles and piles of wash. Are they doing the wash for their entire building? How many weeks worth of clothes is this? Children would run around without supervision, fighting with each other. This isn't Chuck E Cheese.
All I wanted to do was get my wash done in the simplest way possible, and maybe get some reading in. Every other trip to this particular slice of Hell would end with me trudging home, frustrated. But then we got our washer fixed, and I was able to run out my days in that house doing wash in the basement. The cancerous, vile basement that lacked enough light to do anything at night and the neighbors who were too interesting in what I was doing for my liking.
I thought that all of this nonsense would change once I moved. I lived in a house that had, much like the place that I moved out of, had a washer and dryer in the basement. The washer was new and fancy. it sounded like a jet engine when it spun. It was awesome. Know what isn't awesome? The dryer was broken. I couldn't dry anything. There was no clothesline, so I couldn't even hang my drawers outside for the world to see. I would have liked that. Instead of drying my clothes like a human, I was forced to bring the pile of wet clothes back to my room and splay them out on shelves and other places so they could air dry. My room was on the 3rd floor and it was summer, so heat was never a problem. The problem was my entire life would smell like wet cotton for 3 days after everything was dry. No fun.
So I move again. I move to a place that has one washer and one dryer for the entire floor. There is my apartment, a dude next to me, and a family with small children on the other side. Small children who wear cloth diapers. Goddamit. The machines cost a buck apiece, which is cheaper than the laundromat. The problem here is that the damn family seemed to do laundry 6 days a week, and those days rotated randomly, so I had to guess when the machines would be available. At all hours of day and night, they would be up and down the hall with baskets of clothes. They must have a Macy's worth of clothes in their apartment. The children would run, loudly, up and down the hall. Children this small should not sound like a fat person when they run.
Then the fun began. The washing machine started to go wonky. It wouldn't fill. Then it wouldn't turn on. Then it wouldn't stop running (a month worth of free laundry was nice). Then the landlord raised the price to $2.00 for each machine. Then the washer wouldn't start. Then I gave up. I went back, tail fixed firmly between my legs, to the laundromat. But this time it wasn't so bad. I was able to do my wash without harassment and with relative ease. There were still the dryer hogs, but I was able to get one and get out with a minimum of anguish.
Last weekend I heard something. It sounded a lot like the washing machine in the hallway. I was confused. It was broken, but it works now. Has it cured itself? Did something happen that I didn't know about? Did the washer fairies come through and magic it back to health? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON????
I was intrigued. I payed the two dollars and ran the washer, with nothing in it. It worked fine. I got happy. I did some laundry. It was easy. Everything worked, and even though it was a little pricey, I am in no condition to drive right now, so the convenience of this fixed marvel is work the extra money.
Something good happened. Who the hell am I to question it?
SD
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Deets.
Another trip to the orthopedist. Seems like if I am not at home, I am there. But that is going to change. Soon. My surgery is scheduled for Friday, and after that, I am done with that place except for 3 more visits. After 10 days, I have a follow up to get the stitches removed and start a rehab regimen. Then there is a 6 week appointment to talk to the surgeon and examine progress. The in 3 months, there is another follow up and evaluation, and then I think I am done with that place.
I am not upset with them, not at all. I think I have simply run out of willingness to actually go there. Every room, and I have been in a few of them, looks exactly the same. EXACTLY. It's uncanny, even the crap on the identical tables is identical, and spaced the same distance apart. When I am in there, I feel like I am in some sort of Groundhog Day doctor's office. The only difference is the time in which I am in there, and I have to say, when I have a meeting, I get there on time, not a half hour late. I know, Mr. Doctorface, you have a way more important life than I do. I am a meager patient who can wait while you do whatever the hell it is that you are doing. At least have someone tell me that there is going to be some sort of delay, they give you that much at the damn airport. I would think that there are enough nurses and other staff around that one of them can pop their head in and give me a status report. Instead, I am stuck in a room that looks and smells sterile and my mood is growing more and more impatient.
My surgeon looks like an older Dr. Turk. That's kind of awesome.
I got the rundown of my post-op timeline. I have to be in a knee immobilizer that runs from my hip to my ankle for 3 days. That means I am essentially useless to society, even more so that I already am or have been for the last 31 years, for a few days after the operation. During that time pooping is going to be, we'll say, an interesting proposition. Can't wait for that. During that time, I have to have a couple of things attached to me.
Not in my ding-dong. Nothing in my ding-dong.
Attached to the immobilizer is a machine that is going to cool my leg down for 2 days straight in order to reduce swelling and pain. I am going to get a bag with a tube also inserted into my leg to reduce pain. I am going to get pills to reduce pain. I have booze to reduce pain. Pain management is the key to this whole experience. Apparently, the operation isn't going to be notches fitted together in the knee, rather it is going to be a tunnel drilled into my femur and tibia. The new ligament is going to come from a dead person's ankle, and attached to that is a barb that will attach to the bone. Think the back of an arrowhead. After 12 weeks, the bone will grown back and fuse to the little piece of metal.
But that is in the future. After 3 days, I can start to put a little pressure on the leg again, and take that insane brace off to try to bend the knee, at least a little bit. They want to get the patient up at going again, so they want you to be brave and try stuff incrementally. The doctor told me to move it as I can tolerate it. There is going to be a lot of swelling, and I am going to have to work with that for about 6 weeks until both of my legs look like they should.
After 10 days, I have a follow up with the Assistant, who will take out the stitches and set up physical therapy. At that point, I can move around a little bit, but I have to have the immobilizer on whenever I do try to move about, even in my apartment, for 2 weeks. Hello sponge bath. But I can start to drive after about 10-14 days, so long as I can manage the pain and brake hard if I have to. I might try to practice in a parking lot like a 16 year old with a learner's permit, just so I can test the durability of my knee.
There is a long rehab and PT period and I am not going to be 100% for at least 6 months. But I feel a lot better about the recovery process than I did yesterday, or any day after the injury. I just have to be careful not to push myself too hard too fast. I have to remember to wear a brace when I am out and about, especially in the space after I get to remove the immobilizer and before the 3 month benchmark.
At least I have a timeline now. And I can get this crap over with.
SD
I am not upset with them, not at all. I think I have simply run out of willingness to actually go there. Every room, and I have been in a few of them, looks exactly the same. EXACTLY. It's uncanny, even the crap on the identical tables is identical, and spaced the same distance apart. When I am in there, I feel like I am in some sort of Groundhog Day doctor's office. The only difference is the time in which I am in there, and I have to say, when I have a meeting, I get there on time, not a half hour late. I know, Mr. Doctorface, you have a way more important life than I do. I am a meager patient who can wait while you do whatever the hell it is that you are doing. At least have someone tell me that there is going to be some sort of delay, they give you that much at the damn airport. I would think that there are enough nurses and other staff around that one of them can pop their head in and give me a status report. Instead, I am stuck in a room that looks and smells sterile and my mood is growing more and more impatient.
My surgeon looks like an older Dr. Turk. That's kind of awesome.
I got the rundown of my post-op timeline. I have to be in a knee immobilizer that runs from my hip to my ankle for 3 days. That means I am essentially useless to society, even more so that I already am or have been for the last 31 years, for a few days after the operation. During that time pooping is going to be, we'll say, an interesting proposition. Can't wait for that. During that time, I have to have a couple of things attached to me.
Not in my ding-dong. Nothing in my ding-dong.
Attached to the immobilizer is a machine that is going to cool my leg down for 2 days straight in order to reduce swelling and pain. I am going to get a bag with a tube also inserted into my leg to reduce pain. I am going to get pills to reduce pain. I have booze to reduce pain. Pain management is the key to this whole experience. Apparently, the operation isn't going to be notches fitted together in the knee, rather it is going to be a tunnel drilled into my femur and tibia. The new ligament is going to come from a dead person's ankle, and attached to that is a barb that will attach to the bone. Think the back of an arrowhead. After 12 weeks, the bone will grown back and fuse to the little piece of metal.
But that is in the future. After 3 days, I can start to put a little pressure on the leg again, and take that insane brace off to try to bend the knee, at least a little bit. They want to get the patient up at going again, so they want you to be brave and try stuff incrementally. The doctor told me to move it as I can tolerate it. There is going to be a lot of swelling, and I am going to have to work with that for about 6 weeks until both of my legs look like they should.
After 10 days, I have a follow up with the Assistant, who will take out the stitches and set up physical therapy. At that point, I can move around a little bit, but I have to have the immobilizer on whenever I do try to move about, even in my apartment, for 2 weeks. Hello sponge bath. But I can start to drive after about 10-14 days, so long as I can manage the pain and brake hard if I have to. I might try to practice in a parking lot like a 16 year old with a learner's permit, just so I can test the durability of my knee.
There is a long rehab and PT period and I am not going to be 100% for at least 6 months. But I feel a lot better about the recovery process than I did yesterday, or any day after the injury. I just have to be careful not to push myself too hard too fast. I have to remember to wear a brace when I am out and about, especially in the space after I get to remove the immobilizer and before the 3 month benchmark.
At least I have a timeline now. And I can get this crap over with.
SD
Friday, March 23, 2012
T minus 1 week
It's happening. It's really happening. I have never had any type of operation performed on me, not including fillings, but they don't count (do they?). On March 30, I go under the knife for a knee reconstruction surgery. The anxiety level has moderated itself, but I have to admit, there is some nervousness regarding such a dramatic procedure. They are going to know me out for a few hours to do the surgery, and who knows how that is going to work out.
There is good news, though.
I get dead person parts!
The procedure that I am having is called an allograft. A donor ligament is going to be installed in the place of the flapping useless ACL that is already there. From what I gather, they take a notch out of the two bones that the ACL attaches to and replace the useless parts with the new ones that came out of the cadaver. There is no risk of rejection, that only happens with organs and things that have blood flow through them, like veins and hearts.
The reason I chose this procedure over the alternative, which is taking a piece of another tendon form myself and transplanting it into the slot where the ACL would go, is time. This surgery, plain and simple, is the next available operation. From what I have learned, there is no difference in recovery time or how the knee feels once the procedure is done, the only difference is where the new ligament comes from.
I'm a little freaked out now, but I'm sure that this weirdness is going increase as the days move forward. I have come to grips that I am not going to get this person's life force though, so I guess that is a start.
SD
There is good news, though.
I get dead person parts!
The procedure that I am having is called an allograft. A donor ligament is going to be installed in the place of the flapping useless ACL that is already there. From what I gather, they take a notch out of the two bones that the ACL attaches to and replace the useless parts with the new ones that came out of the cadaver. There is no risk of rejection, that only happens with organs and things that have blood flow through them, like veins and hearts.
The reason I chose this procedure over the alternative, which is taking a piece of another tendon form myself and transplanting it into the slot where the ACL would go, is time. This surgery, plain and simple, is the next available operation. From what I have learned, there is no difference in recovery time or how the knee feels once the procedure is done, the only difference is where the new ligament comes from.
I'm a little freaked out now, but I'm sure that this weirdness is going increase as the days move forward. I have come to grips that I am not going to get this person's life force though, so I guess that is a start.
SD
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
I'm just saying
What the fuck is up with the lame magazines in doctors offices. I'm sorry, but if I wanted to read an issue of Forbes from October, I'd go online to find the particular article that I want. Jesus Christ. Everything in their waiting rooms is months old. I don't want to read about the things that happened when I was whole. I am in the waiting room, WAITING for my appointment, not reminiscing about the times when I had no goddamn clue that this building even existed.
Remember when Ohio State was in the news? No? That's because the story is over a season old and nobody cares anymore. I had that issue of Sports Illustrated and have already gotten rid of it. I generally keep those for a bit, until the news cycle changes. That is, unless Peyton Manning or Dwight Howard are involved, because those two are going to be in the sports page headlines for another friggin year.
Nobody wants to sit in a waiting room and read about shit that doesn't matter anymore. I don't care how ironic you think you are, you are well aware of the November issue of Wired. The only current reading material is the new issue of The Resident, which is uber lame local hand jobbery.
Doctors: Please get your waiting room shit together. As someone who is going to have to spend too much time in said rooms, I plead that you, as an industry, help people not feel bad that their lives suck way more now than when Rick Perry was in the news. Update your reading material. For the love of the Hippocratic Oath, help me feel better emotionally and physically.
Being reminded of the past is not something that a person recovering from anything needs. Addicts don't want to be reminded of their indiscretions, and the injured don't want to be reminded about the actions leading up to the injury. Look forward, doctors. Provide the newest issues of periodicals. Hell, The Dutch Tavern keeps up with the daily newspapers, and that is a bar. Doctors make a shitload of money off of suckers like me who tend to need them of some serious issues, the least they could do is get some subscriptions for the office that allows people to stay at least a little current.
I'm not saying that the waiting room of my orthopedist needs to look like a Manhattan news stand, but some progress would be nice. I don't think that they would eschew new medical technology for leeches and an rock to the skull, so why would they live in the past with their mags? Bedside manner is important, or at least that is what I learned from watching too much Scrubs. Bedside manner is akin to the post coital cuddling that doctors use to make you feel better. Foreplay is nice too. Before the examination of my body, doc, how about something interesting to stimulate my mind? Doesn't seem to be such a far flung idea if you ask me.
SD
Remember when Ohio State was in the news? No? That's because the story is over a season old and nobody cares anymore. I had that issue of Sports Illustrated and have already gotten rid of it. I generally keep those for a bit, until the news cycle changes. That is, unless Peyton Manning or Dwight Howard are involved, because those two are going to be in the sports page headlines for another friggin year.
Nobody wants to sit in a waiting room and read about shit that doesn't matter anymore. I don't care how ironic you think you are, you are well aware of the November issue of Wired. The only current reading material is the new issue of The Resident, which is uber lame local hand jobbery.
Doctors: Please get your waiting room shit together. As someone who is going to have to spend too much time in said rooms, I plead that you, as an industry, help people not feel bad that their lives suck way more now than when Rick Perry was in the news. Update your reading material. For the love of the Hippocratic Oath, help me feel better emotionally and physically.
Being reminded of the past is not something that a person recovering from anything needs. Addicts don't want to be reminded of their indiscretions, and the injured don't want to be reminded about the actions leading up to the injury. Look forward, doctors. Provide the newest issues of periodicals. Hell, The Dutch Tavern keeps up with the daily newspapers, and that is a bar. Doctors make a shitload of money off of suckers like me who tend to need them of some serious issues, the least they could do is get some subscriptions for the office that allows people to stay at least a little current.
I'm not saying that the waiting room of my orthopedist needs to look like a Manhattan news stand, but some progress would be nice. I don't think that they would eschew new medical technology for leeches and an rock to the skull, so why would they live in the past with their mags? Bedside manner is important, or at least that is what I learned from watching too much Scrubs. Bedside manner is akin to the post coital cuddling that doctors use to make you feel better. Foreplay is nice too. Before the examination of my body, doc, how about something interesting to stimulate my mind? Doesn't seem to be such a far flung idea if you ask me.
SD
It's Official
I'm going to need surgery on my torn ACL. I knew this was going to be the case when the MRI technician told me he couldn't FIND my ACL in the first place. I had a choice to make in the orthopedists office, though. I could either get mad at myself, or move forward and learn about my options. I allowed myself to silently repeat the fuck word at different volumes within the confines of an inner monologue, and then chose the more proactive choice.
I asked about my surgery options. I could either have my tendon replaced by a part of the patella tendon, which would cause me to have a missing part of THAT tendon as well as a healing ACL. Or, I could get a replacement tendon from a cadaver. The differences are essentially nonexistent. The deciding factor for me was the interval of time that would elapse between today and the day I become a scarred monster. The cadaver surgery wins. Although it is going to be more expensive, it will be done sooner, and that is the important issue for me. I can deal with price, they have installment plans and financial assistance and all of that crap, I just want this to be done.
I have had enough of feeling like I'm under house arrest and needing people to help me get up and down the stairs like some sort of legless go-tard. Part of the reason why this silly blog exists in the first place is for me to vent a little and get my writing chops back, as they have deteriorated to an inappropriately sour level. What I need to do now is get myself back to some sort of routine. I don't give a fuck what the doctors say, I'm not staying at home. I have to work. I have to be out. I have to make my life as normal as possible, with the slight adjustment of being injured.
I did get some really good news though. As of today, I am down to one crutch. I can walk, to a degree, with one crutch, which frees me up to do a lot of stuff that I couldn't before. I have been fitted with a new brace that will allow me to bend my knee, but won't allow lateral movement in the knee.
After surgery, however, that is, whenever I can get it scheduled (1-4 weeks per the secretary of nothing at the doc's office), I have to be in a leg long knee immobilizer for up to 2 weeks with the leg locked in a pin straight position to advance the healing process. I do get a cool machine that keeps the leg cold so swelling doesn't go balls crazy.
I look forward to getting this process underway. I have to look forward. Looking behind is going to kill me.
SD
I asked about my surgery options. I could either have my tendon replaced by a part of the patella tendon, which would cause me to have a missing part of THAT tendon as well as a healing ACL. Or, I could get a replacement tendon from a cadaver. The differences are essentially nonexistent. The deciding factor for me was the interval of time that would elapse between today and the day I become a scarred monster. The cadaver surgery wins. Although it is going to be more expensive, it will be done sooner, and that is the important issue for me. I can deal with price, they have installment plans and financial assistance and all of that crap, I just want this to be done.
I have had enough of feeling like I'm under house arrest and needing people to help me get up and down the stairs like some sort of legless go-tard. Part of the reason why this silly blog exists in the first place is for me to vent a little and get my writing chops back, as they have deteriorated to an inappropriately sour level. What I need to do now is get myself back to some sort of routine. I don't give a fuck what the doctors say, I'm not staying at home. I have to work. I have to be out. I have to make my life as normal as possible, with the slight adjustment of being injured.
I did get some really good news though. As of today, I am down to one crutch. I can walk, to a degree, with one crutch, which frees me up to do a lot of stuff that I couldn't before. I have been fitted with a new brace that will allow me to bend my knee, but won't allow lateral movement in the knee.
After surgery, however, that is, whenever I can get it scheduled (1-4 weeks per the secretary of nothing at the doc's office), I have to be in a leg long knee immobilizer for up to 2 weeks with the leg locked in a pin straight position to advance the healing process. I do get a cool machine that keeps the leg cold so swelling doesn't go balls crazy.
I look forward to getting this process underway. I have to look forward. Looking behind is going to kill me.
SD
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
On Crutches
7 things about crutches.
1) They are a burden. You can't do anything with them, yet you can't do anything without them. They are like small children, because if you just get rid of them, you are pretty well fucked for a long time.
2) Stairs are an enemy. It is really hard to go up and down stairs. But unlike the Russians in Winter, this is an enemy that can be defeated. A little practice and repetition has allowed me to get pretty good at traversing stairs with the pegs.
3) Doors are a more challenging enemy. It's true. Getting through a door without help can be a bit of a pain in the sack. Doors that are heavy or are the entrance to a public place are the most difficult, as they are designed to stay closed and keep any heat in (or out), so they just close on you as you are trying to manipulate your way across the threshold. You have to use one of the crutches, or an elbow, or your ass, to prop the door open and amble through.
4) Crutches are a hell of a workout. Shoulders, triceps, upper back, hands, forearms, cardio. All of the above. I was able to be out on the town on Saturday, and I was whooped after a while. I realize that moving on crutches is a really good workout. Obviously, I can't go to the gym for a while with the knee all messed up, but going around the block on crutches might be a good substitute. Something to ponder, I suppose.
5) They chafe. As I was out and about, I started to feel something chafey on the side of my body. When I got home, I looked at my side in the mirror and saw a raw patch where the rubber top part contacted my body. That sucks.
6) They are good prop. Seriously, they can help you get the attention of someone five feet away, or play tollbooth with a child or drunken adult. They can be used to rest upon, a mobile leaning tree, as it were.
7) SYMPATHY SYMPATHY SYMPATHY!!! Yup. Don't be jealous, just accept.
SD
1) They are a burden. You can't do anything with them, yet you can't do anything without them. They are like small children, because if you just get rid of them, you are pretty well fucked for a long time.
2) Stairs are an enemy. It is really hard to go up and down stairs. But unlike the Russians in Winter, this is an enemy that can be defeated. A little practice and repetition has allowed me to get pretty good at traversing stairs with the pegs.
3) Doors are a more challenging enemy. It's true. Getting through a door without help can be a bit of a pain in the sack. Doors that are heavy or are the entrance to a public place are the most difficult, as they are designed to stay closed and keep any heat in (or out), so they just close on you as you are trying to manipulate your way across the threshold. You have to use one of the crutches, or an elbow, or your ass, to prop the door open and amble through.
4) Crutches are a hell of a workout. Shoulders, triceps, upper back, hands, forearms, cardio. All of the above. I was able to be out on the town on Saturday, and I was whooped after a while. I realize that moving on crutches is a really good workout. Obviously, I can't go to the gym for a while with the knee all messed up, but going around the block on crutches might be a good substitute. Something to ponder, I suppose.
5) They chafe. As I was out and about, I started to feel something chafey on the side of my body. When I got home, I looked at my side in the mirror and saw a raw patch where the rubber top part contacted my body. That sucks.
6) They are good prop. Seriously, they can help you get the attention of someone five feet away, or play tollbooth with a child or drunken adult. They can be used to rest upon, a mobile leaning tree, as it were.
7) SYMPATHY SYMPATHY SYMPATHY!!! Yup. Don't be jealous, just accept.
SD
Monday, March 19, 2012
In the beginning...
There was nothing. There was no pain. No confusion. No crutches. No meds. No metal apparatus. No worries. But that was Monday.
In the afternoon of Monday, March 12 I was innocently playing basketball, having fun, getting some exercise. No big deal. In a single second, everything changed. As I drove the baseline (for those unfamiliar with the lingo, that is the boundary under the basket) I decided not to plow through the 7 year old child that ran in front of me like a tiny deer with thumbs. I stopped and crumbled. Well, most of me stopped. I planted my right leg and something popped in the middle of my knee and I knew that something was seriously wrong.
I have been watching sports for decades, and every time an athlete blows out his or her knee, they describe the pop that they hear. It curdles the soul and confounds the brain. You try to get up and walk, but you can't. You have one knee and one slinky. There is no stability, no strength, no confidence. I heard that pop. The sound has an ominous effect. Not like a knuckle crack, where the pop is ordinary and innocent. This is something that immediately informs you of danger. I tried to be a tough guy. I tried to man up.
I am not a tough guy, as it turns out.
I was taken to the emergency room and could almost see my leg swelling up like a tire. Eventually they were able to put me in a wheelchair and push me to the x-ray facility. At that point, it started to hurt. That's the bitch about this injury, it didn't hurt all that much. The emotional pain far outweighed the physical pain, so I thought that the pop was nothing. Again, my thoughts were wrong. Of course the x-rays didn't show anything, as they can't see ligaments, tendons, muscles, or anything other than bones. In my case, because I have to be different, they couldn't see all of the bone due to the absurd swelling that I had. Lucky me.
They gave me a couple of prescriptions for painkillers, 800mg ibuprofen and Vicodin, which I have enjoyed. Thanks Pfizer. They also told me to get in contact with an orthopedist to get diagnosed, which is wierd because I was at a hospital. I would think that the doctors at the goddamn hospital would be able to tell me what the hell was wrong with me. Nope. I had to go to another place 2 days later to get that.
So I go to the orthopedist. I had spent nearly two full days in a knee immobilizer, which is a fun little toy that keeps your knee from moving. I also got crutches, which are fun little toys that get you around when one of your legs is out of commission. They also chafe. The orthopedist (named Velvet) told me that the only way to get a true diagnosis was to have an MRI, because there was still too much swelling to determine the exact injury.
She told me that it was probably, like 80% sure, a torn ACL.
The Anterior Cruciate Ligament resides inside of your knee and keeps the knee stable so you can use it without looking like a drunk cartoon character. Mine has apparently decided to detach, and in the process made that horrible popping sound. So I had to get an MRI.
Don't get an MRI. I mean, sometimes you are going to have to, but avoid it if at all possible.
What an MRI does is to take a picture of the inside of your body, whatever part is ailing, so a doctor can tell you what the issue is and get you better. The machine itself is pretty incredible. It is huge, with a tube a little wider than a normal sized person that you go into so that the photos can be taken. Of course, if you are claustrophobic, it is a living nightmare. To me, it was a lot like DubStep "music." It was overly loud with bright lights and it gave me the overwhelming desire to be anywhere else. Also, the sounds were very similar to DubStep, with huge droning bassy beat and chirping melodies that come out of nowhere. Occasionally there is a whistling sound or some sort of clanking. It was horrible.
I got a copy of the pictures, and tried to compare them to the images Google provides when you to a search for torn ACL, but I am not a doctor. I'm not anything really, so looking at those was like looking at static. Try as I might, there was no way I would be able to decipher what anything was, other than the outline of my still semi-swollen leg.
Now I wait. Wednesday I go back to the orthopedist (named Velvet) to get the final diagnosis and work out a recovery plan. I'm a little nervous. The guy who took the MRI said he had trouble finding my ACL, which means that it is flapping around like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man inside my knee.
Now I wait.
SD
In the afternoon of Monday, March 12 I was innocently playing basketball, having fun, getting some exercise. No big deal. In a single second, everything changed. As I drove the baseline (for those unfamiliar with the lingo, that is the boundary under the basket) I decided not to plow through the 7 year old child that ran in front of me like a tiny deer with thumbs. I stopped and crumbled. Well, most of me stopped. I planted my right leg and something popped in the middle of my knee and I knew that something was seriously wrong.
I have been watching sports for decades, and every time an athlete blows out his or her knee, they describe the pop that they hear. It curdles the soul and confounds the brain. You try to get up and walk, but you can't. You have one knee and one slinky. There is no stability, no strength, no confidence. I heard that pop. The sound has an ominous effect. Not like a knuckle crack, where the pop is ordinary and innocent. This is something that immediately informs you of danger. I tried to be a tough guy. I tried to man up.
I am not a tough guy, as it turns out.
I was taken to the emergency room and could almost see my leg swelling up like a tire. Eventually they were able to put me in a wheelchair and push me to the x-ray facility. At that point, it started to hurt. That's the bitch about this injury, it didn't hurt all that much. The emotional pain far outweighed the physical pain, so I thought that the pop was nothing. Again, my thoughts were wrong. Of course the x-rays didn't show anything, as they can't see ligaments, tendons, muscles, or anything other than bones. In my case, because I have to be different, they couldn't see all of the bone due to the absurd swelling that I had. Lucky me.
They gave me a couple of prescriptions for painkillers, 800mg ibuprofen and Vicodin, which I have enjoyed. Thanks Pfizer. They also told me to get in contact with an orthopedist to get diagnosed, which is wierd because I was at a hospital. I would think that the doctors at the goddamn hospital would be able to tell me what the hell was wrong with me. Nope. I had to go to another place 2 days later to get that.
So I go to the orthopedist. I had spent nearly two full days in a knee immobilizer, which is a fun little toy that keeps your knee from moving. I also got crutches, which are fun little toys that get you around when one of your legs is out of commission. They also chafe. The orthopedist (named Velvet) told me that the only way to get a true diagnosis was to have an MRI, because there was still too much swelling to determine the exact injury.
She told me that it was probably, like 80% sure, a torn ACL.
The Anterior Cruciate Ligament resides inside of your knee and keeps the knee stable so you can use it without looking like a drunk cartoon character. Mine has apparently decided to detach, and in the process made that horrible popping sound. So I had to get an MRI.
Don't get an MRI. I mean, sometimes you are going to have to, but avoid it if at all possible.
What an MRI does is to take a picture of the inside of your body, whatever part is ailing, so a doctor can tell you what the issue is and get you better. The machine itself is pretty incredible. It is huge, with a tube a little wider than a normal sized person that you go into so that the photos can be taken. Of course, if you are claustrophobic, it is a living nightmare. To me, it was a lot like DubStep "music." It was overly loud with bright lights and it gave me the overwhelming desire to be anywhere else. Also, the sounds were very similar to DubStep, with huge droning bassy beat and chirping melodies that come out of nowhere. Occasionally there is a whistling sound or some sort of clanking. It was horrible.
I got a copy of the pictures, and tried to compare them to the images Google provides when you to a search for torn ACL, but I am not a doctor. I'm not anything really, so looking at those was like looking at static. Try as I might, there was no way I would be able to decipher what anything was, other than the outline of my still semi-swollen leg.
Now I wait. Wednesday I go back to the orthopedist (named Velvet) to get the final diagnosis and work out a recovery plan. I'm a little nervous. The guy who took the MRI said he had trouble finding my ACL, which means that it is flapping around like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man inside my knee.
Now I wait.
SD
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