Here is your answer.
I can't decide if this video is unbelievably awesome, ridiculously awful, or a combo of both.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
EZmend
People often ask me what I do all day.
Here is your answer.
I can't decide if this video is unbelievably awesome, ridiculously awful, or a combo of both.
Here is your answer.
I can't decide if this video is unbelievably awesome, ridiculously awful, or a combo of both.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
An ugly cry with Dr. M
I hate crying in front of others. Crying makes people so uncomfortable. I hate making people uncomfortable. Except for my husband. I've cried in front of Ev too many times to count. Evan, however, possesses the ability to detect that the tears are imminent and quickly utilize his great defensive maneuver. He blows air in my face. It's brilliant. Usually, the sight of his eyes widening in panic and his huffing and puffing into my face makes me laugh, forgetting why I was going to cry in the first place. But he's my husband. He's allowed to see me cry. Crying in public, on the other hand, sucks.
One of the most mortifyingly memorable days this year was the day that I ugly cried in Dr. M's office. Dr. M and I were becoming well acquainted with each other. We spent hours in his office, discussing the knee and contemplating the next step. I've come to really trust him (which is sooo important when you are relying and depending on a doctor to help you) and I feel comfortable discussing my fears and concerns with him. I feel like Dr. M genuinely "sees" me and wants to help me. As a bonus, I like him. He's a cool guy. He has this bizarre sense of humour that never fails to crack me up. He says things without a filter - kinda like my Baba (recall the birth control story?) hehe. That's why I felt awful when he was forced to witness the ugly cry.
It was January. My knee had recently started catching, clicking, and popping again, indicating that the cartilage I had grown from my first surgery was likely falling apart. I was banking all my hopes on a procedure called OATS. This procedure involves transplanting healthy cartilage from one part of the knee to replace the damaged area. Dr. M was weary, but he promised that he'd confer with his colleagues and determine if it might be appropriate for me. We took our seats in his office. Seated directly across from me in front of a big wood desk, he began to tell me the bad news. He could not recommend OATS for me. I would be sacrificing a different part of my knee, making it prone to problems and there was little hope that the cartilage would "take." He took out the model femur (an Ortho staple, obviously) to demonstrate my lesion. This man loves to explain things. He would use any mode possible to ensure that I completely comprehend my injury. Although I typically understand after a simple explanation, I enjoy watching his eyes light up when he brings out his model femur, so I humoured him and listened intently and watched his demonstration. Suddenly it began to happen. My vision became blurred with tears. My chin quivered ever so slightly. Dr. M noticed, panic brewing in his eyes. Then.....BOOM!!!! The floodgates opened.
I cried. And cried. And cried. I hiccupped cried. I grabbed tufts of my hair and wailed, "Oh god, Oh god," while I cried. I snotted on Dr. M's desk, choked on my saliva, produced weird unidentifiable noises that I didn't know I was capable of making, and bawled my fricken eyes out.
As this was going down, I could hear Dr. M scrambling around his office, muttering, "Where is my kleenex? Where is it? Why don't I have kleenex? I should have kleenex."
He emerged a minute later with a box of kleenex. "I knew Dr. S would have kleenex. His patients are always crying," he joked uncomfortably.
He plucked 4 tissues from the box and kinda dropped them on my lap. He awkwardly tapped my shoulder a few times - not like a "there there" tap, but more like a "Please. Stop. Crying." kinda tap.
This settled me down ever so slightly and I stopped crying long enough to whimper, "If you were me, what would you do, Dr. M?"
Dr. M looked somberly at me from across the desk and replied, "I would probably cry in my doctor's office."
Shit. I really am screwed.
So I began crying again. I cried for the extinct dinosaurs. I cried for Keanu Reeves' career. I cried for the hedgehog in a cast that I had seen on Pinterest. I cried for my shitty ass knee that was an epic failure at life. I cried until all the fluids from my body had leaked out of every opening of my face from hairline to chin.
Warning: These pictures are sad. Really sad.
Occasionally, I would peek between my fingers, just hoping that this was a nightmare. Perhaps I was alone and no one was here to witness this very private, raw moment. Nope. There was Dr. M, waiting patiently across the desk, nodding kindly at me (likely thinking, "When the hell is this going to stop?") I repeatedly apologized, "I am so sorry I am doing this," to which he calmly replied, "It's OK. It's OK."
Finally, I was jolted to reality when I glanced at the clock. I had an outpatient in 5 minutes! Ack. Snot running down my face, sticky, wet hair glued to my cheek, I made a quick exit - well, as quick an exit one can make on a cane (likely to the great relief of Dr. M).
As I entered my office (a mere 2 minute walk from Dr. M's office), my buddy and fantastic office-mate, Lisa took one look at me and knew that I had received bad news. I resembled a homeless person with pink eye who was just hit by a tidal wave. I crumbled and began sobbing in her arms.
"OK, Kirstie, do you have a patient right now?"
"Y------E------SSSSS," I wailed.
"Ok, listen. I'm going to go tell your patient that you are running 15 minutes behind. " Lisa reached for her purse and threw some items in front of me: wet naps, lipgloss, a brush, and a mirror. "You have 15 minutes to get yourself together. You throw some lipgloss on those lips of yours, straighten up, and get yourself together. Do you have any other patients this morning?"
"Nooooooo"
"Ok, good. So as soon as you're finished with this patient you can cry as much as you want and tell me everything. Got it? Good. Go."
Lisa was so direct and authoritative that I naturally felt compelled to follow her every command. I quickly picked myself up and got my shit together so that I could provide a quality therapy session for one of my favourite patients. And you know what? After a great session with my patient, I was out of tears and ready to carry on with the rest of my day as best as I could. I survived the ugly cry in Dr. M's office. Dr. M, on the other hand, is probably now scarred for life. To this day, whenever we finish up a tear-free appointment, he celebrates with a smile, "Well I don't know about you, but I feel good about that appointment. No crying."
Lisa W, I will never forget how awesome you were to me that day. You are and always will be a dear friend. Thanks, buddy.
One of the most mortifyingly memorable days this year was the day that I ugly cried in Dr. M's office. Dr. M and I were becoming well acquainted with each other. We spent hours in his office, discussing the knee and contemplating the next step. I've come to really trust him (which is sooo important when you are relying and depending on a doctor to help you) and I feel comfortable discussing my fears and concerns with him. I feel like Dr. M genuinely "sees" me and wants to help me. As a bonus, I like him. He's a cool guy. He has this bizarre sense of humour that never fails to crack me up. He says things without a filter - kinda like my Baba (recall the birth control story?) hehe. That's why I felt awful when he was forced to witness the ugly cry.
It was January. My knee had recently started catching, clicking, and popping again, indicating that the cartilage I had grown from my first surgery was likely falling apart. I was banking all my hopes on a procedure called OATS. This procedure involves transplanting healthy cartilage from one part of the knee to replace the damaged area. Dr. M was weary, but he promised that he'd confer with his colleagues and determine if it might be appropriate for me. We took our seats in his office. Seated directly across from me in front of a big wood desk, he began to tell me the bad news. He could not recommend OATS for me. I would be sacrificing a different part of my knee, making it prone to problems and there was little hope that the cartilage would "take." He took out the model femur (an Ortho staple, obviously) to demonstrate my lesion. This man loves to explain things. He would use any mode possible to ensure that I completely comprehend my injury. Although I typically understand after a simple explanation, I enjoy watching his eyes light up when he brings out his model femur, so I humoured him and listened intently and watched his demonstration. Suddenly it began to happen. My vision became blurred with tears. My chin quivered ever so slightly. Dr. M noticed, panic brewing in his eyes. Then.....BOOM!!!! The floodgates opened.
I cried. And cried. And cried. I hiccupped cried. I grabbed tufts of my hair and wailed, "Oh god, Oh god," while I cried. I snotted on Dr. M's desk, choked on my saliva, produced weird unidentifiable noises that I didn't know I was capable of making, and bawled my fricken eyes out.
As this was going down, I could hear Dr. M scrambling around his office, muttering, "Where is my kleenex? Where is it? Why don't I have kleenex? I should have kleenex."
He emerged a minute later with a box of kleenex. "I knew Dr. S would have kleenex. His patients are always crying," he joked uncomfortably.
 |
| No opening in the face is immune from leakage |
He plucked 4 tissues from the box and kinda dropped them on my lap. He awkwardly tapped my shoulder a few times - not like a "there there" tap, but more like a "Please. Stop. Crying." kinda tap.
This settled me down ever so slightly and I stopped crying long enough to whimper, "If you were me, what would you do, Dr. M?"
Dr. M looked somberly at me from across the desk and replied, "I would probably cry in my doctor's office."
Shit. I really am screwed.
So I began crying again. I cried for the extinct dinosaurs. I cried for Keanu Reeves' career. I cried for the hedgehog in a cast that I had seen on Pinterest. I cried for my shitty ass knee that was an epic failure at life. I cried until all the fluids from my body had leaked out of every opening of my face from hairline to chin.
Warning: These pictures are sad. Really sad.
Occasionally, I would peek between my fingers, just hoping that this was a nightmare. Perhaps I was alone and no one was here to witness this very private, raw moment. Nope. There was Dr. M, waiting patiently across the desk, nodding kindly at me (likely thinking, "When the hell is this going to stop?") I repeatedly apologized, "I am so sorry I am doing this," to which he calmly replied, "It's OK. It's OK."
Finally, I was jolted to reality when I glanced at the clock. I had an outpatient in 5 minutes! Ack. Snot running down my face, sticky, wet hair glued to my cheek, I made a quick exit - well, as quick an exit one can make on a cane (likely to the great relief of Dr. M).
As I entered my office (a mere 2 minute walk from Dr. M's office), my buddy and fantastic office-mate, Lisa took one look at me and knew that I had received bad news. I resembled a homeless person with pink eye who was just hit by a tidal wave. I crumbled and began sobbing in her arms.
"OK, Kirstie, do you have a patient right now?"
"Y------E------SSSSS," I wailed.
"Ok, listen. I'm going to go tell your patient that you are running 15 minutes behind. " Lisa reached for her purse and threw some items in front of me: wet naps, lipgloss, a brush, and a mirror. "You have 15 minutes to get yourself together. You throw some lipgloss on those lips of yours, straighten up, and get yourself together. Do you have any other patients this morning?"
"Nooooooo"
"Ok, good. So as soon as you're finished with this patient you can cry as much as you want and tell me everything. Got it? Good. Go."
Lisa was so direct and authoritative that I naturally felt compelled to follow her every command. I quickly picked myself up and got my shit together so that I could provide a quality therapy session for one of my favourite patients. And you know what? After a great session with my patient, I was out of tears and ready to carry on with the rest of my day as best as I could. I survived the ugly cry in Dr. M's office. Dr. M, on the other hand, is probably now scarred for life. To this day, whenever we finish up a tear-free appointment, he celebrates with a smile, "Well I don't know about you, but I feel good about that appointment. No crying."
Lisa W, I will never forget how awesome you were to me that day. You are and always will be a dear friend. Thanks, buddy.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Bath time is interfering with celeb crush fantasy time
Never underestimate the ability to bathe independently, my friends. Never.
I alluded to this problem last year when I was non weight-bearing for 6 weeks. The bathing process, once taken for granted, has become a structured and well-planned procedure (read: Nazi-like). Like last year, I am unable to get in and out of the tub independently. Well, to be honest, I think I could do it alone...but I don't really feel like risking my future as a walking individual to prove a point. I interviewed various applicants for the position of "Kirstie bather," and although I had an abundance of eager individuals applying for the position, hubby Evan got the job. I can hear some of you saying, "Ahhh, that's romantic." Yes, the idea of bathing with your hubby, candles lit at bath side, a little Marvin Gaye playing in the background, and bubbles filling my luxurious tub certainly sounds romantic. Although I do really appreciate the fact that my husband bathes me daily, my bathing process is NOT romantic. Not at all. Not even a little bit. There are a few major reasons:
1) I presently look like an emaciated 10 year old boy - Due to a loss of about 20 pounds or so (I blame stress, meds, and an angry angry stomach), my body has changed. And not for the better. I know some of you are saying, "At least you didn't gain weight! I wish I could lose 20 pounds!" What you don't understand is that the 20 pounds I have lost have completely fallen off all the important areas that differentiate a male body from a female body. Got it? I resemble a 10 year old boy who needs a good sandwich. Last time I checked my hubby's internet history, he has no romantic interest in 10 year old boys (Thank god!!) So, as my hubby is gently dropping me into my tub, I can guarantee you that he has no interest at that moment in "jumping my bones." Literally. Ha.
Side rant (friends: not directed at you): You probably wouldn't comment on a person's weight gain, so why do we think it's OK to comment on a weight loss when it's obviously a side effect of ill health? Scrunching up your face disapprovingly and saying, "Ewwww, you've really gotten too skinny," to someone you do not know well is inappropriate. We worry so much about being sensitive to weight gain, but it works both ways. Mini-rant over. I'm going to eat a cheeseburger.
2) Oops - I forgot about you - Last year, my hubby forgot about me while I was bathing. He seriously forgot that I was in the tub and would eventually need help getting out. It was alarming. I hated his face for a few days, I'm not going to lie. I lay shrivelled in my bath screeching, "EVAN!" contemplating my fate and imagining CSI discovering my shrivelled dead body soaked in dirty bath water. I seriously do NOT want to die naked in my tub, especially given 1) (see above). This unfortunate incident has affected my ability to relax during bath time. Although Evan reliably lays in our bed with his computer as I bathe a mere 20 feet away (trust me, he doesn't want to forget about me again either!), I find myself frequently requesting objects to ensure that he is fully committed to my bathing process. "Evan, can you grab the shower gel that smells like lemons? No, that one is oranges. I would like lemons, please." "Evvvvv, I need the intensive conditioner - it's Tuesday!" The bottom line is that it's no longer relaxing or enjoyable for either me or Ev.
3) We are in a time crunch, people! - When I first returned home from the hospital, everyone was extremely accommodating. You want an apple picked from the neighbours tree, third branch down? You got it. As time passed and I became healthier and happier, I noticed that my caregivers were not as keen to fulfill my every desire. Specifically, the timing of the bath became a major issue for Ev. He felt as though my bath time was getting later and later every night. He's decided that in order to function at the best of his abilities, he requires 8 hours of sleep a night; therefore, my bath time must accommodate his sleep schedule. Fair enough. Let's compromise.
The real problem is that his optimal bath time is interfering with my TV schedule. TV is currently a very very important part of my day. It's entertaining. It passes my time. And I have a confession to make: I have a serious TV celeb crush right now. Let's see if you can guess. I faithfully watch 3 programs a week: The Bachelorette, Real Housewives of Orange County, and The American Baking Competition.
90% of you probably guessed that I have a crush on one of those dorky bachelor dudes. Nope (thank god she booted Brandon. Can you say mommy issues???? Ick).
I have a crush on.. Paul Hollywood, celebrity judge of The American Baking Competition. I hear crickets chirping. You don't know Paul Hollywood, do you? This guy just has that little somethin' somethin' that just does it for me. He's very debonair (I've been waiting my whole life to use that word). Perhaps it's the mature salt and pepper goatee, the sultry British accent, or the way his blue eyes pierce through my soul when he says, "Lovely. Well done!" I also like that he's perfectly honest with the contestants. He will bite into a dry cookie and exclaim (in sultry British accent) "Rubbish!"And his last name is "Hollywood." Can he get any more perfect?
I read somewhere on pinterest that it's totally healthy to have silly fantasies about celebrities whilst maintaining a happy marriage. I mean, it's not like this is going to develop into something real (Paul: if you're reading this, call me! wink wink).
Picture this: I'm all settled on my couch, knee iced and elevated, watching my Paul bite into the most decadent looking chocolate cake I ever seen (Francine, you really do make fabulous looking cakes, girrrl!) As Paul Hollywood licks the chocolate frosting off his lips, I fantasize that he is hand-feeding me that chocolate cake, sensually whispering, "lovely" (in sultry British accent). After he delicately wipes the chocolate from my lip, we will obviously start to snog (that's how you make out in Britain - you snog). I can picture those chocolate flavored lips on mine, that salt and pepper goatee gently grazing my cheek, his hands gently caressing my...
"Kirst! Bath time!!!!"
Damnit. Are you freaking kidding me?
"Give me 15 minutes, Ev!!!"
"Need to be asleep by 9:30 to reach my 8 hours of required sleep time. Kirst, let's go!"
"I'll forfeit conditioning my hair tonight. Just give me 15 minutes. Pleeeeeeeeease!"
Sigh. Never mind. The moment has passed.
Ugh. Stupid bath time. Not fair.
I alluded to this problem last year when I was non weight-bearing for 6 weeks. The bathing process, once taken for granted, has become a structured and well-planned procedure (read: Nazi-like). Like last year, I am unable to get in and out of the tub independently. Well, to be honest, I think I could do it alone...but I don't really feel like risking my future as a walking individual to prove a point. I interviewed various applicants for the position of "Kirstie bather," and although I had an abundance of eager individuals applying for the position, hubby Evan got the job. I can hear some of you saying, "Ahhh, that's romantic." Yes, the idea of bathing with your hubby, candles lit at bath side, a little Marvin Gaye playing in the background, and bubbles filling my luxurious tub certainly sounds romantic. Although I do really appreciate the fact that my husband bathes me daily, my bathing process is NOT romantic. Not at all. Not even a little bit. There are a few major reasons:
 |
| Wow, Kirstie! You look...different |
Side rant (friends: not directed at you): You probably wouldn't comment on a person's weight gain, so why do we think it's OK to comment on a weight loss when it's obviously a side effect of ill health? Scrunching up your face disapprovingly and saying, "Ewwww, you've really gotten too skinny," to someone you do not know well is inappropriate. We worry so much about being sensitive to weight gain, but it works both ways. Mini-rant over. I'm going to eat a cheeseburger.
2) Oops - I forgot about you - Last year, my hubby forgot about me while I was bathing. He seriously forgot that I was in the tub and would eventually need help getting out. It was alarming. I hated his face for a few days, I'm not going to lie. I lay shrivelled in my bath screeching, "EVAN!" contemplating my fate and imagining CSI discovering my shrivelled dead body soaked in dirty bath water. I seriously do NOT want to die naked in my tub, especially given 1) (see above). This unfortunate incident has affected my ability to relax during bath time. Although Evan reliably lays in our bed with his computer as I bathe a mere 20 feet away (trust me, he doesn't want to forget about me again either!), I find myself frequently requesting objects to ensure that he is fully committed to my bathing process. "Evan, can you grab the shower gel that smells like lemons? No, that one is oranges. I would like lemons, please." "Evvvvv, I need the intensive conditioner - it's Tuesday!" The bottom line is that it's no longer relaxing or enjoyable for either me or Ev.
3) We are in a time crunch, people! - When I first returned home from the hospital, everyone was extremely accommodating. You want an apple picked from the neighbours tree, third branch down? You got it. As time passed and I became healthier and happier, I noticed that my caregivers were not as keen to fulfill my every desire. Specifically, the timing of the bath became a major issue for Ev. He felt as though my bath time was getting later and later every night. He's decided that in order to function at the best of his abilities, he requires 8 hours of sleep a night; therefore, my bath time must accommodate his sleep schedule. Fair enough. Let's compromise.
The real problem is that his optimal bath time is interfering with my TV schedule. TV is currently a very very important part of my day. It's entertaining. It passes my time. And I have a confession to make: I have a serious TV celeb crush right now. Let's see if you can guess. I faithfully watch 3 programs a week: The Bachelorette, Real Housewives of Orange County, and The American Baking Competition.
90% of you probably guessed that I have a crush on one of those dorky bachelor dudes. Nope (thank god she booted Brandon. Can you say mommy issues???? Ick).
I have a crush on.. Paul Hollywood, celebrity judge of The American Baking Competition. I hear crickets chirping. You don't know Paul Hollywood, do you? This guy just has that little somethin' somethin' that just does it for me. He's very debonair (I've been waiting my whole life to use that word). Perhaps it's the mature salt and pepper goatee, the sultry British accent, or the way his blue eyes pierce through my soul when he says, "Lovely. Well done!" I also like that he's perfectly honest with the contestants. He will bite into a dry cookie and exclaim (in sultry British accent) "Rubbish!"And his last name is "Hollywood." Can he get any more perfect?
 |
| Oh Paul Hollywood, you sexy beast. |
Picture this: I'm all settled on my couch, knee iced and elevated, watching my Paul bite into the most decadent looking chocolate cake I ever seen (Francine, you really do make fabulous looking cakes, girrrl!) As Paul Hollywood licks the chocolate frosting off his lips, I fantasize that he is hand-feeding me that chocolate cake, sensually whispering, "lovely" (in sultry British accent). After he delicately wipes the chocolate from my lip, we will obviously start to snog (that's how you make out in Britain - you snog). I can picture those chocolate flavored lips on mine, that salt and pepper goatee gently grazing my cheek, his hands gently caressing my...
"Kirst! Bath time!!!!"
Damnit. Are you freaking kidding me?
"Give me 15 minutes, Ev!!!"
"Need to be asleep by 9:30 to reach my 8 hours of required sleep time. Kirst, let's go!"
"I'll forfeit conditioning my hair tonight. Just give me 15 minutes. Pleeeeeeeeease!"
Sigh. Never mind. The moment has passed.
Ugh. Stupid bath time. Not fair.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
I'm back!
After a 9 month hiatus from blogging, I have decided that I'm ready to document a new adventure. For those of you who followed my last blog: Seize the day, you might recall some nagging knee problems that were seriously interfering with all the cool shit I intended to accomplish in honour of my dear friend, Ryan. When I left off, I had been diagnosed with Osteochondrial Dessicans, which basically means that my knee cartilage sucks and wants no part of my knee. It wants to be free to float wherever the hell it chooses. My cartilage is NOT a team player. This came as a complete surprise, as I have always been an active, healthy person, with zero history of any joint pain - and I've always prided myself on being a contributing member of any team. I vaguely recall Dr. M's (my fabulous Orthopedic Surgeon) sobering spiel one year ago regarding the impact this would have on my life. I saw his mouth moving, heard, "Blah, blah, blah, blah," and thought, "You have no idea how awesome I am. This will not negatively affect my life." I was wrong. Boy was I wrong.
The last year has definitely been the most challenging year of my life. I've totalled 4 knee surgeries and been entirely dependent on crutches, braces, or a cane to help me walk. I've also been dependent on a multitude of med cocktails consisting of various narcotics and painkillers to ease the constant pain I've been experiencing and help me through the work day. I spent the last 8 months feeling variations of sadness, fear, anger, and hopelessness. Dr. M scoured the research, consulted orthos across North America and finally presented me with some positive news this spring. Dr. M informed me that I would be a candidate for a very new, relatively experimental surgery: a cartilage transplant. What did I have to lose? Sign me up!
I received the DeNovo live juvenile cartilage transplant on May 17, 2013 - the first in Saskatchewan! Since May 17, I've managed to eliminate most of my "scary" meds (the ones that made me stare off into the distance, drool out of the corner of my mouth, and forget to wear pants) and reduce the other pain medications. Suddenly, it happened. I woke up. It was Monday, May 27. Hubby Evan hugged me tight and proclaimed, "You're back!" Yep. I'm back. Hallelujah. Thank you for your patience. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused. I am back. So I am now coherent enough to string together full sentences, which means I am ready to start blogging again! Whoot whoot!
I am presently entering my 4th week of non-weightbearing post surgery. I have 4 weeks to go. I then have months and months (perhaps years) of rehab ahead of me. I was in similar physical condition a year ago when I had my first surgery. My attitude; however, is completely different. A year ago, I was pissed off. This was a serious inconvenience. I was impatient, annoyed, and determined to prove to Dr. M that I was an "exceptional" patient who would heal much better than any ortho could predict (recall the letter I wrote to my ortho, persuading him to reduce my rehab time due to my exceptional healing abilities?). On the other hand, I presently feel grateful, patient, calm, and relatively content with my current situation. I fully understand that my job is to heal. Forget work. Forget surfing. Forget running. Forget the unknowns of my future. I am quietly determined to be the most accommodating host to my new donated cartilage. I want the cartilage to take off it's coat and stay a while. Forever would be preferable.
In addition to sharing my current rehab experiences with you, I'm going to share some of my memories from the past year. Now that I am lucid, I am recalling past events - they pop in my head like cheezy flashbacks in a movie. Some of these memories should just be suppressed forever (I mean, who wants to remember waking up on a hospital toilet with their head in a pukey commode liner?), but most of these memories make for interesting stories and are quite entertaining, if I do say so myself. They also make me realize what an awesome support system of friends, co-workers, and family I have. The one major lesson I learned from Ryan and my seize the day experience: the importance of being genuine, will always guide me in my writing. You will be getting 100% Kirstie. There will be good, there will be bad, and there will be ugly. So buckle up your wheelchair, baby. Hop on my walker and come along for the ride...crossing my fingers and toes for a happy ending.
The last year has definitely been the most challenging year of my life. I've totalled 4 knee surgeries and been entirely dependent on crutches, braces, or a cane to help me walk. I've also been dependent on a multitude of med cocktails consisting of various narcotics and painkillers to ease the constant pain I've been experiencing and help me through the work day. I spent the last 8 months feeling variations of sadness, fear, anger, and hopelessness. Dr. M scoured the research, consulted orthos across North America and finally presented me with some positive news this spring. Dr. M informed me that I would be a candidate for a very new, relatively experimental surgery: a cartilage transplant. What did I have to lose? Sign me up!
I received the DeNovo live juvenile cartilage transplant on May 17, 2013 - the first in Saskatchewan! Since May 17, I've managed to eliminate most of my "scary" meds (the ones that made me stare off into the distance, drool out of the corner of my mouth, and forget to wear pants) and reduce the other pain medications. Suddenly, it happened. I woke up. It was Monday, May 27. Hubby Evan hugged me tight and proclaimed, "You're back!" Yep. I'm back. Hallelujah. Thank you for your patience. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused. I am back. So I am now coherent enough to string together full sentences, which means I am ready to start blogging again! Whoot whoot!
I am presently entering my 4th week of non-weightbearing post surgery. I have 4 weeks to go. I then have months and months (perhaps years) of rehab ahead of me. I was in similar physical condition a year ago when I had my first surgery. My attitude; however, is completely different. A year ago, I was pissed off. This was a serious inconvenience. I was impatient, annoyed, and determined to prove to Dr. M that I was an "exceptional" patient who would heal much better than any ortho could predict (recall the letter I wrote to my ortho, persuading him to reduce my rehab time due to my exceptional healing abilities?). On the other hand, I presently feel grateful, patient, calm, and relatively content with my current situation. I fully understand that my job is to heal. Forget work. Forget surfing. Forget running. Forget the unknowns of my future. I am quietly determined to be the most accommodating host to my new donated cartilage. I want the cartilage to take off it's coat and stay a while. Forever would be preferable.
In addition to sharing my current rehab experiences with you, I'm going to share some of my memories from the past year. Now that I am lucid, I am recalling past events - they pop in my head like cheezy flashbacks in a movie. Some of these memories should just be suppressed forever (I mean, who wants to remember waking up on a hospital toilet with their head in a pukey commode liner?), but most of these memories make for interesting stories and are quite entertaining, if I do say so myself. They also make me realize what an awesome support system of friends, co-workers, and family I have. The one major lesson I learned from Ryan and my seize the day experience: the importance of being genuine, will always guide me in my writing. You will be getting 100% Kirstie. There will be good, there will be bad, and there will be ugly. So buckle up your wheelchair, baby. Hop on my walker and come along for the ride...crossing my fingers and toes for a happy ending.
 |
| buckle up your wheelchair, baby |
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