I calendared the day for my stitch removal way before the actual surgery. The day loomed large before me mostly because my children kept reminding me about it and how much it was going to hurt to RIP OFF THE BANDAIDS.
Fiddledaddy got in on the action and suggested that I finally take my Tylenol replete with Codeine prior to the appointment.
I reminded all of them that I had birthed 3 larger than average children with MELONS for heads. I concluded my argument drawing attention to the fact that I am not in possession of birthing hips.
A few measly stitches weren’t gonna scare me.
Still, Emme offered up a few tissues for me to stash in my purse just in case I were to cry like a little boy. Her phraseology, not mine.
You gotta be kiddin’ me kid, I thought to myself as I limped out the door, I get to go for a car ride ALL BY MYSELF. And then I get to sit in a doctor’s waiting room and listen to my iPod, or play iPhone Scrabble, or just sit and think. OR. More likely, just sit. AND I DON’T HAVE TO WIPE ANYONE’S ORIFICE.
There is no crying because of All The Joy.
I was called into the office after a good deal of thinking on my part was underway. A P.A. who must have said NO THANK YOU to God, when offered a personality, removed the bandage and stitches. I’m not sure if it was painful because I was too focused on the fact that this woman might be operating outside of her natural gifts.
Anyhoo. I was left alone for another 20 minutes to await the doctor. I took that time to do my Physical Therapy exercises. SHOUT OUT TO DARYL WHO IS ACTUALLY NOT TRYING TO KILL ME AND DOESN’T MAKE ME CRY LIKE A LITTLE BOY.
The doctor that entered the room was not the one that operated on me. I knew this for certain despite the MASSIVE amounts of narcotics I was given just prior to surgery. Then during. And finally, after.
He explained that my doctor was still in tied up at the hospital. He looked over my chart and said something to the effect, “There is good news, and there is bad news.”
What? Y’all operated on the correct knee, because I wrote YES in black magic marker on the correct knee SO WHAT’S THE BAD NEWS?
Evidently I’ve been moaning and whining all this week FOR A REASON. Not only was both the medial and lateral meniscus operated on, but also I had some BONE SHAVED OFF. Because there was some sort of issue involving an indentation that wasn’t suppose to be there.
After I phoned Fiddledaddy with I AM VINDICATED for all the whining, I began quizzing this substitute doctor. Bottom line. We won’t know if the pain was caused by the torn meniscus or from the abnormal bone for another 6 weeks. If it was the meniscus, then in 6 weeks I’ll be back to somewhat normal. (Depending on your framework for normal.)
If I’m still in pain, then the cause is the bone. I asked what we do then, and he said there were no easy answers. So, I’m going to exercise my favorite coping skill, and pretend that everything will be fine and dandy at the 6 week mark.
He did go over a list of do’s and don’ts (LOVE THOSE RULES) with me. I can not ever run again. As if. I’m already in mourning for all of those marathons that will elude me. NOT.
No treadmill. (Not an issue, as I’ve been known to hurl myself into a wall because of an incorrect setting.) If I want to walk, I have to use the track. Both my PT and substitute doctor are all for the elliptical, which makes my day, because I love the elliptical machine. And I’ve never ever fallen off of it.
I have to be careful what weight machines I use from now on, and absolutely NO HIGH IMPACT AEROBICS. Sob. Sob.
I forgot to ask him if I can resume Zumba at any point. But since I’m such a disaster on the dance floor, it might be best for all of mankind if I never Zumba again.
Goodbye my dream of Dancing With the Stars. Pity.
One thing the doctor did say that made my ears perk up. Let me quote this using his exact words. “You need to take care of your knees from now on, and keep your weight down JUST LIKE I SEE YOU’RE DOING.” I added the caps for emphasis, as he really didn’t speak in all caps.
I didn’t hear much else after that. I concluded that he was a very astute substitute doctor. Or very very optically impaired.
Right now I’m just going to take it one low impact step at a time. And bask in the glow of no one telling me that I need to drop a dress size.
It’s the little things that I hold dear.