See how much I'm learKNEEng!!!

Today I'm taking the time to sit on my deck, sip a little wine and perrier (the perfect summer drink) and reflect on the past month. I didn't learn how to ride a unicycle as I had hoped. I didn't get the opportunity to spend time with an "expert" learning a new and exciting skill as I have each and every month leading up to June. I have; however, learned a lot about myself this month (good and bad). I suppose that's really what this year is all about. I wanted to challenge myself - to push myself beyond my limits, and although I would never have chose "function on one leg whilst enduring the worst physical pain you've ever experienced" as a monthly goal, it was chosen for me. I can grow from this. I can learn from this, dammit!

Here's what I've learnt:

1) As an injured person, you are the #1 target for injury sharing


It seems as though once those crutches are spotted, you become a target. People are magnetically drawn to you. There becomes this imperative need to share their personal injury experience. To be honest, it is occasionally interesting and helpful to learn how people have coped with braces, casts, and crutches for an extended period of time and I am grateful for tips on how to function with day to day tasks. What gets me is the number of people who immediately create a competition entitled "whose injury is worse?" Recalling blood, guts and gore, these people want me to try (I dare you!) to one-up their horrid knee injury from 1982 (or whenever). I give. You win. Yours was worse. I do not have a screw sticking out my kneecap nor has my knee filled with radioactive pus. Yes, I am extremely lucky that I live in an age with orthoscopic surgery and was not sliced from hip to ankle by my orthopaedic surgeon. You win. Now please, leave me alone.

I also stumbled upon a forum for people living life after knee surgery. It's quite comical, to say the least.  There are specific forums for each and every knee surgery known to man. As I entered the "micro fracture surgery"discussion group, I was inundated with personal stories of recovery from the surgery. Keeping in mind that the majority of these people are off work, I wasn't surprised at the detail that was shared. I was; however, surprised to see the conflict and arguments that were occurring on this forum.

KneeNewb: "Hey guys, just had micro fracture surgery - what can I expect as far as recovery?"

KneeSurvivorman: "Welcome to the forum, KneeNewb. It's a gruelling recovery. Physio is long and painful. Don't expect to return to any of the approved activities/sports for about 6 months. Good luck!"

Speedyhealer 32: "KneeNewb, my recovery was quick! 2 weeks and I was jogging again. It's not a big deal at all!"

KneeSurvivorman: "Speedyhealer, identify yourself and the specifics of your surgery. All you are doing is creating false hope for our group!"

Speedyhealer32: "I had my meniscus repaired in '07 and have had no complications - ran a marathon 3 weeks post surgery."

KneeSurvivorman: "speedyhealer32, you're on the wrong forum. Get off immediately and go to "meniscus repair". You don't belong here. Get a brain!"

Suzykneecheese: "Ya, speedyhealer32, get off you big jerk!"

Ouch. Tough crowd.


2) Puppy dog eyes - Ugh!


It's the look that people get when they're observing a litter of puppies frolicking about. The lips get pouty and the eyes turn down. With puppies it means, "isn't that the sweetest thing ever?" With humans, that look can only mean one thing. Pity.

I'm not going to lie, I do not mind being the centre of attention (a fact that you should all know by now if you're following my blog). I'ver realized; however, that I much prefer the "look at that super cool chick!" attention versus, "look at that pathetic girl" attention. I'm over it!

Perhaps that puppy dog pity look is good for me. My initial reaction is to defend the injury, "It's really not that bad, you know. " "It could be way worse." "It's healing extremely well."  Stop picking on my damn knee! I don't want to pitied. I want to be admired. This is difficult, especially given that I've been throwing my own pity party from time to time (guest count: 1). No one wants to attend a pity party.

This experience has made me much more cognizant of my own reaction/response when dealing with the injured. I will definitely be more aware of the balance between compassion and motivation when I am working with my own patients who are facing adversity. I realized how well our rehab team at the hospital creates this balance when I returned to work this week. As each therapist stopped in my office to chat, they acknowledged how difficult it must be, than quickly began discussing how ripped my upper body was becoming and how happy they were to see my face back at work. It made me feel good. Yay rehab professionals! It's a tremendous skill that few possess.

3) Beyonce never sang about the "dependent woman"


I pride myself on being an independent woman. I earn enough to maintain the lifestyle I desire. I have the ability to walk into a room full of strangers and make friends quite quickly (unless I'm in Calgary - for some reason, I struggled there), and I feel secure and completely comfortable with who I am as a person. This has all been tested in the last month.

I HATE having to create lists for my husband (Don't forget to feed the dog and cat! - seriously, he needs me to write it down?). I HATE having to ask my mom to drive up from the lake to sit at my bedside because "I feel pukey." I HATE having to line up rides from friends and family so that I can return to work. I am incredibly grateful for all the assistance that has been provided - especially to my mom who has been unbelievably helpful. But it certainly changes the dynamic of your relationships. Up until now, Ev and I have been flourishing in our chosen roles as husband and wife - he works hard, I work hard, we meet up and play hard on a regular basis. It works for us. Suddenly I'm texting him to request that he can come home ASAP to bathe, dress and feed me. It's certainly not the norm for us and neither of us are happy with the new setup, but, thankfully, it's temporary. It causes me to reflect on all my stroke patients throughout the years who suddenly went from "husband" to "patient" in a matter of minutes. How difficult and humbling it must be navigate those new roles...especially for older men who have traditionally been the head of the household. I recall scoffing at a male patient who refused home care to aide with bathing. "But you need the help," I argued. What a stubborn man! Now, I completely understand. Not just anyone gets to bath me!

Pinterest Project #3: Bedazzle your knee brace - why not?

My fabulous sister, Kayla, and I decided to trick out my knee brace. Now covered in inspirational sayings and sparkly fish, turtle, and jewels, it has been transformed from fun inhibitor to PAAAAAARTY TIME!

suck on this, Pinterest

Wow. I don't know about you, but I'm inspired

Danger! Danger! 

rough water ahead!

This was super inspiring at 2am when I thought my knee was exploding

Thanks, Kayla! 

July was supposed to be "learn how to sail" month and I'm incredibly disappointed that this is no longer an option. Any ideas for a sedentary goal that I can accomplish? I'm tapped out of creative ideas!

Worst hockey girlfriend Ever. Ever.

Amber and Garry: making us feel good about ourselves since 2010

In my last post, I mentioned that I've been enjoying television programs about people who are sucking at life. You know, like poor Amber in "Teen Mom," that self-destructing heroin addict in "Intervention," or those pathetic chumps waiting nervously in a lineup for the last rose during the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever." Despite the uplifting daily messages in my positive affirmations jar, my spirit has been struggling occasionally and my will wavers between "I can do this" and "I can't possibly do this for 5 more weeks. " But...as I watch these poor saps on my tv, I am comforted by the fact that although this knee brace is sucking the fun out of me, I am NOT incarcerated for beating my baby daddy, I am NOT addicted to heroin, and I am NOT ugly sobbing when a complete stranger fails to give me the final rose. Yay! I am a winner. I am winning, really.

In honour of that revelation, I've decided to share a hockey story with you today.

I've been thinking a lot about Ryan this week. A year ago, he was happily in love with his girl, posting pics of his new wake surfing boat (Facebook album entitled, "This is it!"), and was unbelievably giddy and optimistic about life. He loved this time of year.

Ryan used to pop by our cabin as soon as we returned from our hockey adventures. He'd sip on a Corona, and, hanging on to every word, would devour my hockey stories. He particularly loved the one I will share with you today. Like it was yesterday, I recall him squealing with delight as I recalled the details. It's more of a jaw-dropper than a knee-slapping comedy and you will suspect some embellishments and exaggerations of details, but I'm giving this to you straight up. It's entitled: Worst Hockey Girlfriend Ever. Ever.

Our first hockey season as a married couple was spent in McAllen Texas. To this day, we refer to McAllen as "Texico," as the city sat right on the border between Texas and Mexico. Apparently, McAllen has been receiving some bad press as of late, due to the drug cartels dropping heads off at the border or something crazy like that, but we really enjoyed our season there in 2005-2006 - the weather was perfect, the people/fans were actually supportive, and Ev had a consistent, successful season with the Rio Grande Killer Bees.

Our first night in Texico was spent wandering around our condo complex, which reminded me of Melrose Place. It consisted of condos/townhouses all overlooking a common garden area. That garden area would become the location of many hockey parties, as the majority of the condos were reserved for the hockey team.

As we checked out the pool, we ran into a young couple who appeared to be newbies like us.

"Hey! Are you Evan Lindsay - the goalie?" asked the long-haired wild-eyed guy. He resembled a guitarist in a band, certainly not a hockey player.

We soon realized that this guy's name was Bobby - Ev's new teammate - a forward for the Killer Bees.

Bobby introduced us to his girlfriend, M, a young, skinny, funky looking girl with dark hair and dark eyes (thinking back, there was a little "crazy" in those eyes).

Prepared to share my tale of our relationship (to determine who was higher on the hockey wife food chain of course), I was shocked to hear that Bobby picked M. up on his way down from Michigan.

"You don't know each other?" I asked.

"Well, we've been in a car together for 4 days now," she giggled. "We met at a bar," she added, "He asked if I wanted to move down to Texas with him, and I'm all like, 'Why the hell not?' So I hopped in and here I am!"

Good Gawd. I would soon find out that M. would be the source of a very "Days of our Lives-esque" hockey season (which took some pressure off of me, given that I had a tendency to embarrass Ev during hockey games).

Incident #1: Beat up a Stripper...why not?


Every hockey season includes the dreaded "rookie party." The rookie party is some ridiculous reason for grown men to drink to the point of incapacitation and ridicule the newbies on the team by dressing them up like insert something incredibly stupid and embarrassing here. The rookie party is not optional.  It is a mandatory "team building" experience. Yes, read between my lines, I think it's bullshit. Whatever.

The wives were never made aware of what the rookie party entailed. We knew; however, that we were NOT invited. No biggie. We made our own plans to head out on the town and down some cocktails. Who wants to witness your husband looking/acting like a reject anyways.

Well M. couldn't quite make sense of this rookie party. She was insulted to the point of tears that SHE was restricted from following her dear Bobby to this party (she was also flabbergasted by the fact that SHE couldn't ride on the bus to games with Bobby). We attempted to reign her in, but to no avail. She was determined to crash the rookie party.

I, unfortunately/fortunately? did not witness the event, but, apparently, she located the team at the strip club, stormed in (despite being sent away by the bouncer), and punched out the stripper who dared dance in front of dear Bobby.

She was taken to jail where Bobby bailed her out 12 hours later (after he was done partying with the boys...and the black-eyed stripper, of course).

Yikes.

(Ryan's response: "No way, man. She beat up a stripper? No way. Bahahahah!")

Incident #2: Pee your pants...why not?


It was the night of the team's formal Christmas party, hosted by the owner of the Rio Grande Killer Bees. It was also the night before the team's last game prior to Christmas holidays (a whopping 2 days off!); therefore, it was expected that no members of the team would be having more than a few drinks and the night would end quite early.

Donned in a short, satin red dress, M. looked every part of the respectable hockey wife during the formal dinner and cocktail hour.

Of course, we all held our breath, waiting to see if she would be able to pull this evening off without punching someone in the face (oh, we had talked about the rookie party fiasco for weeks now).

M. lasted until about 9pm when she began frequenting the bar for shots of tequila. Have you ever seen someone do shots of tequila (the whole bit with the salt and lemon) alone? Oh dear. Shot after shot, this train wreck became sloppy drunk, slurring, "Where's Bobby? Bobby I hate you!"

Bobby had the sense to remove M. from the party immediately.

As we exited the formal hotel, we were shocked? (or perhaps not shocked) to find M. laying on the cement, in the parking lot, laughing hysterically in a puddle of her pee, kicking and slapping Bobby as he tried to remove her from the scene.

"What are you looking at?" she slurred as we stepped over her to get to our vehicle.

Yikes.

(Ryan's response: (squealing hysterically) - "What???? She actually peed herself?")

Incident #3: Time to go home. NOW.


At this point you are, perhaps, feeling sorry for M. Why was she so self-destructive? Perhaps she had an addiction, suffered from a mental illness,  or came from a poor childhood? I agree. She needed help. We all quietly tried to befriend M., encouraging her to refrain from the drink and the volatile fights with Bobby. But, to be honest, she was just really hard to...well...like. Even sober, she was always quite certain that someone was trying to steal away her precious Bobby - whom she fought and made up with on a daily basis. She refused to sit with us at hockey games and created clever signs that she proudly hoisted over her head:

"Bobby - score now, score later, baby!"

Bobby and M. also purchased a special needs puppy, "DJ Trigga,"...because every dysfunctional relationship needs a puppy with three legs. Duh. M. bragged that they were able to get 25% off the dog because only 3/4 legs worked properly. I'm not even lying.

Train wreck.

The final straw came towards the end of the hockey season when a night out went awry.

Ev and I were awakened from our slumber at 4am by the screams of a hysterical girl crying, "Rape! He raped me!"

Ryan's response: (serious now). "No. She did NOT."

Ev raced to the window to find M. wandering aimlessly in our Melrose Place garden, screaming these words - words that can damage the reputation of a hockey team within seconds.

As it turned out, Bobby broke up with M. that night. In a fit of fury, M. vowed to ruin him, staggering around the complex shouting those horrible words.

The next day, angry phone calls flooded the team GM'S office. The GM called in Bobby and explained that this woman had to be on the next plane out or Bobby would be released from the team.

By this time, Bobby and M. had made up, and were aghast that the team would dare tear true love apart.

The team generously purchased M.'s plane ticket back to Michigan and handed over her itinerary. Surprisingly?/ Not surprisingly? she did NOT get on that plane. She simply refused.

It was unbelievable. Ev and I watched from our balcony as they clung to each other, vowing to never leave the other. I honestly didn't think these things happened in real life. The drama!

Within days, the GM personally escorted M. to her plane, where she reluctantly left her precious Bobby behind so he could participate (drama-free) in play-offs.

Within the week, we heard grumblings that M. had flown a back to Texas and was residing in San Antonio, where Bobby could sneak away for conjugal visits. Isn't that romantic? Swoon. It's like Romeo and Juliet, but with the addition of strippers, pants-peeing, and rape allegations.

I often wonder what happened to that couple. Perhaps they are happily living in suburbia with 2.4 children and a white picket fence - and the 3-legged dog.

Ryan's response, "Where is she? Call her up! I gotta meet this girl.  Let's get her down here for the Aug long weekend - tell her to bring DJ Trigga!"

Everything would be better if Evan was a vampire

I didn't want to post about my knee today. Really, I didn't. I'm sure you're all very sick of hearing about this incredibly lame scab-growing experience (cartilage growing will not commence for another 5 weeks or so), and trust me, I'm extremely exasperated by it as well. I am entering the third week of recovery (which consists of sitting on my couch, knee elevated, watching TV, and scouring Pinterest like it's my job). I had every intention of posting a hilarious hockey wife tale this morning, but when I crutched (it's now a verb) into my living room at 10am to enjoy my daily, uplifting viewing of "Ellen," I found an ominous black screen on my television with the words, "No Signal." Although I patiently waited 1 hour and 30 minutes for Shaw to call me back with lifesaving tips,  the conversation that transpired challenged my will to refrain from poking out my eyes with a blunt object.

"Ma'am, is your receiver light on?" (English is most definitely not this man's first language)

"I dont' know. Like I said, my receiver is downstairs and I physically can't go down there."

"What is your receiver showing right now, ma'am?"

"I don't know. Like I said, my receiver is downstairs and I physically can't get down my stairs."

"Ma'am, can you please unplug your receiver."

"Like i said, my receiver is downstairs and I physically can't go down there," (voice getting shriller by the minute)

"Your receiver is NOT in the same room as your TV?"

"No."

"Sorry ma'am, we cannot help you."

Damnit.  I have no television for the day. It may not sound like a big deal to you, but it's kinda my...um...lifeline right now. I enjoy watching programs about people who are sucking at life. You know, like "Teen Mom" and "Intervention." In some sadistic way, it comforts me. I may be housebound but at least I'm not addicted to heroin. Yet.

That being said, motivation to write a hilarious hockey tale is now non-existent.

But, I am more than willing to discuss a few issues that have come up over the past few days. Issues 1 & 2 are angry and dark, but stay with me for Issues 3 & 4 which will make you chuckle.

Issue 1: I am in an abusive relationship with my crutches


My crutches are assholes. They smack me in the face, mock me as they crash to the floor, chafe my delicate armpits, and create calluses on the palms of my hands. I really do hate the way that they treat me, as well as everything they stand for; yet, I NEED them. And they know that. Those damn crutches have me right where they want me.

In a fit of fury yesterday (yes, I occasionally have a meltdown - typically when I'm alone and my windows are closed), I tossed the asshole crutches across the room where they arrogantly dented my floors while landing with a thud. We glared angrily at each other, fuming. It was a stand-off.

"Eff you, you stupid crutches."

"Haha! You'll have to pee eventually. How do you think you're going to get to the bathroom, hey? You NEED us."

So not only am I in an abusive relationship with my crutches, but I'm conversing with them as well. This is NOT good. Isn't there some help line I can call about this? Preferably with someone who speaks English.

my 4 wheeled walker: so lame, yet so functional!

Issue 2: This is NOT an F'in Vacation!


How many of you actually took the time to read your contracts before accepting your current job? I highly recommend it.

I've been using sick time to remain at home and recover from my surgery; however, I was made aware that my sick time is quickly depleting. "I'll just apply for short-term disability," I thought confidently.

Guess who DOESN'T have short-term disability? This girl (I know you can't see, but my thumb is angrily pointing toward my face right now).

So....as I gradually return to work, I have the fabulous option of taking time without pay or dipping into my hard-earned vacation bank. Awesome.

"Hey Kirstie, where did you go on vacation this year?"

"Oh you know. My living room. The one with the TV that doesn't work. Strolled around on my four-wheeled walker, checked out the sites of my hallway. Fabulous weather though - room temperature the entire time!"

If you are part of the Health Sciences Association of Saskatchewan, I highly recommend that you do not get sick. Or, if you really must, save up for that sick time before you decide to get sick. Plan ahead. Our union is comprised of health care workers such as Pharmacists, Physios, Respiratory Therapists, etc who typically work in hospitals and medical clinics, so it's not like we're exposed to anything that might actually make us sick. That's sarcasm. Rant over.

Issue 3: I wish Evan was a vampire


Against everything in me, everything I stand for, I succumbed to the vampires and began reading the Twilight series.

I don't exactly know why, but I fought that one like crazy. Two years ago, as everyone raved about the series and formed massive lines outside of movie theatres to see Bella and Edward on the big screen, I stubbornly fought the urge to join the masses in, from what I could see, was a cult-like epidemic.

I really do not like vampires. I have zero interest in them. They creep me out. They frighten me. I want nothing to do with them.

Yet, as I began to read about the love affair between the clumsy Bella and the irresistible Edward, I couldn't help but be drawn to the story. Every muscle in my body tensed as Edward carefully laid that first cold kiss on Bella's quivering lips.

I glanced over at Ev who lay reading in bed next to me.

"Ev," I whispered seductively (I lie. I have NO idea how to whisper seductively).

"uh huh"

"kiss me like a vampire."

"I have no idea what that means."

"Like cold and kinda like you want to drink my blood."

"um. No, I don't think so."

Damnit! Why can't Evan just be a vampire?  Life would be so interesting and dangerous.

key lime pie!

Issue 4: Pinterest Success #2!


For father's day this year, my fabulous sister, Kayla, and I decided to create a key lime pie and classically condition our dad. It's one of his favourites - the key lime pie, not the classical conditioning.

Kayla is currently enrolled in Psych 110 (I loooooved psych classes!) Her latest assignment was to use the principles of classical conditioning to create a conditioned response. Basically, if you pair a stimulus with an action (ring the bell then feed the dog), a conditioned response will arise simply by presenting the stimulus (ring bell, dog automatically salivates in anticipation of food).

We decided to try and condition our dad (Happy father's day!)

We gave dad the much anticipated key lime pie (it turned out pretty good too, thanks Pinterest!) As he was eating, Kayla would cough (stimulus) and I would immediately take his plate away...and then eventually return it.  It took 4 coughs before dad became extremely frustrated and conditioned to grasp his plate tightly as soon as he heard the sound of the cough. Genius. We managed to create a fantastic father's day meal for our dad, complete an assignment for Psych 110, and entertain ourselves immensely. Thankfully our easygoing dad is quite willing to participate in anything that contributes to our academic success and enjoyment!

Dad and his girls (and the key lime pie)

Positive Affirmation of the day, courtesy of my awesome 5 year old niece, reads:


"You can poop in the potty!"


Yes I can. Pooping in the potty is currently a big deal in their house as my little nephew stubbornly refuses to participate in such an act. Thankfully, this is not an issue for me, as long as my asshole crutches are nearby. 

Who wants to bathe me today? Anyone? Anyone?

Pinterest project #1: Positive Affirmations Jar


Yep, That's right. Once I pinned each and every alcoholic beverage recipe available (someday I WILL drink again and it will be awesome), I found this little craft on Pinterest. It's a jar full of positive affirmations. Every day, I remove one affirmation from the jar, repeat it to myself and, you know, feel better or whatever. We'll see. It can't hurt. Today's affirmation read: "You are successful." Why thank you, positive affirmations jar. I am quite successful, aren't I? I have a very good job, married a wonderful man, and successfully tore the shit out of my cartilage. Ooops, damn negative thought sneaks in from time to time.

I enlisted the help of my fabulous 5 year old niece (the one who does my makeup and then sends me out in public) to decorate the "Positive Affirmations Jar." She looked a bit suspect when I explained what we were doing.

"It's a jar full of nice words to make you feel better," I explained.

"So you read it to yourself then?"

"Yes. Every day, you pick one out, read it out loud, and you feel good about yourself."

No, I did not get beat up. That's my makeup, silly!

"So like you're kinda talking to yourself then Aunty Kirstie?"

Yep, she thinks Aunty Kirstie is a nut. But....she glittered away, sticking fabulous stickers that say, "Good job!" and "Yes!" to my jar. With the help of her mom, she then carefully wrote out personal "complements" just for me. Today's complement read, "You are a butterfly." Awesome! I'm not sure what it means (perhaps that I'm metamorphisizing and growing with each experience?) I do know that Nicole loves butterflies and if she thinks I'm a butterfly than that's pretty sweet. It makes my heart happy.

Who knew 3 words could make me feel so good?

We ended craft hour with another amazing makeover, in which she completely covered my eyes, forehead, and chin in glitter (each makeover is more intense than the last) and sent me on my way. I made her agree that someday, when she is preparing for a date, she will allow me to do her makeup. I can't wait! (evil laugh).

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. It's amazing just how much thinking one can do when one is stuck at home. I find myself obsessing about the few events in my day. Case in point:  the bathing process. The bathing process is not a simple jump in and out of the shower as it once was. It now consists of forethought, planning, endurance, and a very important "helper" to get me in and out of the shower (I'm quite particular about who is eligible to be a "helper"). So I sit and think about it...plan it...scheme my next bathing experience. I let my "helpers" know days in advance that I have high expectations of my upcoming bathing process (i.e. "Ev..tomorrow I would like a shower at about 4:00 and then another one on Thursday at about 11am please.") I plan which shampoo I will use (extra conditioning on Friday) and which shower gel will make my bathing experience that much more complete (Yes, it will be quite lovely to smell of satsuma on Tuesday). I am obsessing about my bathing process.

My other obsession is my recovery time. Dr. M explained that I will be donning this hideous brace that prevents any bend larger than a 15 degree angle for 6-8 weeks. So which is it? Is it 6 weeks? Or is it 8 weeks? Because, dammit, this time frame is extremely important right now. If it's 6 weeks, I only have 4 weeks to go. That's approximately 1 month. That seems...well...doable. 8 weeks, on the other hand puts me out of this ridiculous brace at the end of July. That seems a little more daunting. I'm quite certain that I am an exceptional cartilage grower. For fun, I've been sending friends text messages that read, "Kepow!" (that's the sound of my cartilage growing) "Kepow! just growing cartilage, you?" (funny enough, my friends have stopped responding to these texts and some are mysteriously changing their numbers).

So how will Dr. M decide if I'm a 6 weeker or an 8 weeker? I am well aware that there is no X-ray or MRI that will determine if the cartilage growing is successful. So how will he make that decision? Will there be a test? Is there a passing score? Will he somehow score my willingness and determination to heal? Will he smell my satsuma shower gel and realize that through adversity, I'm continuing to practice fabulous  hygiene - "That's 5 extra points!" Kepow! Kepow! Listen to the explosion of growing cartilage!

I have a feeling; however, that there is no test. Never one to sit back and let life happen to me, I've composed a letter to Dr. M. This is a "cover letter" of sorts, persuading him to consider me for the 6 week group. I'm quite certain that he will be very impressed.

Dear Dr. M,


I am respectfully requesting your consideration of me for your "6 week healing group," (as opposed to your 8 week healing group). I feel that I have the skills and qualifications necessary to succeed as a 6 week healer of the micro fracture surgery.


Dr. M, I have always been a perfectionist, an overachiever - always striving to go above and beyond the expectations of others. For example, we were asked to create a scrapbook outlining all the information about a particular state in the sixth grade. I did Texas. We were required to outline 6 areas about the state. I did 10. No big deal; but yet, it was.


In addition, I have a history of rapid, safe healing. When I was 10 I had a bloody nose and it was resolved within minutes. I broke a bone in my foot during the "bowling incident" of 1992. I brushed it off, and continued on to become the 2nd best bowler in Canada (It's kind of a tragic story which I will someday share on my blog) Yes, sir, I am a healer. A determined, rapid healer.


Finally, I am currently exuding positivity. I am fully aware of the power of positive thinking and am quite certain that the statements I am repeating from my "Positive Affirmations Jar" are invaluable to the growth of my cartilage. 


Dr. M, although I am lovingly em"bracing" the brace (with a sense of humour, never mind), I respectfully request that you recommend the removal of the device at the 6 week mark. I feel that my determination, history of rapid healing, and ability to go above and beyond what is expected of me makes me an excellent candidate as a "6-week healer."


Yours truly,
Kirstie


References available on request

Update: Just found out that I won't actually start growing cartilage for another 6 weeks. I am currently growing a scab. Ewwwww. I'm quite certain that doesn't make a "kepow!" sound. It probably sounds more like, "ssssssssssssss-eeeeeeeeeeee-sssssssssss" or something? Whatever, I'm really good at growing scabs you know. 

June Goal: Grow cartilage whilst refraining from poking my eyes out with a blunt object

Is that a goal? I dunno.

I wrote this post in two parts, at two completely different times during the day, reflecting two completely different moods/psychological states.  Living with me is currently like living with the 7 Dwarfs - No, NOT Snow White, but her moody little friends. You just never know what dwarf is present (grumpy? happy? suicidal - wait, is that a dwarf?)

The first half was written in the morning when I was feeling quite sorry for myself; whereas the second half was written at the end of the day after a few fabulous friends stopped by, which certainly succeeded in lifting my mood. Hold on tight...you're in for a wild ride - welcome to life with multiple personality Kirstie post surgery!

Part 1: Depressed Kirstie (11am - pre-visit from friends)

I'm feeling a little lost right now and could probably use some advice/guidance/wine/antidepressants.

grow, cartilage, grow damnit!

I attended my follow-up appointment with Orthopedic Surgeon, Dr. M. It was...um...sobering. First off, he reiterated the seriousness of my injury and stressed the importance of the next 6-8 weeks in terms of my recovery. He performed micro fracture surgery. He essentially broke my bone in 3 places (yes, I will never forget that sound) in order to promote the natural healing process which involves the production of new cartilage. Currently, there are only shreds of...well...crap that lies between my knee bones. In the next 6-8 weeks the goal is to produce new cartilage that will act as a cushion between these bones. Although this new cartilage will never be as durable as hard cartilage should be, it is, at least, something. So I have one shot for this to work. It is so important that in the next 2 months I do not do ANYTHING to jeopardize this cartilage growth. No bumbing, no weightbearing, no bending. No pressure. Yikes. I tried to convince Dr. M that I probably only require 4-6 weeks as I am an exceptional healer. I am in fantastic shape, I've always been an overachiever and I'm quite certain that I'm totally advanced as far as cartilage growing is concerned. No go.

The other bit of sobering news was the talk about "my future." Somberly, Dr. M began to list activities/sports that I will not likely be able to participate in, even after my 6 months of rehabilitation are complete. As he listed off running, golf, tennis, basketball, and raquetball, I sighed with relief. Wakesurfing and scuba diving did not appear to be on the list. Hallelujah! It's difficult, at age 33, to hear that there are now limits on what I am physically able to do. I hate running; however, tell me that I will never run again and suddenly I ache to enter the Boston marathon. And although I've never excelled at tennis, I suddenly have an urge to don one of the those cute little skirts on the tennis court. Damn limitations.

So now I'm stuck at home for the next 6-8 weeks, completely dependent on others to bathe me, feed me, and take me places. I'm trying to think positively, but I find my positive thoughts quickly bending into negative thoughts ("I get to spend some time at my "happy place," Candle Lake. But I have to watch everyone do the things that I can't do and my tan lines from my brace are going to be horrendous..and my knee f'n hurts!!!"). I also made the mistake of googling micro fracture surgery. I've found quite a few athletes, especially NBA basketball players, who have endured the same procedure. I also found the phrase "career suicide for athletes" amongst those articles. There goes my Olympic dreams, damnit.

 Boo, Kirstie, Boo. Can someone get me a waaaaaaamburger and french cries? Call me a waaaaaaambulance?

Colleen, my Spanish instructor extraordinaire, recently endured a long recovery from knee surgery as well. She offered me fantastic advice, "You are allowed to wallow in your self pity for a little bit - it's shitty....but it's just about time to pick yourself up and carry on."

She's right. So, I will focus on growing this cartilage like it's my job whilst keeping positive thoughts in the forefront of my brain.

Part 2: Happy Kirstie post visit with fabulous friends (10pm)

I had three separate visits from three fantastic friends today that totally succeeded in lifting my mood. Lawyer's husband brought me a Nanaimo bar (because if I was living in Nanaimo, I'm quite certain that my cartilage would NOT have torn because bad things NEVER happen in Nanaimo. Evan actually argues that because Nanaimo isn't flat like the prairies, as long as I only walked in one direction, I could alleviate pressure off the bad knee). My sister Kayla helped feed me supper (the sister whose volleyball career I almost ruined through the longboarding incident of 2011). And Lisa Wallin, my fabulous physio, stopped by with a brilliant suggestion for my June goal. My planned June goal, "learn how to unicycle," (Holowaty would have been so proud) is obviously out.

Lisa Wallin suggested Pinterest as part of my goal for the month of June. Initially, I scoffed at the idea. I see pinterest shit all over facebook - check out this recipe, hairstyle, this great crafty craft craft. Ugh. It so has never appealed to me. I'm not a crafty person. I don't scrapbook. I don't restore antique furniture for fun. It just doesn't look like something I'm interested in.

Best Idea Ever?

But then I poured myself a wee bit of wine (my first since the surgery) and began to browse. My first impression was: Did all these people tear their cartilage because man, how do they have so much time on their hands? Soon; however, I was completely lost in the "craft and DIY" section.....

oooooh.....you can make a glass out of a Corona bottle? Are you kidding me? How? Tell me! Tell me!

aaaahhhhh....you can turn wine labels into fabulous candle decorators? Well, who doesn't love a wine label?

oooooo.....exfoliate your lips with a homemade concoction of sugar and lemon? Well that sounds nice....

SOLD! I'm ready to pinterest my month away!

I hope this still sounds like a good idea in the morning.

Ev accidentally tried to kill me...but it's all good

(F-bomb! F-bomb! F-bomb!) This has been one of the most (f-bomb) challenging weeks of my (f-bomb!) life. Wow. Once my happy freezing wore off and “witty Kirstie” from the OR faded (I was still hilarious in recovery, by the way, giggling uncontrollably as the tingling of the spinal wore off, “my bum! My bum!”), I was faced with some of the most intense pain and discomfort that I have ever experienced. My previous “lady part” surgeries were always accompanied by pain; however, I’ve never experienced such constant, sharp pain that even the most potent painkillers were unable to suppress. I recall looking at the clock 1 hour after I had taken Dilaudid and immediately began counting the hours until I would be able to take another. The pain scared me. Although I’m fully aware that it could have been worse and it is much worse for some (I DO work in a hospital),  I have to admit, on a scale of 1 to BAD, this, for me, has been BAD.

My mom has been a superstar. She stayed with me for the first 3 days and spent countless hours wiping the tears from my face, holding my hair back while I puked, brushing my teeth, helping me to the bathroom, and preparing and delivering anything and everything that might even remotely make me feel better. Thank you, mom! Ev tried too. He did. But he’s not mom. Poor Ev was working 14 hour days between the business and the firehall and stopping by our home whenever he could to help out in any way possible. Unfortunately, at one point, I was afraid that Ev was accidentally trying to kill me. I don’t think it was intentional. I just think that he was overwhelmed, exhausted, and in the process, accidentally tried to kill me. No biggie. Perhaps he was returning the favor – I accidentally tried to kill him when he was recovering from surgery in 2005.

We were living in Texas and Ev was playing for the Rio Grande Killer Bees. Ev was diagnosed with a hernia just prior to play-offs. It protruded out of his groin area and freaked out his teammates in the showers. But Ev had never played better. The hernia seemed to drive him – perhaps it kept his “busy” mind off of the pressures that were upon him as play-offs loomed. The team Doctor examined him, diagnosed him, prescribed some pain meds, and encouraged him to carry on as best as possible until the season was over. So, night after night, Ev made the big saves, pushed in the protruding hernia, and carried on like a champ. That’s my boy!

Once the season came to an abrupt halt in double overtime of game 7 of the first series (I wasn’t freaking out at all!), the team doc encouraged Ev to come in for surgery ASAP. Once Ev agreed, he was booked for surgery within days.

I could not believe my eyes as a doorman (yes, a doorman!) opened the doors to one of the most beautiful hospitals I have ever seen! This is what kick-ass insurance buys you! – nice. This hospital was an architectural dream – water features lined the walls and the serene waterfalls splashed into pools, filling the hospital with calming sights and sounds.

“Mr. Lindsay?”

Ev was greeted at the desk by an angelic looking woman who immediately placed a bracelet around Ev’s wrists.

“Come with me. Your surgery will be within the hour.”

Wha? Are you kidding? No hours and hours of sweating, freaking out, and nervously preparing for slaughter?

“Mrs. Lindsay, here’s a beeper. You go ahead and do some shopping and we will page you when your husband’s surgery is over.”

Wow. Now THIS was surgery. Can I get a whoot whoot!

After a few hours of shopping, my pager went off, indicating that Ev’s hernia was (hopefully) no longer protruding out of his groin like a second belly button.

As I entered Ev’s “recovery room” (a private room with flat-screen TV and lazy boy recliner), Ev began to stir from his anesthetic.

He pathetically put his arms out in front of him, inviting a hug from his precious wife.

“Aw....poor Ev.”

I slung my 90 pound Coach purse over my shoulder and leaned over his bed to give him a hug.

As I did so, the 90 pound Coach purse slipped off my shoulder and landed straight on his....groin. With a thud. The very site of his newly acquired stitches.

exhibit A: killer Coach

“Aaaaggggghhhhh!”

Shit. Ev’s personal nurse came bolting in the room, glaring angrily at me.

“Are you trying to kill him?” she scolded.

“Um. No. I’m sorry?” I meekly uttered.

Reluctantly, she eventually sent him home with me that day. I felt like the worst wife ever. Ev has made certain that I don’t forget that story – it seems to be a fan favorite at dinner parties, campfires, etc.

So, to be honest, I wasn’t really surprised or shocked when Ev accidentally tried to kill me just a few days ago, as I recover my surgery.

I had entered my 6^th straight hour of barfarama. For some reason, I consistently turn green, get the shakes, and go on a pukefest 3-4 days after each and every surgery that I endure. I’m not sure if it’s a combo of pain, meds, and/or anesthetic, but it never fails, just when I begin to feel as though the worst is over, the barfing begins.

Mom held my bucket and wiped a cool cloth on my head as I struggled to ralph without jolting my knee in any way (keep in mind, the knee is held straight out in front of me in a giant brace at all times – and for the next 6-8 weeks). Finally, as the nausea subsided, I began to think about attempting to digest some food.

Ev returned home that afternoon to find me in this horrid state and asked if there was anything he could get for me.

“Applesauce,” I mumbled.

Ev ran to the kitchen and promptly brought me a bowl of applesauce.

I painfully pulled myself up to a sitting position and eagerly brought the spoon of applesauce to my lips. I envisioned the cool, refreshing applesauce sliding effortlessly down my esophagus, warming my stomach and immediately terminating the nausea.  I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours. This was going to be good.

As the cold applesauce entered my mouth, a horrible sour, fermented, barf-like taste overtook my senses.

“AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!” I shrieked as I spit out the horrid applesauce into my hands.

Panicking, Ev took away the bowl and handed me a towel.

“What’s wrong, Kirst?”

“It’s bad. The applesauce is bad. It’s fermented. What’s the date on this?” I simultaneously sobbed and dry-heaved as I noticed the mold growing on the edges of the applesauce with the March 2012 expiry date.

Exhibit B: moldy applesauce

“Are you trying to kill me?” I asked.

And then I recalled the hernia. Yep, he was.

Of course, Ev felt utterly horrible about what had happened. It was a complete accident – just as the 90 pound coach purse slamming into his fresh wound had been nearly 7 years ago.

So now we’re even.