Saying goodbye to the crutches - Kirstie style

Despite my anger/annoyance/disappointment with the Ortho appointment last week, I eventually sobered up ceased Shark Week celebration and went to work, pushing myself with my physio exercises. 

While most people have one Physio whom they see for therapy, I have several Physios. I have a fricken team, people. Working in the Therapies department certainly has its perks. Our staff consists of motivated, passionate, Type-A personalities - the brightest of the bright - all eager to assist with my rehabilitation. Sue was gentle and encouraging when I was disgruntled by the swelling that erupted after bending my knee for the first time in 8 weeks. Kelly provided me with the latest research on micro fracture surgery (there's hope for me!). Lisa created "Fun Geriatric Aquasize" for me to incorporate my exercises into my vacation and celebration of shark week at the lake (well, she didn't actually condone aquasize and drinking). John set me up on the TRX Suspension training - using bands/rings to improve my squats and lunges (love that thing). Steve provided ultrasound and kick-ass inspirational U-tube vids (check out Darryl Rose return to NBA after his knee injury - any video becomes inspirational with Eminem rapping in the background!) Even our Medical Office Assistants cheer me on a daily basis, "Show us your sexy walk, Kirstie!" (Thanks Deb and Linda!) I am surrounded by supportive, interested co-workers. I'm willing to bet that most work places would care less about an injured co-worker. How lucky am I?!

As I water-walked 1km a day, squatted like it's nobody's business (man I hope my ass makes a comeback), and iced and elevated my knee regularly, all I could picture was Dr. M's face and those dreaded words, "I guess you're not exceptional." Perhaps Dr. M knows exactly what he's doing because it is those words that motivated me to work harder. I'm not there yet. I have a long way to go, but I finally felt strong and confident enough to return to one of my favourite activities this week (after receiving permission from the Dr and Physio, of course).  I decided to pair my favourite activity with a sayonara ceremony for the asshole crutches. It felt good. Man, it felt sooooo good (and just before the lake freezes over!) I'm on my way.

Assholes! (that's my badass angry face)

uh oh. The crutch is gonna get it. 

i own you.

Take that you stupid crutch. 

Biloxi, the cat, takes on a fox - gangsta' style

My name is Biloxi. I know Kirstie has written about me before her in blog. Don’t believe everything you read – she embellishes. A lot. But Evan seems to love her so I choose to tolerate her.

I cannot be contained.

I grew up on the streets of Biloxi, Mississippi. My mama was a 'nip addict. I was a catnip kitten. Times were tough. My life changed forever on that day in January when my soulmate, my idol, Evan Lindsay, walked through the door of the pet store and selected me to be his life buddy – after I crapped in his hand (I was so nervous).

As Ev’s life buddy, I sacrificed my dreams of starring in a Disney movie to follow him around the world in support of his hockey career. We moved quite a bit.  I love that dude, but man, he got traded a lot. I blame Kirstie.

Although I lived in 8 states and 4 countries (including Scotland and England), I never actually went “outside.” That’s when I became known as “bubble boy.”  Kirstie and Evan doted on me, yet attempted to shelter me from the dangers of the outside world. Although I was issued a European union passport, the only memories of Europe I have are from the inside of hotels, apartments, and the dogdamn cat carrier. I didn’t enjoy being “bubbleboy,” but to be honest, it kept me off the streets, off the catnip, and enabled me to have some killer pre-game naps with my life buddy, Ev. Did I mention that I love that dude? There was the London Heathrow “quarantine issue” of 2003, but I don’t particularly like discussing that one. Despite whispers of catnip baggies under my tail, the officials concluded that the quarantine was a result of a failed deworming pill administration. Let’s stick with that story.

This was attached to my "carrier" - great idea, Kirst, like this didn't make the custom's officials want to beat me up...

This is how I saw Europe - awesome trip, guys

Once Ev retired from hockey, we settled down as a fam in Saskatchewan. Things were pretty great until they brought home a dog. A dog?!!! The only dog I kicked it with was the Snoop D O double G.  They called this white fluffball dog “Dundee.” I renamed him “Dumbdee.” This goofball strutted into MY house with his cute little black nose and floppy dumbass ears thinking that he ran MY show. What a dork. Anyways, although Dumbdee needs to be put in his place from time to time, he has grown on me, he occasionally cleans out my litter box (If he's purebred, I'd like to see what a street dog is like!), and he is a part of our family now. Just as Ev and Kirst have done for me, I now feel the need to protect him from the evils of the outside world. He is just a kid, after all. 

Please eat me. I taste sooo good. 

That’s why I knew that I had to take care of Sly. Sly’s the leader of the Fox Gang here at Candle Lake. I noticed that Sly’s been keepin’ an eye on Dumbdee – salivating over him through the patio window in the early mornings – mouth watering as he surely pictured Dumbdee as a marshmallow roasting over a fire. Dumbdee didn’t make matters any better – tilting his huge white fuzzy head with that dorky expressionless face of his. It was only a matter of time before Sly and his gang took Dumbdee down. Something had to be done.

On Saturday morning, while Evan slaved at work and Kirstie left to spend his hard-earned money (she just doesn’t appreciate him like I do), I decided to sneak out and teach Sly a lesson. And boy, did he learn a lesson.

Sly was injured from a bar fight the night before but that didn't stop him from movin' on my crib. 

Check out the vid. Needless to say, we don’t need to worry about Sly returning to the Lindsay residence anytime soon. Just try to contain Bubbleboy. 

Best Shark Week Ever.

I saw my Orthopedic Surgeon last week for a follow-up appointment. He's a unique individual, to say the least. He speaks in code. Not like Orthopedic Doctor code, but some strange code of riddles that I can never quite decipher. Case in point, immediately after my surgery, I asked my him if I could drive. 

"Do you have children?" he responded.

"No," I answered, hoping that would sway him towards allowing me to drive whilst donning a brace from hip to ankle.

"Do you like children?" he continued.

"um....most children," I countered, now extremely confused.

"Well if you drove right now, you would probably just hit and kill all the children in the streets."

"So are you saying that  I CAN'T drive then?"

Wow. A simple "no" would have sufficed.

Nevertheless, as you all know, I have made it my life mission to impress this man with my miraculous healing and rehabilitation abilities (recall the persuasive letter I wrote to him?) My goal was to become the fastest healing, most motivated post micro fracture surgery patient he had ever encountered. As soon as I entered his office, leaning slightly on that one damn crutch, it became apparent that he was just not all that impressed.

"Why do you still have a crutch?" he inquired.

"Because by the end of the day, my knee starts to buckle and I walk like a 16 year old who just consumed their first 2 litre Rockaberry Cooler." I responded (Do you remember the Rockaberry Cooler? That drink was unreal - until you woke up with the worst headache ever.)

My surgeon did not even break a smile. 

"I'm frustrated by the speed at which I am progressing," I explained. "The pain is interfering with my ability to push myself in physio."

"You're progressing like the average person would after this type of surgery. You're going to have pain. You might always have pain. Just push yourself harder." he responded slightly sympathetically, yet...not really.

"I was hoping that I wouldn't be your "average" patient. I was striving to be "exceptional." I explained stubbornly.

"Well, I guess you're just not exceptional," he snickered.

WTF?

With those four very harsh, hurtful words, I made an executive decision to take a few days off of work, head to the lake, and go on a two day bender celebrate shark week. 

So that's what I did. 

Boy did I ever celebrate shark week. I celebrated Bull sharks, Tiger Sharks, Great Whites. I even celebrated the lesser known Shortfin Mako shark of Argentina. I celebrated sharks with wine. I celebrated sharks with margaritas. I celebrated sharks with the best group of friends I could find. 

With each celebratory drink, the pain dissipated, and "fun" Kirstie shone through (yes, I am much more fun with a little alcohol. Don't judge me). It was the best shark week of my life. I sang, I laughed, I danced (quite poorly on one leg, I realized once I saw video footage). And you know what, I was exceptional.

I love sharks, but ouch, my knee hurts

We love sharks...the pain is going away

Thathey loves sharks too...what pain?

Sharks are my favorite! I had knee surgery?

Best shark week ever. Such an exceptional group!

The time Evan taped me to the couch

Don't lie. You're wondering if this post is kinky, aren't you? Against everything in me, everything I stand for, I'm reading the "Fifty Shades of Grey" series. I know, I know. First Twilight, then Fifty Shades? I'm disappointed in myself too. With each page turn, I grow angrier and angrier with this story. Christien Grey possesses every quality that I loathe in a man. He's possessive, whiny, and controlling (much like my asshole crutches). I cringe each and every time a sex scene begins (always with Ana "moaning" as he tears open the "foil packet"), and I cannot stand the redundant "erotic scenes" -  i.e "I moaned loudly as he touched my sex." First, does he really have to touch her "sex" 4 times in each chapter? Second, what the h is her "sex"? Are those her lady parts? Seriously? Perhaps I will contact my physician and see if I can make an appointment for an examination of my "sex." Ugh! Yet, here I am a third of the way through book 3 and discussing it on my blog. E L James is obviously doing something right (and likely is a hornball).

My rehab is going well - the knee seems to be progressing, and my Physio is impressed with my "moves" (I can do 1/16 of a squat!). I anticipate the crutches will be dust within the next few weeks. On the other hand, I've also gained a whole new appreciation for those peops addicted to painkillers. With a dull constant pain shooting down my shin and into my foot, I've been popping extra strength Tylenol every 4 hours for the past two weeks. It doesn't seem to be working so I'm thinking of switching to Oxycontin. Just jokes. I watch Intervention. I know what will happen. Next think you know I'll be prostituting myself out of a 7-11 restroom and living under the bridge. When they interview me, I'll say, "It all started with a bad knee." Shit. I'll stick with the Tylenol...and perhaps mix it with some wine :)

Once a "summer partier" (one who gains stamina and endurance to party early into the wee hours particularly during the summer season), the pain has forced me to succumb to "winter Kirstie," falling asleep on my couch at the lake whilst watching "Say Yes to the Dress" on Friday night. Falling asleep on the couch is something I've done my whole life. I come by it honestly. My sister falls asleep on the couch. My dad falls asleep on the couch. My Gido (Ukrainian Grandpa) falls asleep on the couch. It's in the Tycholiz gene. It's who we are. Although annoying to others around us, we've all discussed the quality of sleep we receive while snoring away as the TV blasts loudly in the background. We all agree. Despite what the experts say, some of the best sleeps of our lives have been on that couch, TV blaring in the background.

Exhibit A: My dad

Screw the couch!

Nope, the couch doesn't actually have to be in a house

Exhibit B: Me & Biloxi, the cat (who promotes my bad habit)

shhhhh....can't you see we're busy!

just checkin' my eyelids for cracks. Don't worry about it. 

I didn't realize how much this habit annoyed Evan until our first year living together. One afternoon, Ev sat down with me and explained how aggravating this was. Not wanting to leave me on the couch, he would attempt to wake me and waking a Tycholi (I enjoy pluralizing my maiden name) is dangerous business, my friends. You see, like my sister, dad, and Gido, I awake from the couch in a belligerent, confrontational state.

Finding me asleep, neck creaked to the left, leg falling off of couch, night after night, Ev would gently nudge me awake.

"Kirst, it's midnight. Come to bed."

"What? I'm watching TV. Gawd!!!! I'm watching something really important!"

"...ya, an infomercial for phone escorts" (OMG, do you remember that commercial from the '90's? The one with the skanky chicks whining, "Pick up the phone" I'm attaching it here because it's way too funny!)

Although I'm usually fully aware that I have fallen asleep on the couch, and I completely understand that it is in my best interest to go to bed, upon being awakened, I become embarrassed and then feel the need to vehemently deny this act has occurred. I've done this my whole life. Sometimes I even convince myself...until I have no recollection of watching skanky escorts on TV for 3 hours. Oops.

Whoa. This bad habit did not fly with Ev. It drove him nuts that I couldn't just go to bed with him like a normal person, yet he adamantly refused to tolerate my agitation upon awakening. So one day, he created a plan...

One night, as I slept soundly on the couch, Victoria Principle's infomercial blaring from the TV, Ev crept downstairs and carried out his plan. He hockey taped me to the couch. For real. The tape wasn't actually touching my skin. He simply wound it over me, across the couch - like a spider's web - to create a barrier. Two hours later I woke up and attempted to climb off the couch in the dark. Horrified, I realized that I was trapped to the couch. I wasn't able to even sit up. Confused and unable to comprehend why this was happening, I began to cry. Yep, I cried. Ev heard the commotion and came downstairs to remove the hockey tape trap. Upon seeing how upset I was, Ev stopped chuckling and realized that his little prank didn't quite have the desired effect.

"I can't believe you taped me to the couch!" I yelled angrily and stomped up to bed.

The next day, I began calling my friends to tell them what a jerk my boyfriend was. As I relayed the tale to each and every friend, I was met with the same response. Uncontrollable laughter. My friends thought this was hilarious. Really? Hmmm....come to think of it, frick it must have looked pretty funny - Ev winding that hockey tape around and around like spiderman and my overreaction of tears and anger. Once the anger dissipated, I had to agree that it was quite clever. Thank goodness Ev eventually became a shift-worker. I now fully take advantage of those night shifts and sleep peacefully without the fear of being taped to the couch.

The Hockey Wife Food Chain

Wow! It's been a busy week! First, I've begun on the cool "Ryan" project and I hope to have input from all of his friends so that I can complete it by the end of the month.

Secondly, the horrid brace is officially off of my leg! Can I get a whoot whoot?! I contemplated burning it in some type of "cleansing ceremony" or perhaps drifting it to sea like a fallen sailor. I couldn't do it. As I stared at those happy tropical fish and the encouraging, "Good Job!" stickers, and smelled the blood, sweat, tears, and tequila, I realized that it's officially a keepsake. We didn't have "good times" together per se, but we certainly did have "times." I will have it vacuum sealed and placed in a box with my wedding dress. Well, no, I won't actually...but I am keeping it. The crutches, on the other hand, are still a big part of my life, damnit! I am ready to violently destroy those assholes once I have clearance from my Physio.

threatening the brace...just jokes. We have an understanding.

Thirdly, I was approached by a fantastic writer and blogger by the name of Amy Vansant. Her blog www.kidfreeliving.com contains a special series called, "Be More Interesting." Guess what? She thought I was interesting and interviewed me! So awesome... check out her fantastic blog (it always makes me laugh) and the interview here.

Finally, I am still meditating like Julia Roberts in "Eat, Pray, Love." (I admit it, that movie bored the h out of me -  I totally fell asleep during "Pray," and only awoke for the "love" segment). I'm up to 10 minutes per day! I'm also responding to deep, mind-blowing questions from my Master on a daily basis. I'm still stuck on one very important question, "Who are you?" It continues to stump me.

My problem is that for many years I defined myself by a category, a role and/or the people that I hung out with. "I am a school athlete." "I am a Speech Pathologist," or for many years, "I am a hockey girlfriend."

Thank goodness I now have the maturity and insight to realize that although my friends and family have shaped the person I am today, I most certainly am much more complex than just one that fits neatly under a category.

This reminded me of another hockey tale that I promised I would share with you. This story is an explanation of the hockey wife food chain that I perceived when I found myself defined as "hockey girlfriend." It's entitled: The Hockey Wife Food Chain.

In nature, the food chain is a quite predictable linear sequence of links where large vicious animal (i.e. tiger) eats docile animal (i.e. zebra). It’s brutal but it’s nature, and it’s survival of the fittest.

The hockey wife food chain is also quite predictable and sequential; however, it takes a bit of time to navigate when you first enter the jungles of hockey life. Although every hockey team provided a different experience (some teams much “friendlier” than others), and, overall, my experiences were positive, a hierarchy certainly exists and must be learned.

My first exposure to the hockey wife food chain occurred at the ripe old age of 16. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this early experience would shape the rest of my “career” as “hockey wife.”

The Prince Albert Raiders of the WHL were given complementary tickets to each hockey game. How they decided to use these tickets was up to them. Generally, if you were attempting to impress a girl or perhaps get past first base, it was wise to pass along a comp ticket.

The comp seats were predictably in section 11, directly behind the Raider goalie during the first and third period. During each and every hockey game, if you looked up at section 11, you would see, at a glance, who was currently "with" a Raider. 

Occasionally, a girl would be spotted in section 11 one week, only to be demoted to a paid seat a week later – indicative of a break-up.  I’m not going to lie, that happened to me on a few occasions.

Once I started dating Evan Lindsay; however, I was flung into section 11 and remained there for four years. I watched girls weave in and out of section 11 as new relationships started and old relationships ended (occasionally limited to several days). I became a fixture in section 11, perhaps resulting in a wee bit of cockiness on my part.  Stable relationship for 3+ years with one Raider had sprung me to the top of the hockey girlfriend food chain in the WHL.

What I didn’t realize was that as Evan entered the world of professional hockey, I would drop to the bottom of the big girl hockey wife food chain.

My very first professional hockey game experience was in Tallahassee, Florida. Evan had signed with the Montreal Canadiens of the NHL and was sent to their affiliate in Florida to “gain experience” (AKA: "we have no faith in your ability and have nowhere else to send you").

I soon realized that on every team, there is at least one hockey wife who takes pity on the visiting girlfriend and offers to drive her to the game and introduce her to the other women. Thank gawd for that one compassionate wife. As I took my seat next to the other hockey girls, it became apparent that I was much too low on the hockey food chain to be acknowledged by many of the women. Dressed to the nines in namebrands I had only heard of (Gucci, Louis Vutton), I felt quite out of place in my gap sweater and Aldo boots. A series of questions would establish my rank in the food chain:

“How long have you been together?”

“4 years.”

“Are you going to move to be with him?”

“No. I’m in University right now.”

“Oh….” (knowing glances…wha? Has Ev already replaced me?)

Occasionally, some advice would be offered by the much more experienced women who had managed to “land” their hockey player for life,

“You need to get a ring.”

The ladies' attention would soon divert to another section where the “groupies” sat (AKA: women who sleep with players, yet have no formal relationship status).

“Oh gawd, she needs to give up. He’s just using her.”

Phew. At least “visiting hockey girlfriend with no ring” trumped “groupie.”

As I sat with the ladies, desperately trying to hide my spastic reaction to shots on goal, I soon realized that even within this group, there was a very distinct hierarchy. The wife holding the baby donned in daddy’s jersey obviously commanded more respect than “live-in hockey girlfriend.” And “hockey wife without children” certainly trumped “engaged to-be hockey wife,” and so on. It was apparent that I would have to put in my time, get that ring on my finger and bear Evan’s children in order to make my way up that damn food chain.

During one season in Scotland, I was introduced to a new and very terrifying link on the food chain: “visiting girlfriend of cheating hockey player who currently also has local girlfriend.” Yikes. As I sat in between two young ladies, both blissfully unaware that they were dating the same player, I contemplated spilling the beans. But who was I to spring this news upon them? I barely knew either one of these ladies. Certainly they would figure this one out. Both girls jumped to their feet as their boyfriend scored the winning goal. As they celebratory cheered each other with their cups of beer, it was apparent to me that it could be worse. I decided to embrace my current status as “girlfriend to faithful hockey player.”