A Unique Icebreaker Among New (and Young) Friends
Last week, four neighbor friends and I went to see the premiere of Eclipse. We also went to a pre-viewing party where we won some swag bags and prizes. We drank Edward, Bella and Jacob themed martinis while there. Team Edward rocks for more than one reason people, not just because he's a deliciously hot and intense vampire. He is the muse for one of the best martinis I have ever tasted!
After the movie, in the IMAX theater, where we each ate our own bucket of popcorn (a bucket with Jacob, Edward and Bella on it), we decided it was way to early to end a great girls night out. So we decided to wash down our buckets of popcorn with some beverages at a nearby bar.
We had an absolute blast, especially because we were sitting with the brother of one of my friends who just so happened to be celebrating his 22nd birthday. At one point I realized that I was hanging out with boys who are the ages of some of my students. That sort of weirded me out a bit, but I tried to just focus on the fact that I wasn't quite old enough to have birthed any of them. That made me feel better. . . slightly.
Because it felt a little like a junior high dance (boys on one side; girls on the other), I decided it would be more interesting and introductory if we went around the table and said our name and something interesting about ourselves (or as some of my incoming freshman said in their placement essays, "ourselfs").
The boys started and went around the table. I realized I was sitting beside a student who goes to my alma mater, Pitt. We high fived and talked about cool hang outs in Pittsburgh. He mostly just told me that all my old haunts are no longer there or no longer cool, but it was still fun. As we went around the table, we made up some interesting nicknames for people which added quite a bit of laughter and delay to the whole event. For some reason, I thought the one guy's name was Steve when in fact it was Eric. I'm not quite sure how I messed that up, but he will forever be Steve from now on.
When we got to me, I said my name and some of my friends chimed in that I'm a black belt. But that wasn't my interesting fact to share. Instead, I pulled up my capri pants and revealed my Franken-knee, complete with nasty bruising and sticking-out-of-the-tibia screw. And then something funny happened. Instead of everyone cringing, covering their eyes and backing away in disgust and horror, the guys all leaned in about two feet each and eagerly reached out while asking if they could please touch it!
I let them all feel the protruding screw. Man, talk about an ice-breaker. More like a skin-breaker but whatever. In exactly two weeks, my party-trick Franken-knee will be history. Although it certainly breaks the ice with 22-year-olds, I can't say I'll really miss it. I'll just have to figure out something else interesting about myself. Perhaps I'll teach myself how to text with my toes. Ah, now that will really get them.
The Franken-Knee Strikes Back
It is safe to say that I seriously overdid it on the slant board this weekend. I am walking like a primate. So much for exercise being good for your posture.
Yesterday, while feeling the pain of my two weekend work-outs, I lightly bumped my leg, right on the screw sticking out of my tibia, against one of my counter stools. I didn't think anything of it, other than "Ugh, not again!" and went on responding to emails and cooking my dinner. But after about 10 minutes, I realized that my leg was hurting pretty badly and I took a look down. A line of thick blood was oozing out of my leg, right where the screw is protruding. I'm fine with most medical stuff after having been through two childbirths and two knee surgeries and multiple kid boo-boo's, but I had to seriously consider whether or not I needed to sit down and put my head between my knees for a minute.
Instead I gutted it out and got a paper towel and started dabbing away the blood. There was a little slit, right at the top of the screw area, slowly oozing blood. The area surrounding it, the size of a quarter, was already reddish-purple underneath the skin and directly above the protruding screw head, deep purplish-black.
When I realized that it was the screw, cutting me from the inside out, not the actual bump on the smooth stool that cut me open, my stomach started to turn. I've just had it with these issues. If the screw doesn't get taken out soon, I fear it's going to come completely out all by itself which sounds like a boatload of fun, doesn't it?
I spent last night in bed, unable to have anything touching it because it was throbbing so badly. This morning I called my surgeon's secretary and told her that I really need to have this surgery scheduled now. I asked her to please call the plastic surgeon's office so that the two of them can work things out and get this on the schedule once and for all. If I could just get them both in the same room for five minutes, I'd have it all worked out and I would be on my way to getting rid of my Franken-knee problems once and for all.
Right now I'm looking at a surgery date that is over a month away and I am frustrated beyond belief.
Digging Out
I spent the past weekend at the beach with friends and it was a much needed reprieve. I sat around, read a book, drank Sangria and even got a Mom's night out to watch the new Sex & the City 2 movie (way over the top, by the way). On the way to the beach, I checked my voicemail at home and there was actually some good news for a very nice change.
My surgery requires no pre-certifications. It's covered by insurance. Apparently, they realize I'm not interested in having solely a "pretty" knee. Now I'm waiting for the orthopaedic surgeon and the plastic surgeon to sync up their schedules and get me in. I'll need to have the surgery at the hospital and I am hoping that it is quick, and as painless as possible. The screw in my tibia will be coming out and then I'm going to be fixed up by the plastic surgeon to eliminate the Franken-knee I'm currently sporting. He told me he'll be cutting out the scar itself, putting a layer of bio-fabric or something (the stuff they normally use during breast reconstruction surgery on the sides to connect everything) over my tibia and then sewing me up from the inside out. You don't know how happy I'll be to have the screw officially out of my knee. I can not wait. As much as I hate the idea of going into yet another surgery, I'm hoping this will be the very last and that my knee will no longer be stare-worthy.
I came home from the beach, after seeing the movie preview for "Eat, Pray, Love" and decided I had to read it. I borrowed it from a neighbor and I am plowing through it quickly and enjoying it immensely. If you don't know the premise, it's basically about a woman who puts her life back together through a year of traveling to Italy, India and Indonesia. Just reading about her, rejuvenating herself, is helping me to do the same. I need to write more, work out more, and start making an effort to enjoy myself more.
Soon, you may all be able to leave comments and write me emails about things other than loss and me feeling miserable. I know you're excited. So am I.
Restoration
I don't think I've ever gone this long without writing. It's not like me. I always have a lot to say. Lately though, I don't. I'm in a holding pattern in several ways and it's been frustrating to say the least.
When I went to see my new orthopaedic surgeon back in April, he sent me for a series of tests including an MRI and a nuclear bone scan. The MRI scan revealed a partial PCL sprain and the bone scan revealed that when I slammed my little toe on a barstool in my kitchen a couple months ago, I broke it.
He also sent me to a plastic surgeon. I wanted the surgery done in May so I could get on with my life, but that hasn't happened. Yesterday I found out why. Apparently, my file has been sitting on the plastic surgeon's desk for weeks, untouched. The woman at his office who finally figured out where my file was apologized profusely and now the process begins again.
Apparently, the surgeon thinks that the insurance company will deem my surgery "cosmetic," not "reconstructive." The fact that these words even crossed his lips is ludicrous. Anyone who knows me knows that I am much less concerned about having a pretty knee and much more concerned with having a functional knee that doesn't cause me pain. So now the phone calls to the insurance company begin and I wait. . . again.
Something tells me that I'm not at the top of his priority list. Women wanting injections of botox and boob jobs pay cash or with a credit card. Mine won't exactly be like that. I think it puts me at the bottom of the priority pile and that is annoying and maddening.
In the meantime, while unable to do karate or any impact exercises (including walking on a treadmill), I've been keeping myself busy and occupied to try to lift my mood.
I've realized that moving the two tons of delivered river rocks isn't exactly restoring my soul. The spa day that my Mom purchased for me for Christmas, that I finally used last Friday definitely helped. I've also been keeping myself busy with good friends. Although I've been in a total cooking rut, I'm trying to force myself to do things I used to like doing before all this knee business and before my Grammom passed away.
I've had good days and bad days in the month since she's died. Some days, I don't even feel like getting out of bed. It's especially hard after spending a couple hours going through her things. I haven't been visiting my Pop-Pop nearly as much as I should be, because it is so damn hard to be there, without her there.
I have friends who are worried about me. I'm definitely not myself lately, but I am working at dragging myself back. It's just a very gradual process. Packing up all my sympathy cards and my Grammom's obituary was something I got around to doing last week and it was helpful. But it's weird how certain things can set you off, when you least expect them. . . the song that was on when I was racing to the hospital on the morning she died can make me cry instantly. . . seeing a piece of her jewelry or catching the scent of her body lotion. These are things that send me reeling still. I know it's just going to take more time; and in the meantime, I'm so grateful for my very supportive and extremely patient friends.
Own Worst Enemy
Three years ago, if you asked me "Who are you?" I could tell you easily. I had a strong sense of self and knew who I was. Today, not so much.
Growing up, I was extremely athletic. I had no interest in television. I only wanted to play with the boys, whether it was kickball, baseball, softball or a good game of tag, I was always ready for whatever activities the day brought with it. When I was younger, I was an all-star softball player, did two seasons of swimming, took up figure skating for a while, played field hockey and ran track for a season. I spent my summers doing anything but relaxing on the beach. I was too busy to do that. I played volleyball for hours a day while on vacation, and when I wasn't doing that, I was playing tennis until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
Then I found karate and that became my new obsession. I would make dinner and do kata while waiting for things to cook. I would come home from class and practice self defense techniques on Mr. BBM for hours. For years, he wasn't even able to hug me if I wasn't expecting it, because otherwise I'd be trying my techniques out on him. I imagined myself as one of those karate-ka that people looked up to. I had hopes of re-igniting a self defense program and becoming a leader on that topic. I saw it as a lifetime endeavor and it was something that I absolutely loved. It was all I could talk about for several years.
And then I tore my ACL and everything changed.
The worst part about tearing my ACL was losing the confidence I had in my body, in myself. It's something that I thought returning to karate would conquer. For a while, it did. When I was training for shodan testing, I spent hours every day working out and preparing. I pushed myself both physically and mentally like never before. But the little voice of doubt and the fear never really left.
After the second surgery, I thought I would bounce back, but it only made me more afraid. It's a legitimate fear. If you tear an ACL for the second time, revision surgeries aren't as successful; and having gone through the pain and agony of one, I can't say I'd ever be eager to go through that period of my life again.
Last week, after my new surgeon told me to limit all activities and stop working out, karate and running altogether, I asked my instructors to put my monthly karate withdrawal on hold again. All these months, when I've only been going once or twice a month because it has taken a good two weeks for my knee to return to normal post karate class, I've been paying and hoping. It was like I thought if I continued to pay, that I'd still be active in karate. I know, full well, I'm not.
I've been grumpier than ever these past few months. I've flown off the handle on several occasions. Telling people off has become my new past time, and I don't like who I am right now.
Little pieces of me have been pulled apart and off in so many directions that I am struggling to figure out what I'm supposed to do and who I'm supposed to be now.
It's not as simple as having a third surgery and getting back to it. It's so much more than that. The fear is out of control. The anger and frustration is at levels I've never felt before.
I'm mad that every physical activity brings with it limitations, self-doubt or outright fear. I'm angry that I can't take my girls roller skating or ice skating like other parents do. I hate that when Lil C asks me to play soccer with her, I usually have to tell her "I can't," or I do and then have to quit far sooner than I want to because my knee doesn't feel right, or I pay for it later in the form of a swollen and painful knee.
I'm downright furious that I am having to go through this all again, and I'll be honest, I don't know how to deal with it.
The other day when I was driving home from campus, I heard Pink's song "Don't Let Me Get Me" and the part "I'm my own worst enemy" hit home for me.
I don't know who I am anymore; and while I know that beating myself up about it isn't a productive thing to do, it seems to be the only thing I know how to do anymore.
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