Recovery Goals

“I have a wedding in three weeks, what do you think?” I asked the in-hospital physical therapist the day after my double knee replacement. The day that I couldn’t get up without nauseated grimacing. The day I couldn’t lift a toe, let alone a knee, up onto even the lowest of the low stairs in the hallway. 

“Perhaps a bit ambitious, but we’ll see,” she smiled encouragingly. “Every day you’ll see a little more improvement.”

“I’m going,” I said, returning her smile, with a bit of “watch me.” After all, I had proclaimed  in my pre-surgery blog that I’d be dancing with my walker at Kristen and Mike’s wedding. And, I’m not one to make empty promises.

Two days later, I was sent off to Kessler Rehab for a week, where they had me not only climbing stairs but stepping in and out of bathtubs, cars and kitchens. One day, I overheard Jackie, an occupational therapist, say she was going to a wedding on the 19^th. And, because of the  serendipitousness of my eavesdropping, and subsequent barrier-less barging in, I learned she was Kristen’s maid of honor. 

Now, NOTHING could stop me from getting to that wedding.

As anyone who has ever been in rehab of any kind will concur, rehab is easy. You’re safe. You’re monitored. You’re living in an altered reality.  The real work comes when you go home. 

On the eleventh day following my surgery, I was released into the loving arms of my spouse and youngest son. I was petrified. Even though we had practiced in rehab, I had serious doubts that I’d be able to bend my legs enough to swing them into the car (it proved easier than before the surgery), navigate the front porch stairs (piece of cake) or venture up the stairs to my recovery room (did it). 

My ever-loving spouse is as private a person as I am public. Unlike me, he does things out of the goodness of his heart, not for affirmation from the world. He rarely reads my blogs because it’s hard enough for him to have to live through my open-to-all adventures, let alone relive them as I recount them, action-for-action, word-for-word. I try to leave him out of my stories, penning him in as a minor character only when necessary. After all, why waste words of praise that will only fall on blind eyes?

However, I’d be remiss not to give him a shout out for his courage, concern and unconditional love in his recent undertaking of coach and caregiver. A role I’d never in a million years willingly take on. And certainly not with a post-op patient like me. 

I thought I had it good in rehab. But, it was nothing compared to the royal treatment I received at home.  

He took me for walks. He took me for rides in the car. He made me beautiful salads. He doled out pills. He supplied me with endless ice cubes. He pulled those ridiculous compression stockings over my swollen feet in the morning and strapped me into my hideous immobilizing braces at night. And the one time I started whining because I had forgotten my kindle downstairs, he snapped.

“No breakdowns! I’ll get your kindle.”

“But, you just came upstairs,” I sniffled, frustrated at not being able to take care of my own needs.

“I don’t mind,” he said. And he truly didn’t.

But still, I wasn’t going to take advantage. So, every day, I pushed myself a little further and became more and more independent. Before long, the spouse went back to work. Left to my own devices, I found my old self peeking through; picking unidentifiable floating objects out of the dog’s water bowl, braving the stairs multiple times a day, de-crumbing the kitchen counters, driving to physical therapy, bringing in the mail, kicking the walker to the curb, doing laundry and preparing meals.

So, when the wedding day rolled around, three weeks to the day after my surgery, I was revved and ready. 

“We won’t stay late,” the spouse said, always eager to leave a social engagement right when I start hitting my stride.

“Agreed,” I said. 

After all, it was hot as blazes out there. And though I did get special dispensation to ditch the thick, white compression stockings for the day, I still had to wear long, black pants to hide the long, ugly scars that still had remnants of tape and steri-strips dangling from the wounds. I knew I wouldn’t get my much-needed afternoon nap. And, it was a long mass followed by a two-and-a-half hour break before a long reception, far enough away to dabble in Friday night shore traffic. I knew I'd be exhausted half way through my first scallop wrapped in bacon and truly didn’t believe I’d make it to the cutting of the cake. 

Somewhere between First Corinthians and the Holy Gospel, Jackie, the fun-loving therapist and maid of honor, pivoted from her perch at the tail of the bride’s long white veil, and caught my eye, giving me a thumbs up.  

I knew, in that moment, with God as my witness in that cavernous Catholic church, that I was going to exceed my recovery goal.

The reception was perfect. Love and laughter filled the room with heart-felt speeches, family from near and far, and friends who had been through it all with the groom; stealing bases, stealing cars and stealing beers. And everyone in that room knew that Mike had just landed the steal of his career, catching not only a beautiful bride, but a perfect partner for life.

And so, when the music began to blare and the bridal party began slip sliding their way across the dance floor, I knew I was going to do it. 

I looked at my spouse. He looked at me. 

“You sure?” he said. 

I nodded and hobbled to center stage. I don’t remember exactly what songs were playing, but I'm thinking Sweet Caroline, High Hopes or Twist and Shout is what got me out there. I’m not a dancer in the best of shape, let alone with two brand-new knees. But, there was something in the air that made me kick up my cane, find the bride and dance with her on her wedding day.

Another week has passed and I’m doing laps around the neighborhood, carrying my cane merely to ward off rogue pit bulls and small children on scooters. I just finished making sausage and peppers and husking corn on the cob. I vacuumed up dog hair this morning, pulled daughter hair from the bathroom drain, lugged laundry up and down the stairs and wiped watermelon juice from the refrigerator shelves. 

I’m not sleeping well (if at all) at night because of my dang immobilizers (two more weeks!) but I’m getting some really good power naps in my recliner. I ice my knees four times a day, do about 100 heel slides a day and take a plethora of pills ranging from iron to Celebrex. I go to physical therapy three times a week where Brittany cheers me on, buckling my knees back until my eyes bug out and then announces, "You're at 130 degrees!" making the struggle worth the pain. But, I swore off Tylenol last week and just keep bending and stretching and waiting for the day that I wake up and finally say, “I’m SO glad I got my knees replaced!”

In the meantime, I’ll just keep my sights on my recovery goals, modest as they may be. Sleeping when I can. Dancing when I can. And, always remembering that it takes a village. In the meantime, mark my words. I'll be back to raising Cain, without my cane, long before the world is ready. 

A Simple Case of the Kneesles: Rehab Part One

“Just stopping by to ask how your stay at Kessler has been,” the bright and bubbly public, human, customer or some other sort of relations worker asked on my last day at the rehab center. It was hard to keep the multitudes of people swarming my bedside straight. Admittedly, if the name tag didn’t allow the dispensing of pain killers, I was less likely to care who they were. She was not a dispenser. But, she caught me at a good moment.

“I loved it!” I exclaimed. “I would live here forever if I could!”

The bright and bubbly woman paused. 

“Are you messing with me?” she asked.

“I am NOT kidding,” I responded. “This was the best week of my life.” 

OK. That may have been a slight exaggeration. But, not a total one. 

Two-and-a-half weeks ago, I went under the knife. The good doctor fileted my legs from thigh to shin, tore out my old and achy knees and put in new and improved hardware. He closed  me up with thirty staples and four sutures per limb, flipped me onto the “done” gurney and sent me on my way. 

Later that very same day, when the wooziness had worn off and I was safely in my hospital bed, wanting nothing more than to succumb to that blissful anesthesia, Nurse Ratched came in to announce that nap time was over. It was time to get up and walking. 

Imagine that. 

The following day I was doing laps around the nurse’s station with my walker.

And, on the third day, they were ready to discharge me.

“I can’t go home!” I whined. “I can’t do the stairs yet!”

“I’ll take care of you! You can sleep in the living room!” my well-intended, ever-loving spouse proclaimed. 

Visions of my body splayed like a museum piece on display for family, friends and furry dogs infiltrated my psyche and wouldn’t recede.

“I can NOT sleep downstairs,” I declared in a tone so strong the case worker took it to heart and began proceedings to get me to rehab.

I had been to rehab after I had my hip replaced 18 years ago. It was not a happy experience as noted in my past tales. Going in to this thing, I had absolutely no intentions of being incarcerated any longer than I had to. But the thought of those 17 stairs, the rickety bannister and the recovery room that I had created out of my California son’s bedroom (complete with brand new air conditioner and remote-powered recliner) called to me loudly through my fuzzy brain. I was adamant. It was not safe for any of us if I went home. And I wouldn’t go home until I could safely sleep in the recovery room. 

“Listen,” I confessed to one of those people with a name tag who didn’t dispense. “I’m doing this for my spouse, not for me. When I’m unhappy or in pain, I can be pretty unpleasant. But, I promise, I’ll be a model patient at rehab. It’s just not in my nature to be mean to people I don’t know or love.”

And off I went. 

Now, if you’ve never been in the two-new-kneed condition in which I found myself, it may not occur to you that the getting there is almost as scary as the been there. It’s a frightening thing to be carried on a gurney, especially for someone of my girth. But, somehow, these trained professionals are both strong enough and smart enough to move mountains, both physically and emotionally. Thanks to the kindness of the Teaneck Volunteer Ambulance Corps, my friend, Joe Harris, and his perfectly personable assistant, Michael, delivered me in one painless piece to my new vacation home, just two miles down the road from the hospital.

I was deposited, oh so gently, from stretcher to bed in a room divided by a khaki-colored floral curtain just a few minutes before my roommate, a double amputee, was whisked from her window bed and taken back to the hospital for something gone wrong. It was a whirlwind of in and out but I was still too deep into transition to process any of it.

There were new rules at Kessler. I wasn’t permitted to walk to the bathroom alone. I wasn’t allowed to get out of bed without pushing the call button. I had to be transported by wheelchair. I was back in a hospital gown. 

I had to train a whole new flock of people to bring me a constant supply of ice chips, that yes, despite it being 90 degrees outside, I DID want all five blankets and six pillows on my bed and that I would not, could not produce that coveted stool sample as long as they stood guard outside the bathroom door.

And when my roommate was wheeled back in at midnight with the fanfare of a street parade and I laid awake into the wee hours, willing myself not to have to pee, I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake by not going right home. 

But, when 5 am rolled around and the blood taker came and stabbed my arm and I tore off my nighttime immobilizer braces, trying to un-Velcro the eight-on-each-leg straps as quietly as possible, uncreaked my knees and emptied my throbbing bladder, aide perched outside the door. “Pull the call bell when you’re done!” I knew it was just a matter of getting used to a new routine. And making new friends.

Following my English muffin and bacon breakfast which came hot every morning, I met my first new best friend, Michael, from Occupational Therapy. 

“I’m here to teach you to get dressed,” he said. 

“Joy,” I responded. I barely let my own spouse see me in various stages of undress, let alone a perfect stranger. But, Michael was a professional, staging his act so he didn’t actually see me in any stages of undress. He demonstrated the ins and outs of pulling up pants with a reacher, using an extended shoe horn and even a super cool sock putter-onner. Michael was so good and so congenial that I truly believed he cared about the whole life story that I revealed in my various stages of non-undress. 

At Kessler, the victims have three hours of therapy, scheduled throughout the day in different time increments. Alyssa was my main physical therapist and by the end of our time together she knew 75 percent of my quirks (I always like to keep some close to the vest). Meanwhile, I extracted plenty of personal info about her, her beau, her upcoming nuptials and her family dynamics. Doing chair-to-stands and braving the steps were simple tasks when disguised as buddy bonding.

Christine, my occupational therapist, and I never stopped talking as took me to another floor to practice getting in and out of a fake car, stepping in and out of a bathtub and getting dishes in and out of a cabinet. Through it all, we yakked about the ins and outs of kids' sports and the crazy schedule (believe me, it gets worse, I warned) of her thirteen year-old softball player daughter. Again, we were more like friends than torturer and tortured.

Never one to keep my ears to myself, I heard Jackie, one of the “fun” therapists talking across the room about a wedding she was going to on July 19^th.

“Me too!” I bellowed. “That has been my recovery goal, to make it to a wedding three weeks to the day from my surgery. Hey, maybe it’s the same one!”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, assuming I was on narcotics.

“Kristen and Mike’s?” I asked, knowing I was on narcotics.

She shrieked. I laughed. She is the maid of honor at the very same wedding. 

“I’m going to be off my walker by then,” I declared.

And, I am.

I had the time of my life at Kessler. I had Emily, the best nurse in the whole wide world. I mean, the whole wide world. Which isn’t to say that Anele wasn't equally as kind and loving, but Emily, I will always hold nearest and dearest to my heart. 

I had great aides like Ivy who never made me feel bad about ringing my bell. And Nick and Rosa. Rosa who yelled at me for throwing my dirty washcloths on the floor as if it were a hotel. Rosa knew what she was dealing with and kept me in line.

And then there was Jack, the MC of the show. He sat at the reception desk and orchestrated the ins and outs of patients and after my roommate went home, I begged him not to let anyone else move in. And, while happenstance kept the other bed empty for four full days, he let me believe it was because I asked.

While it was frustrating not being able to do what I wanted when I wanted, my week in rehab had all the makings of a vacation. In between heel slides and knee bends, I wasn’t cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, going grocery shopping or doing the daily stand-off of refusing to feed the dog before 6 pm. So, when my stay was over and I said goodbye to all my new friends, it was as sad as disembarking from a cruise ship.

I’ve been home a week now and my rehab memories are already beginning to fade. But I'll forever keep in my soul my double amputee roommate who continues to inspire me every single day. I can not moan. I can not cry. I can not complain. 

Because, thanks to the people who motivated me, manipulated me and befriended me, I realize, in the grand scheme of things, my great big personal trauma is nothing more than a simple case of the kneesles.