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Bending Back

8/22/2014

I get the same question everyday. "How are you how's your knee?" It's one question. Not two. My knee and I are one in the same these days as we can't possibly have conflicting emotional states. Well the answer to this double edged loaded question is this:

We are AMAZING.

That was me using a great descriptor whilst deleting colorful cuss words in front of it. Because THAT would be the real answer.

I don't think I moved for 8 days after my first ACL surgery. I went to the gym 4 of the last 5 days this week. My swelling is low. I bent to 90 degrees all on my own. My pain is so minimal that it feels like an attention stunt to complain about it. On Wednesday, I was granted weight free flexion. What's that you say? Weight free flexion is when my surgeon allows my immobilizer to click into a bent position as long as I'm sitting, driving, sleeping (basically NOT standing or walking). Flexion a week post op?! If you've torn your ACL before your jaw is dropped. I'm killin it.

I vaguely remember being a teenager and planning my "first day of school outfit." I'm sure it was short and tight with a hint of tomboy, but who knows? I've had 5 first days of high school since I graduated, and next week will be my 6th. Believe me when I say I don't think twice about my outfit and totally smirk at the students who so clearly and rightfully do. It does, however, feel like a victory to grant exit access out of this immobilizer and back into the sports brace the morning of that first day. Best outfit change ever. So long straight legged limp. Hello sports brace - nothing I haven't done before.

Remember when I questioned whether going through this before would help or hinder? Answer: HELP! Every move I make, literally, is better than when I did it the first time (and second) around. If I hadn't torn the other guy, I might even think things were tough right now. They're not. But that hasn't stopped the general public from thinking so.

My new daily adventure is the gym locker room. (My pre-tear routine didn't involve this gym). I dragged my leg out of the shower the other day, scars and stitches exposed, and this little old lady was beside herself! "And I thought I had problems!" she yelled while I stood stark naked and shakily pulled my underwear over my busted leg. I gave the silent smile. "Ants!" Wait what? "Ants are my problem. They're everywhere! The exterminator is with my husband right now. And they're so small!"

They're no maggots or flourmites but the lady has a point.

We all have issues. This lady's is clearly that she has no social tact as she proceeded to tell me all about her ant infestation while staring at my nakedness and dressing struggle for a full 6 minutes. Oh and ants - her other issue. And I have rubber bands for ACLs. So be it. What's she going to do? Avoid buying food in order to keep the ants out? Doubt it. What about me? Avoid all physical activity and contact to save my ACLs? Nice try. You think I don't know that I could very well do this again? I wouldn't be blogging if I wasn't looking forward to life on the other side - risk and all. As my recovery continues to be epic - and believe me - it IS epic, I've started compiling goals to get to in order to regain my life con ACLs.

Since August is just about over, I'm going to work hard (without pushing it too far) to do these exciting things by September:

1. Bike. I'm talking full pedal strokes.

2. Walk Larry. Limp free and at his pace.

3. Travel in planes, trains, and cars pain free

4. Not gain a pound - this is a pretty constant goal that I try not to battle too extremely.

In the world of unexciting happenings, this is it for tonight. The episode of Friends where Joey and Rachel first kiss is on.

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Channeling my Inner AP

8/18/2014

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It's Day 6 after surgery, and life goes on. The weekend was exactly what my fried and frantic brain needed. I spent Saturday at the beach with a long skirt covering my bionic-ness, moving and shaking in various different reclined positions. I think it killed the crazy in my head, which was beginning to leak out into things like text messages and dreams. One of those is worse than the other - I'm sure you can imagine which one. Social interaction and general self-sufficiency allowed me to re-adapt back into my initial stance on this whole ordeal - a BETTER one. I have to give myself, my surgeon, and time credit. I was back full time today, after only missing two FULL days of work last week. My first time around I think it took me 8 days to even get to part-time. Sunday reminded me that I'm still an adult and have responsibilities, so I cleaned my house, paid my bills, ran errands, and watched an assortment of SVU episodes (yes, that's an adult activity). How did I get around? I drove myself. For one, don't worry, I haven't taken pain meds since Thursday. Pain > nausea, thankyouverymuch. My right leg (formally known as my "bad" leg) is fully capable of pressing the gas and brake pedals, so I'm living the dream. My seat is in full gangsta lean, with my left braced leg in complete extension, hanging out above all the nonsense down below. My right foot is also in full stretch, conducting the ebb and flow of my speed with the touch of one toe. Hey, one toe is all you need to stop and go. Nothing in this town is more than 10 minutes away. I promise I'm being a safe driver.

After fulfilling my time with an assortment of friends over the weekend, it was a true "wake up" to have to come into the office early on a Monday, with one crutch, workout clothes on (givemeabreakihavenothingtowear), and 312 unread emails and 42 voicemails waiting for me. ACL surgery is like getting married. Everyone is all about it for the first few days, but after that, it's only you thinking that the world should be considerate of your big life change. Oh you didn't think ACL surgery could be compared to marriage?

After a couple of hours trying to answer the same questions, new questions, and statements that are so poorly written, I'm unsure if they're questions at all, I took the elevator down to my car. There's this sign next to our elevator at work (3-story building) that says "Burn calories, not electricity." I get nervous that someone is going to snub their nose at me when I'm waiting for it, so I strategically hold my crutch in great visibility. Sometimes I even put a little pain-stake look on, too. The full effect. Don't judge. Anyway, I got into my car and headed to the gym where my first post-op PT is. I purposely arrived 30 minutes early. No, I'm not that excited. I'm determined. I read like 9 articles about AP's ridiculous 6-month comeback after his ACL tear last night, and I decided that while the world may not be watching the way they watched his, my recovery will be miraculous as well. And I will work for it. I showed up 30 minutes early to get my workout in. See that picture? This is my old friend, thearmbike. It's the one piece of gym equipment that you never see anyone on. Except for those people who have never been to a gym before and they feel so incredibly uncomfortable that they just try any piece of equipment that doesn't have a crowd surrounded by it. Ya. The arm bike wins every time. It's a bike. For your arms. One woman walked by and took out her headphones while looking at me. In gym language, this means I have to take out mine to hear what she's about to say. "Well, that certainly doesn't look fun," she said. She seemed so nice, so I let it slide. "I keep telling myself it's a blast," I replied. She said something along the lines of good for you and that sucks all in one breath. I hobbled along to get an arm and ab circuit in as well, and had a good sweat worked up in time for my 10am appointment.

Now don't forget that I know the rehab routine well. The very beginning isn't so bad, but the near beginning (i.e., next week ish) will be pretty tough. Today I worked on movement and flexing my poor, sagging quad. I was impressed with the difference between my other surgeries and this one. It already feels like my body isn't letting anything get in the way. My surgeon wants my knee to be able to bend 80 degrees. (90 degrees is an "L," so just a little big smaller in case you were wondering). I got to 70 on my own and cringed as my PT got me the rest of the way. But I did it. More than once, too. I got ice and stim (little stickies that buzz your muscles), and then was the real treat of the day. I showered at the gym. If you weren't keeping track, my first official shower was on Saturday. It was glorious and awful all at once. It was hard to balance, slippery, and painful, but it felt so good and my hair was a happy, clean haven. When I used to take showers at the gym, I'd spend a lot of time waiting until no one was in there so that they wouldn't see my change. It was this weird fear I had. All the 65+ women were just letting it all hang out, and I was - oh, I dunno, 21, and barely letting my undies show. Those older folk know what's up. There isn't really a graceful way to get undressed with one working leg, so the crowd got a full show. No one seemed to be too taken aback by the blood-soaked scene on my knee, and most of the women wanted to talk for hours about how they have bad knees too, and that athletes just don't know how to scale back! Undressed and unstable, I wobbled and crutched to the shower and snuck in. I wasn't about to use the handicap stall, even though that seat looked dreamy. There are just way too many women who need that seat more than I do. In the real scheme of life, I'm capable to hold myself up in the shower. So I stood on the grody tic-tac-toe shower mat, and enjoyed the process. A small (and elderly) audience seemed to enjoy watching me towel off and redo my bandage and brace, but I was just glad to have gotten so many things done all it one sitting - so to speak. Back at work, things never slowed down, blood drained to my ankle, and discomfort threatened my attitude, but I got through it. AP may not have had to sit at an office and answer hundreds of emails; I'm pretty certain his gym-shower experience may be a bit different; and I suppose his team of helpful hands may very well quadruple mine...yet nonetheless, I'm sure he didn't let a little brace-funk get in the way of tearing towards the endzone. We have this in common. And probably a lot more. I'll look into it. Onward and upward! The countdown continues.

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The Fog is Lifting

8/15/2014

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I have a confession to make. This is NOT the first time I've taken out my computer to post on the blog. I've been loopy, but not so out of sorts that I couldn't function. I have, however, been in a sulky, sympathy-based funk. Let me first say that I was right. I really did kill the operation. The surgeon relayed that things were pretty messed up when he got in there and he had to do a lot of work, but alas, he mended the tears and sewed me back up.

I can't remember coming out of my first 2 surgeries, but this one is vivid. The nurse and I exchanged anecdotal tales about going against our mother's wishes of piercings and tattoos once we turned 18. My mom was in the room for it, so I'm sure she appreciated the bumbling confession of thoughts behind the actions that upset her years ago. No secrets when under the fog of anesthesia. The car ride is hazy, but I believe I directed my mother where to go. Oh yes. And I watched her struggle with my Prius in the lot. She had the reverse lights on but only budged an inch or two at a time. Austin Powers style. The car has a back-up cam! She claims she couldn't see anything out of the camera or the car. Perhaps my drugs had taken on osmosis and carried over to her. Eventually, she backed out of the lot and got me home.

Two of my friends were waiting with open and able arms to transfer my dead weight into the upstairs part of my house. That is the bigger blur of the day, but I do remember needing to use the restroom immediately and then being tucked in bed. Looking at the pictures after, I actually thought I looked somewhat coherent, but questioned my outfit choice. (The important stuff, right?) I suppose worse things have happened. My first request? 2 cups of coffee. Mom prepared a gourmet piece of buttered toast with turkey to balance out my beverage needs. Satisfaction isn't even an appropriate word to describe how glad I was to consume this.

Bring on the TMI phase of surgery. I wish doctors told you all of that. "You might feel nausea." "You may have some throbbing pain around THIS region." "You may divulge your secrets in front of an audience of 1-7 people for no reason." In this case, I think my mom got the brunt of my deeper, more sentimental inner workings, but other 1st day visitors were subject to them as well. Did I sleep? Couldn't tell you. I ate dinner, advocated for my non-drugged state of mind, and called it a night. I slept approximately 3 minutes at a time for 6 hours, so to say that I was sleep-deprived for day 2 is an understatement. This is where my demeanor took a slight turn for the worse...

I had an appointment with my surgeon early that next morning, where he confirmed that things were going well and that showering needed to be withheld for another 3 days. My mom took me to starbucks (there is clearly a crave theme here), and followed it up with a fried egg and toast. Have I mentioned how awesome my mother is? Well...that will allow you to react to my next post-op phase:

The bitchy phase. Lack of sleep. Pain. Drugs. Loneliness. These are all contributing factors to the bitchy phase of ACL recovery. The interesting thing about this phase is that it can and will reoccur without any warning. The triggers are unforeseen and can even be outlandish. What sparked my first episode? Dirty hair. It's a real issue, people. Don't succumb to thinking that laying around with bedhead doesn't get to a girl. I wanted it washed and I wanted it washed NOW. The bathroom sink didn't work so my mom suggested the kitchen sink. Because it hurt my knee to try that position, I immediately blamed my mother for a bad idea. I then locked myself in the bathroom and did it myself. There were yells and stomps that led up to this big moment of independence. Yes, it was very similar to a 4 year old's tantrum over untied shoes. With a broken plastic pitcher, locked out legs, and audible whimpers and whines, I leaned over the bathtub and did the best job I could of washing my hair, followed by the lamest sponge bath ever. It wasn't pretty. But I did it. I hung my head and apologized to my mom. I'm pretty sure she understood, but it didn't exactly make her endless efforts seem any less thankless. She left that night.

A couple more friends came and went, joining and providing me with food. I watched stupid movies, stupid TV, and blazed through People Magazine's crossword puzzles. If I read any of the articles, I did not retain anything. It's funny how clear you think you are until you actually get OFF the medication. I did that last night. Why? I had a work presentation. How did it go? Well I didn't vomit which was great considering I felt like it 85% of the time I was speaking. Victory! My big night out landed me back in bed and passed out for my first consecutive hours of sleep. Did I mention that I was pouty all the way through this morning? I had a TERRIBLE attitude. I felt bad for myself. I was in pain. I felt fat. Lonely. Stupid. Misunderstood. Everything was going wrong and it was all because of my stupid knee surgery. I had planned for this self-sabotaging phase, yet it still snuck up on me.

BUCK UP. If I really keep it real, this was the best I've ever felt post-surgery. I was able to take my brace off a few times a day to loosen up the hold. I was able to stop taking pain meds within the 3rd day. I was well fed, to say the least. I was killin it, except in the attitude department. I woke up this morning, clearer than the rest of the week, with a little looming crabby-pantsness. I grabbed the broken plastic pitcher, washed my hair, and even shaved my legs the best I could. I made it into work just minutes past 9am, and I kept my head down until almost 2pm, when all the blood had drained to my ankle and I couldn't possibly sit in a chair for another moment. Some of the inadequacies fixed themselves, and to be honest, some stuck around. Nobody came by. My dishes remain unwashed in the sink. My bed is unmade. I'm sure people would understand these small, unimportant issues if they were to catch them, but there isn't any reason to. I'm on the mend, and it's time my attitude was too.

You can't tell, but this blog has actually taken me 6 hours to write. It's because I've been doing self-sufficient things throughout it. Such as cleaning out my ice machine. Putting my dirty clothes in the hamper. Warming up my dinner. Napping. Don't worry, the dishes are next, I promise. Let me just tackle this Wheel of Fortune episode first.

The truth is, I got caught up. My life does change a little with another surgery, but I don't necessarily need to make those changes poor ones. I can't believe how many people have reached out and been in my corner. The least I could do is get a hold of myself. So there it is. My confession is that I've been moping around and perhaps shed a tear or two. My confidence has drooped, I haven't answered actual phone calls, and all of that talk I did about kicking ass evaporated into a few days of struggle. Are there other things going on in my life aside from the latest incisions? Of course. I'm a young female - life is rarely dull. Unfairly associating life's good and bad with the surgery has GOT.TO.STOP, and I promise it is tonight! My ACLs will NOT define me! Hoorah!

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Go Time.

8/11/2014

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Before I get to the meat of this post, it's only fair that I update those of you who are loyal followers...(I'm sure it's an astronomical number at this point).

I didn't have maggots. They were flourmites. Don't know what those are? A cross between termites and maggots. They feed on your dry goods. I'll spare you the details of the "trap and release" protocol. Scotch tape and pouting were both heavily involved. It was never my intention to be misleading. Honest.

Now, onto the real post:

I have been a competitor my entire life. Even when I play "for fun" I am competing. It might not mean anything - to me or to whoever else - but I can't turn that switch off. When I was 5 years old and played AYSO soccer, they didn't keep score. But I always knew the score. My mom would tell me we played a great game, and I would tell her that we lost by 3 goals. It was pretty much innate. In my own humble opinion, it is the best and worst thing about me. I'll tell you what - I would not have gotten up on a cruise ship in a short dress and stilettos if there wasn't a competitor in me. It's that angst with confident hope that drives me. It doesn't always end well (note: 3 knee surgeries), but it's always there. There are often situations in which being a competitor is not necessarily appropriate. Sometimes I can hide it. Sometimes I can't. I am human. What better time to be a competitor, however, than when being faced with a challenge? Rise to the occasion! I tell my athletes this all the time. Who wants an easy game? People who don't have faith and ferocity, that's who! It feels good to lay it all on the line. High risk - high reward.

It's go time people. This is it. It's 11:30pm the night before my surgery, so I'll be pumped full of drugs and locked straight in less than 12 hours. I've received the token "My thoughts will be with you" texts and phone calls, which is really the only indication that I'm actually going in pretty much...when I wake up I guess. Aside from that, I've thought very little about what's in store for me. I appreciate those texts/calls though. It's like. I've totally sent them before. And will continue to...but it's such a funny concept. What kind of thoughts will be with me? With me? Or with my thoughts too? My thoughts will be a cross between hopeless devotion and excruciating idiocy tomorrow. Mixing your thoughts with mine might make yours...well...stupider. I get the idea though. You'll be thinking positively ABOUT me, and therefore those thoughts will be WITH me. Cool. Much appreciated, seriously!

My grandma left me a voicemail - wait sidenote: My grandma is hands down the COOLEST, KINDEST, CUTEST woman on the planet. Don't believe me? Check out my picture. She really is a gem. So yes, she left me a voicemail offering anything I needed, including lunch or dinner. It was so sweet. But she lives 4 hours away, doesn't drive, doesn't cook, and doesn't really get around, so the thought of her genuinely making an offer like that really puts it in perspective of how supportive my inner circle is. My ACLs are lucky to have such great people in their constant life of ripping apart and being put back together again. That voicemail is symbolic of how crazy nice life can be even amongst knee surgery!

As far as my state of mind goes. I'm going to come right out with it. Is badass a state of mind? That's how I'm feeling. I told some friends I have this vision of coming out of surgery and just like standing up and busting out of the place. I feel like I'm going to KILL this operation. In the best way possible. I definitely won't walk out. I will likely be slurring and slobbery, but I feel pretty badass right about now, so let me have my moment. High expectations can equate to some serious disappointment - yes, I know this - but I'm willing to press my luck and own this operation tomorrow. Plus my mom arrived tonight. Guess what we had for dinner? Brisket. Amazing. We watched trashy reality television, gossiped a little, talked about tomorrow's game plan, and then that was it. I went to work today. I worked out. I got to play with Larry AND Ginger. I certainly didn't feel like something dark was looming in the future, so I'm going to take that as a sign that there IS NOT anything dark looming in my future. This will be my 3rd knee surgery, but I promise, I've never felt like this beforehand. I'm telling you. State of mind = badass.

You know in The Wolf of Wallstreet when Leonardo DiCaprio takes quaaludes and can't even walk down the stairs and get into his car? Yet he somehow manages to drive his car back home without a dent or scratch? Until the next morning when he realizes that's not true and his car is a HUGE WRECK. Remember that scene? Imagine him really making it home in one piece, car is maintained, and he wasn't a total prick and liar and cheater. Imagine that. THAT'S how I want to do it. The struggle will be real, but against all odds, I'll conquer it.

That may have been an analogical stretch. So be it.

The point is that this surgery is just another game time moment. I'm sure I've got some nerves built up underneath my badass disposition. I'm sure there are even shaky thoughts down there like "What if I don't/do/can't....." But OH. WELL. I am a competitor. I didn't practice buzzer beater half court shots for 10 years of my life to never have a moment. (Uh, seriously, I was 16 when I sunk the half court shot - I will never forget it). If there aren't moments to stand up straight, buck up, and get down to it, how can I really find my best self? F you, ACL tears! You're an opponent I've seen before and look forward to crushing. That is figurative crushing. Please stay in tact for the time being.

So yes. It's go time. Am I ready? Who cares? It's happening, and I may as well embrace it. The thing about being a competitor is that the game is never really over. It all leads to bigger, brighter moments if you let it. Tomorrow may not be my brightest, but it won't be a loss, and I'll give blood, sweat, and tears to come out victorious.

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Maggots.

8/8/2014

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They say time is your best friend and your worst enemy. "They" are typically movie actors with one-liners and momentous conversations about life, love, and what not. I suppose they are right though. When you're down in the dumps, time seems to be the only thing to lift you back up....only after dragging you down for what feels like eternity. I'm sure that will be the case with my recovery. The first time I went through ACL surgery, I didn't really have a strong grasp on what the timeline would be like. Doctors and PTs and google give you all sorts of opinions and broad statements, but really, it's a process. It's time. Up and down with tons of push and pull. It's a roller coaster. Might as well enjoy the ride rather than fight it, right?

That's not my gripe with time. As of this morning, I have a fish to fry with TIMING. All things considered, I've enjoyed my 4 weeks of post-ACL tear slash pre-op. I drive. I walk. I move. I work out. I possess valid and coherent thoughts and jokes. I'm me. The timing can't be terrible, because I haven't been hating my use of time...ya dig?! (And helloo...I was on DWTS). That changed this morning. Why? What could possibly make me feel existentially pissed off at the tick-tock of my two-legged paradise?

MAGGOTS.

That's right. Maggots. In my baking flour. On my coffee cups. And totally inconsiderate of the fact that I have a lot of crap to get done before I succumb to my couch and droopy disposition in 3 days. What do you do when you have maggots? Seriously. I honestly have no clue. I wasn't even sure I knew what maggots looked like until my friend told me. I thought I had termites. Where did these guys come from? My walls? Outside? Are they hatching minute by minute? I've only lived in my place for 3 months...less actually. Were they living there before? My guess is yes. Somebody pulled the wool over my eyes. OMG. HAVE I EATEN A MAGGOT?! They are so small! I feel like they're crawling all over me now that I know!! Do they like cool places? Dark? Can they get into my refrigerator? How fast to they move? Ugh. I did the only logical thing a poor, unfortunate, maggot-occupied-apartment living, severed-ACL woman could do. I texted my mom.

She obviously pulled through and told me they are "gross little bugs that like powdery stuff." I see we share the same inherent need for tween-esq descriptors via text. She also confirmed that these white losers were not, in fact, termites. Love ya, Mom.

So I sat at work, which has been quite busy with the general act of trying to anticipate the crap that will go on during my short-lived absence next week. Tall order. And you know what I did? I imagined all of the little places these maggots might be living. Good god I hope they are only in the 2 cabinets that I found them in. You know when you jump up on a countertop and grab whatever you need from the top shelf? I can't freaking do that! The act of viewing my high-shelf components is so slow that I actually feel like maggots will jump out and attack me before I can even full extend up there!

They are EXTREMELY small. Like. Tics. Maybe smaller. They could probably occupy a velcro strap on my brace with about 900 of their friends and still have room to party. Yes...I did not wear my brace for the first half of the day so I could give it time to rid itself of these animals.

You know what? I bet this was no accident. I bet someone is out there helping me. They're going...you're having anxiety about a 3rd knee surgery? I've got just the remedy. A brand new issue. Boom. Done. I get it. Friday I disinfect cabinetry of dirty maggots. Tuesday. I take on my tri-fecta of misplaced ligaments. TGIF!

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The Beat Goes On.

8/6/2014

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Men. I feel like the 12 year old insecure, pimply, butterfly-clip-heavy young girl in me still shares many similar gripes with men as the adult woman in me does. I'll get to why eventually...

So, as you dedicated blog readers know, I had my final check up today with my surgeon. The idea was to go in, ensure my leg was ready (i.e., no lacerations - hate that word - just say cuts, swelling is minimal, yada yada yada). All of that happened. I got my call time for surgery on Monday morning at 6AM!! Damn. It's not really like I had anything else going on, and I'm sure I'll have ample time to catch up on sleep, but my last 2 surgeries were mid morning. I shook the doc's hand, he told me the small percentage of complications, used bedside manner that let me know I was certainly NOT the only woman/person in the wings with an issue, and got on his way. Boom. Done.

Except not really. That all ended at 8:45am this morning. At 9:15am, I got a phone call. Yep, you guessed it. From my surgeon's office. My first thought was OMG how embarrassing if my payment didn't go through. Wait. It went through at the office. Wait. Is something wrong with my leg? No - he didn't say anything. OMG! THEY HAVE AN EARLIER SURGERY DATE! I'M HAVING SURGERY IMMEDIATELY!

I was getting warmer, but...I was wrong. "Dr. _________ is having trouble finding a surgical assistant for Monday. He wants to know if you can move your surgery to Tuesday."

WTF? Shouldn't there have been a surgical assistant scheduled when my SURGERY was scheduled?

I replied something like this: "Uh. I guess so - if that's my only option."

"Great. Your call time is 9:15am on Tuesday, the 12th. I see your final check up is scheduled for --"

"I just got out of there 30 minutes ago."

"Perfect! You're all set."

Well wasn't she a dear to let me know? 27 hours difference? No, it's not the end of the world. I DO have a slightly important work presentation on Thursday night that was iffy when my surgery was scheduled for Monday, but now I'm just going to pre-write a dialogue and slur my way through it. It is what it is, right? It's not THAT as much as....well, you know, MEN.

I "dated" this guy named Jose when I was in 6th grade. I think we hugged once. He threw a basketball at my head too. He was like 3'9" with bleached tips and 18 sprays of cologne. Dreamy. Well. About 44 hours into our relationship, Jose's friend Matt came up to my friend, Emily and told her that Jose didn't want to go out with me anymore. Could she let me know? Emily had no problem letting me know. Jose was approximately 100 yards away when all of this went down.

What's the point of this story? Helllooooo! Why didn't my surgeon tell me my surgery date was changed to my FACE? I mean COME ON! That's a MINOR detail that he could have easily let me know. It is only fair that I mention I have one of the top knee surgeons on my side, and while I have every faith that he will do a great job...should I be worried that these "surgical assistants" are mere players in his soap opera? Why can't he find any? Don't they want part in an elite athlete's comeback? What is he doing to them in between surgeries? I'll let it slide ONLY because there's a picture of Rick Fox in his office with an autograph that says "Thanks for getting me back to speed." Let's face it. The doc can move my surgery back a day if he treats my operation the way that he treated Rick Fox's.

It was an ever so subtle reminder that in the world of medical professionals and expensive knee equipment, my ACL is really just one of many torn ligaments. For you hopeless romantics out there, it isn't really true that for one surgeon, mine is the world. Though Rick Fox's might have gotten a little more attention. Who knows? Maybe if my doc saw my outside jumper, mine would get some buzz too.

Regardless of who, what, and when, the beat goes on. I'm now 6 days away instead of 5, and everything will still be just fine. I velcroed up my strappy leg gear, plugged in my ear buds, and took to my office gym to have a triumphant hour of pre-atrophic pride. Maybe that was just the push I needed today.

So what if my ACL is just another ACL to most others? I know what it deserves, and if it can't get the proper treatment and attention until Tuesday, then god damnit, I'm going to wait until Tuesday, and I'm going to feel good about it. It deserves to be handled with care...and let's be honest. In the grand scheme of things, I could really care less. Life will go on, and one day later doesn't really make a big difference. Maybe now I'll even treat myself to that beach day with an elongated period of freedom and mobility. YOLO!!

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#FOMO

8/5/2014

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I've heard about FOMO. I'm part of a large co-ed group of friends that have been together for years. We are all on one big email chain, which blows up our inboxes every day full of invitations to concerts, parties, events, and what not. Sometimes I go. Because it sounds fun. Sometimes I don't go. Either because I can't or I'd rather do something smaller/by myself. I don't have what the kids these days refer to as FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). At least not on a typical missed event. Lately, however....things are starting to shift a little.

I went on a "pub run" on Saturday. It was "Glam Rock" and everyone runs through half of the town dressed up and stopping at various bars to drink. I wore an acid-wash one piece under hideous jean shorts (young women are actually wearing these shorts for real right now which is REALLY disturbing, but I was thankful for the costume's sake). I had a couple of red bulls and rode my bike, brace and all, and even tore it up on the dance floor the best I could. There was a moment where I was holding my girlfriends' hands, hopping up and down, and belting out the words to some 90s one-hit-wonder, when I thought Wait. I'm totally NOT going to be able to do this in a week-ish. I'm going to miss out on cool stuff. I'm going to be left behind! I HAVE FOMO!

That was pretty much it. I just had this moment of sorryformyself-ness and just felt bummed! My creative workouts have continued, but even those won't happen after the initial slice of knife. And THEN. I looked at my bare toenails in my wedges and sure enough...that was the straw that broke the camel's back. I can't pain my own toenails, and I won't be able to get into anything but flip flops for some time.

First World Problems. I know. It's like. I'll be well fed. My mom will be here. Ginger will be here. Larry will CERTAINLY not think any less of me. I have awesome friends who will be more than helpful. I will likely be able to drive and get around after the first week. There's just really nothing awful and traumatizing happening here. Except that I'll miss out on going to the beach next week. Would I have gone to the beach next week? It's unlikely. But knowing that it's not even an OPTION has my FOMO radar buzzing. The advertisements on my social media sites are taunting me with hiking adventures and fast-paced contests of many sorts. I want to do all of them. Am I over-compensating or is this a far cry from a placebo and my life really will feel empty without 24/7 mobility and action? I don't know, my friends. I just don't know.

You know how I know my FOMO is getting bad? It's elaborating into parts of my life that used to counteract FOMO. Oh you need an example? Fake and forced bloggers ALWAYS have an example. This past weekend I was introduced to House of Cards (it's nice to have television interests that don't involve 50 year old women screaming at one another, so this made me feel "with" society). Wow. It's really good. And addicting. I watched 5 episodes in one sitting with someone who has already seen every episode, so I wanted to make SURE I was following along. I started daydreaming about saying snappy and sassy one-liners similar to those that the young, female reporter says in the show yesterday when my FOMO broke out. Oh no, I'm having surgery next week. What if I watch HoC while I THINK I'm not loopy from the drugs/anesthesia, but really I still am and then I can't remember what happens in the episode and then I watch the next group of episodes a week later and can't connect the dots and miss the entire point of the series and fall behind and can never recover?!

Ya. Pretty sure FOMO is NOT supposed to involve television series. Usually that's the crap that I do while missing out on real-life events. But. Mine does. That "F" in FOMO could precede quite a few things in my life right now, actually. I have FONTW. You've never had that? It's Fear of Nothing to Wear. I get a flare-up every time I have one of these 6-strap braces as my primary dress-piece. Other F's? FOLA. That's right. FOLA. Fear of Losing Athleticism. Not just because of the surgery - no! But because my competitors (aka normal everyday people) will have a leg up on me! Literally. They will have been running and jumping and playing sports! Oh you haven't picked up that I'm competitive? I like to be GOOD at stuff. FOLA is really acting up here because I not only want to be good, I don't want to allow too much time for "others" to surpass me! This is NOT trivial nor is it unrealistic. This is life. This is happening. The F is really shoving its way into acronyms and other crevices that I had not imagined. FOOL. It's a real thing. Fear of Oncoming Laziness. FOOL. What if I really enjoy doing nothing and being nowhere? What will happen to me? Will I gain laziness like a bad habit? Will I not even desire to break out of my bedroom and conquer the world?! Let's be honest. Probably not, but I really wanted to use FOOL.

Tomorrow is my final pre-op check-in to make sure I'm ready for my big date with the scalpel next week. Dream big, blogees, I'm sure there's an anecdote in that waiting room ready for us!

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Brace Yourself.

8/1/2014

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It's happened. I've had a woe-is-me day. I got fit for my brace yesterday morning, and while the man with the bag of sizable robo legs was quite nice and charming, I despised him. When you get your shoe size measured, the men and women who help you simply tell you your approximate "number" and go into a magical back room before emerging with the styles you want until your Cinderella moment comes true and you walk away with footsy wardrobe advances. Brace shopping is slightly different. It goes like this:

Man: Let's go ahead and go for the small.
Internal cheer for myself that my leg is considered small.
Me: Cool.
Man: Will you be wearing those heels with your brace?
Internal cursing towards the male species. These BARELY have a heel, it's 84 degrees outside, and I'm out of flats that go with my work shorts. This is my outfit for today, shoes and all.
Me: Yes.
Man: Ok. Just be careful. My files tell me you have 2 other braces with us. Man, that's a bummer. I assume you don't need me to tell you how to put it on?
How does one get into the ACL brace-fitting practice in the first place?
Me: Either way. Doesn't hurt to make sure I'm doing it right.

The man then tells me to velcro the straps in numerical order. Ummm...HELLO 2014! The straps were NOT numbered on my past 2 braces. Thank you for now making me look like an idiot that needs you to explain that you are first strapping the flap labeled "1" before proceeding to "2" and so forth...I'm handicapped AND sequentially challenged. Brilliant. The man then fumbles around my leg, front and back, securing the straps to protrude muffin-top-esq thigh pouches poking out through the windows of the brace. Somewhere in there was a comment about how my quads are large, but will atrophy quickly after surgery, but nottoworryMacie, you'll be in the IMMOBILIZER at the beginning. Wait. Don't worry? Because instead of this snappy get-up, I'll be in a hip-to-toe locked brace that will compress my muscular-less leg for a couple of weeks before graduating to my shiny new accessory. I can't even spend time NOT worrying about that because I'm still focusing on the fact that you called my quad large. Men - women do NOT think "Large Quads" is the equivalent of a compliment FYI. Words such as "toned," "tight," and "terrific" are far better choices. You're welcome.

Once my brace did, in fact, fit snugly, I asked if I was expected to wear the brace until surgery.

Man: Yes. You can take it off when you sleep if it's uncomfortable. You can also swim with it as long as you wash it with luke-warm water and let it air dry IMMEDIATELY afterward.
Me: Wow. Velcro has really improved in the new millennium. Thank you.

It really has though - I'm not sure I entirely trust that I will be floundering in the Pacific Ocean with my new attachment dressing up my bikini, but the idea that it COULD happen is a nice thought. Nothing further.

So I took 4 minutes to stand in front of the mirror and consider an outfit change that would "blend the brace" in a better fashion, but it just wasn't going to happen. If anyone at my office took note of how fashion-forward I am (depending on what day they catch me and their fashion sense. Actually let's be real, I work with all men and nobody cares what I wear), they would have TOTALLY felt bad for me yesterday. My outfit was skunked by this brace. And. It kept getting caught on my desk drawer when I would push my chair out. And. It was HOT. And tight. And it's like the badge of obvious athletic accidental mayhem. THEBRACE is an ACL tear shoved in everyone's face. So if the general public was wondering why I had a slight limp before, their question has been answered via live illustration. And this blog, of course.

It's slightly misleading to wear this brace pre-op because I actually can move around considerably well right now. I even rode my bike to work. That's right. Wedges, flowy skirt (it's Fiesta in Santa Barbara right now, ok), and ACL brace. You never want to get cat-called, but when you DON'T down streets with multiple construction sites, you have to kind of wonder how bad it must actually be. I mean, how bad is it? Honestly? Maybe everyone was just holding their breath and waiting for me to fall off my bike brace first. Ha! My sporty demeanor will NOT be diminished!! I was steady!

So ya. I just felt bad for myself all day yesterday. Every year, I travel to Vegas to compete with my friends - we all met each other in post-college competitive/social kickball - to compete in the National Tournament. Uh, what's that? You didn't know it's an actual sport. It is. This picture is from 2012 in between my first and second surgery. I broke my brace after sliding into 3rd. I think a part of me thought it was this epic Forrest Gump moment where I shed my bionic-ness and would never look back EVER.AGAIN. But now I have a new brace. With numbers. So there's that. Needless to say, I won't be playing in the tournament this year. Or in my soccer game tonight. The list goes on. Wah wah wah, give me a day to be a whiny brat. I'll come out the other side, I promise.

I have exactly 10 days until I go under the knife, and my social schedule has never been busier. I mean, I've still been watching plenty of television, jigsaw puzzling, and working, but I've also had ample opportunity to mingle and run into people that I both enjoy and don't enjoy seeing. I ran into one girl the other night - I know her from a few different circles, but initially she took fitness classes from me while I taught during college. When I tore my ACL in 2011, she had known because she played in the same soccer league that I did it in. Well. Three weeks later, the poor girl tore HER ACL. When I saw her the other night, she candidly told me that she heard the news from ____________ and was very sorry to hear it happened yetagain...(I use that as one word because that's what it sounds like when I hear it come out of people's mouths over and over. Yetagain). She then told me that she's been avoiding sports and dangerous activity, and will not go back to it until it's been over 3 weeks since my new tear. This way she is safe of the inevitable sequential injury to mine. I smiled and told her she was only a few days away from her goal. NO. I did NOT secretly wish she would tear it anyway JUST to see if my ACLs had that type of power. I did not. No way. Maybe just for like ONE second.

After I pouted for about 8 hours yesterday, I got off my butt, gave myself a body-weight-ACL-friendly-in-my-bedroom workout, and went on with the day, and I suppose, with life. Regardless of the constant irritation this leg-ware causes me, I have never taken my surgeon's orders more seriously. It might put a damper on my summer schwag, but that's not a good enough reason to leave this uppity and advanced sleeve behind. Brace yourself, for my mind will change often.

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Bending Back

Channeling my Inner AP

The Fog is Lifting

Go Time.

Maggots.

The Beat Goes On.

#FOMO

Brace Yourself.

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