Apparently, as I’d been becoming a runner, I screwed up my
knee. It likely started 18 years ago
when Sarah and I were in a car accident (that’s another post). The short version is that the dashboard ended
up in my lap, along with my knees. My
right knee required immediate attention, but the left hung on for nearly two
decades before finally snapping (literally) on the treadmill. The patella femoral cartilage (the cartilage
plate behind my kneecap), which had been living happily like a shattered but
intact windshield cracked and frayed, sending a few little shards into my knee
joint. It hurt a little.
After two months and two doctors and a sore back and hip
from my pronounced limp, I decided to get the advice of a knee specialist, the
famed Vernon Cooley (yes, the one who fixed up Tiger Woods). With an x-ray, a few movements, and lots of
kneecap manipulation – which also hurt a little, okay I cried – he gave me the
definitive diagnosis – Grade III Patellofemoral Chondrosis. There would be surgical intervention.
So, the questions began.
Before or after the holidays? In
Murray or in Park City? How much time
off work? How much will this cost? I opted for December 16 in Park City, which
was a great choice. Although far away
(especially with no hot coffee to drink on the way there – you know, ‘fast
after midnight, yada yada yada’, the hospital was gorgeous.
That’s really the lobby.
I promise. I felt like I was in a
beautiful mountain lodge. The staff was
wonderful, especially the first nurse I saw named Nicole (I’m pretty sure that
was her name. Maybe it was Natalie. Anyway . . .)
Dr. Cooley was wonderful (of course).
The recovery team was wonderful (I assume – I was asleep after all). Dave helped me into the car and got me home
safely.
(Did I imagine the middle-aged Asian man walking along the
side of the road through Parley’s Canyon wearing a trench coat, carrying
nothing, with no car in site? Did I
dream that I called 911 while we drove to report his mysterious
whereabouts? Perhaps.)
When we got home, Dave helped me into the house, at which
point I realized I was likely going to die from the horrific pain. After nearly throwing up, nearly passing out,
and (thanks to the shock setting in) hopping my way from the back door to the
bed, I proceeded to sleep for the next two days. At least I think I did. I vaguely remember something about taco soup
and Sarah telling me that Gabby was coming to give me plane lessons. Turns out my neighbor did indeed bring taco
soup (which I enjoyed again, a few times, after my drug-induced stupor ended),
but Gabby was not coming over – Dave was bring me pain medicine.
I had lots of sleep, lots of love from my two- and
four-legged family members (the dogs rarely left my side unless they were kicked out so I could sleep), visits from my mama, huge bandages, get-well cards,
calls, and texts, and a round-the-clock ice machine that chugged away non-stop for
the first three days.
By mid-day on day two, I felt well enough to hobble around a
bit, and actually moved out to the family room and did some online shopping for
Christmas. The plan had been to get
EVERYTHING-Christmas done before December 16 and I had mostly succeeded. However, I still needed to send a box with my
bestie’s gift to her house, and order the things I’d had my eye on for my three
cute nephews in San Diego. Turns out, the
only thing you should be ordering while in a semi-drug-induced stupor is food
and more medicine. Although I know my
BFF’s address by heart, I mailed her present to the wrong house (thankfully she
lives in a small town and the mailman got it to the right place). And I sent my nephews’ gifts to myself. What?
Yes. To myself. **Sigh**
I realized both of these mistakes about a week later and was able to
forewarn them. Shannon’s gift made it to
her before the holiday, and my nephews’ gifts made it to me. (I really need to send those to them!)
One day during my recovery, our power went out. We’d been warned. The power company estimated we would see an
interruption sometime between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. They were sort of right. We were without any electricity from 8:15
a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Some interruption! It was worth it because I got to play Star
Trek Monopoly by candlelight with Brian.
I got to take my bandages off after the first 72 hours and
have a shower. Man did that feel good! It’s the swelling – I promise. I’m not usually
this fat. At least, not since I started
becoming a runner.
Dr. Cooley was certain I would have a relatively easy
recovery. He estimated I would need
three days off work. Did he know that I’m
44? Three weeks later I’m finally back
at work full-time and feeling every single painful second of it. I took the first full week off
completely. The second week I managed
four hours a day. My pain meds held out,
in fact I didn’t use them all. I did
also have to take blood thinners because of my history of deep vein thrombosis
(that’s another post). The swelling took
a lot longer to dissipate than the doctor anticipated, so I was given a lovely
compression stocking which I was pretty good about wearing, except when I didn’t
want to. Then I didn’t.
I’m going to physical therapy two or three times a week
which usually results in slightly less limping for a few hours, and am pretty
good about keeping up with my exercises at home although, admittedly, not as
good as I should be. The physical
therapist is very optimistic. Of course,
I told him I originally hurt my knee running on the treadmill. It was actually during a class in the gym at
my office called Treadmill Intervals, which I had fallen in love with after the
first session. I’d hit a plateau with my
weight loss (that’s another post), and decided to mix it up a bit. It worked!
I was losing again, and loving finally being a runner. Well, finally becoming a runner. So, when I responded ‘to walk without a limp’
to the ‘What should our physical therapy goal be’ question, he balked. “No way!
Getting you back to your treadmill class will be our goal. You loved that class!” Does he know I’m 44?