Happy Halloween!

Since we last chatted, the knee became very angry, swelled up, and I was ordered back on the damn crutch. I've been on physio rest for a week and, I'm not gonna lie, it's been a bummer. In fact, I may or may not have consumed 30-some mini chocolate bars whilst wallowing in my self-pity last night on my couch...and due to excessive sugar intake, I may or may not have had to wear my glasses for the last few days because my eyes were too swollen to wear contacts. But Dr. M says this knee reaction is "normal." The knee will go through some rough phases - I've named this phase "the angry teenager" because the knee is overly sensitive, overreactive, and bitchy - just like I was during those horrible teen years. If the knee starts stealing/refilling my vodka bottles with water then we are done. Done!

But...it is one of my favorite days of the year today so screw the knee - let's discuss Halloween!

Halloween is such a great time of year. I love being someone different for a day and I enjoy seeing people's creativity shine. Yay for original costumes!

I do have one Halloween pet peeve, however. My H'ween pet peeve is....the sexy costume. You know - "sexy insert any person or object here"

Fine. If you're dressed up as a person who is just naturally sexy (like Britney Spears or Brad Pitt) then you go for it. You be sexy!

If you; however, are sexifying your costume to fulfill some void - sexy maid, sexy devil, sexy angel, sexy cat etc, then, sorry, but you kinda suck. You are not creative. You are abusing this special day and are simply looking for an excuse to dress like a skank. Not cool in my books. But perhaps I'm biased because I've never been able or confident enough to pull off the "sexy" look.

I didn't realize the extent of the sexy H'ween costume until I attended a H'ween dance a few years ago. I was super pumped about my costume that year. Check it out:

"What the hell are you?" you're asking. Why I am a "party in my pants," of course. See? Giant pants full of party paraphernalia? Kinda brilliant, no? As I attempted to dance (with balloons overflowing out of my ass) next to sexy vampires, sexy nurses, sexy cops, and...what? Is that a sexy slice of pizza? (You've got to be kidding me!), it occurred to me that Halloween had turned into a skankfest. Brutal.

Ok, I think I've made my opinion known. Less skank! More creativity!

Last year, due to my extensive experience in orthopaedics, I decided to dress as an Orthopedic Surgeon. It went over pretty well at the hospital. When I showed Dr. M, my Orthopedic Surgeon, he replied, "I find it humerus that you're actually holding a femur." Oops. Silly bones. Cant' win em all.

This year, I decided to work with my injury and go as "cat with broken paw." (It's incredibly difficult to eat, drink, walk through doorways, and lick your butt while donning the cone of shame, by the way)

Ev says, "Arrr matey!" Dundee says, "F you. This is dumb."

A few brave souls from the Therapies department came to work dressed in costume. This was brilliant, actually. Colleen (Occupational Therapist) and April (Physiotherapist) decided to dress up as Speech Pathologists - me and my co-worker, Heidi, to be exact. I thought they looked fabulous! April even curled her hair and donned not only high heeled boots, (I wore high heels back in my heyday) but she even limped on a crutch all day - now that's dedication!

Finally, not to be outdone by Dundee, Biloxi, the cat, decided to don a costume this year as well. He's a sexy lion, of course. Purrrrrrrrr. Happy Halloween!

I will never ever ever forgive you. Ever. 

Stop looking at me! No, I am NOT having an affair. I think I'm going to puke.

I had a pretty good week! Some days were better than others, but overall, steady progress is being made. I'm up to 4 hours a day at work and although sometimes exhausting, the routine of seeing patients again, writing reports, and problem-solving is a great distraction from the occasional nagging knee pain. In addition, my physio is going well and I'm learning how to push myself without exceeding the limits that my knee will allow.

I've been looking back on my blog, reading some entries from the past year, and it's really helping me to appreciate how far I've come. I was thinking back to where I was a year ago, how much I still had to endure, and recalled an interesting experience that, in retrospect, seems pretty funny to me today.

I shall call it: "Stop looking at me! I am NOT having an affair. I think I'm going to puke"

A year ago, I received a cortisone injection in my knee. Initially, it screwed me right up. I was dizzy, nauseated, and sweating profusely. Apparently like 0.0000000001% of the population suffer side effects of cortisone injections. Yay me. The next day; however, when I stepped out of bed, the knee felt remarkably better. I had been saved. I strutted around the office that day, sans crutches, and even gave Dr. M a cocky little wave as I sauntered past his office. I felt amazing. The effects didn't last long and I soon felt myself craving that injection once again.

I waited the obligatory 4 months and then, a week before Ev and I were set to leave for a week in Hawaii, I begged Dr. M to give me another injection. Like Lance Armstrong before the Tour de France, I knew the only way I would conquer this vacation was with a little doping. Just a bit. Dr. M agreed and I met him in the clinic that afternoon for my sweet little injection.

"Ok, since you had side effects last time, I'm keeping you here for while to make sure you don't pass out or anything," Dr. M instructed as he prepared the syringe.

Yep, Yep, just give me the injection. Hurry. Damnit. I need it.

He carefully injected the cortisone into my knee and I laid back, picturing myself frolicking on the beaches of Maui.

"OK. She's going to stay here for a while - she had side effects last time so just keep an eye on her," he instructed nosy nurse (that's what we shall call her).

Disclaimer: I really respect the nurses that I work with. It's a tough job and the majority of the nurses at our hospital are awesome. I had 4 knee surgeries at this hospital and have nothing but praise for the people who cared for me. This just happened to be an "off" experience with one particular person. 

After about 20 minutes of laying quiet, I decided to get up and get my coat on. I felt fine.

As I sat up in bed and reached for my coat, the room began to spin and I so elegantly started slipping off the bed and onto the floor.

Nosy nurse came rushing in, spotted me falling to the floor, and yelled, "Dr M, she can't go. She's falling off the bed!"

Um, awesome, thanks for telling on me, but could you just maybe help me off the floor?

Dr. M came rushing in and helped me back onto the bed.

"You're going to need to call someone to come and get you. You can't drive like this," he stated.

I nodded groggily as the room spun circles around me.

Hmmmm, it was 1pm on a Tuesday. Ev was at work. My friends all have jobs....except for one. Lawyer's hubby, Darren. You could always count on Darren. Like me, he was an injured mess and off work for a while. Darren is also a patient of Dr. M's! We often joke that that Dr. M really hit the jackpot when he received both of us as patients. Score! In addition, Darren is a nurse. He would understand.
I texted Darren and he informed me that he would be there ASAP.

My symptoms were worsening rapidly. I felt puky and sweaty and a little panicked. Nosy Nurse took my blood pressure and it was high. I laid back and tried to relax, staring at a specific spot on the wall to prevent the room from spinning so quickly.

My buddy Darren soon arrived and it was apparent that Nosy Nurse knew him personally, "Darren, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for my friend, Kirstie," he replied.

"Re---alllly? And does your wife know?"

Are you frickin kidding me?

"Yes, she knows," replied Darren calmly. "We are all friends."

Nosy Nurse couldn't handle this. She went behind the nurses desk and began chattering with her co-worker. I could hear every gossipy word she was saying.

"Darren is here to pick up Kirstie - you know, the Speech Therapist. But he's married to that blonde lawyer. Hmmmmm."

I couldn't stand it. In my delirious state I hollered, "He's just my friend!"

Suddenly from another room, I heard Dr. M, in his best Garth Brook's voice break into song, "I got friend's in low places." Funny.

Gong Show.

"Darren, grab me a bucket or something. I'm gonna puke," I pleaded pathetically.

Darren quickly grabbed me puke bucket and I gripped it and took deep breaths. Dr. M, Nosy Nurse, and Darren all stood at my feet, staring at me with concern. Unfortunately, Dr. M was now standing directly in front of my special spot that I was staring at - the one that prevented me from falling out of bed. He stood in such a position that I ended up staring directly at his...um...ahem...man package area. Awkward.

"Ok, staring at me doesn't make me feel any better, " I snapped, "Stop looking at me!"

The entourage quickly vacated my room and I was free to focus on my special spot without distraction.

"Hey, why don't you give her some gravol," questioned my wise buddy, Darren.

"Well, we can't just give her gravol here. We need a doctor's orders," replied Nosy Nurse.

"Hey!" hollered Dr. M from another room, "I'm actually a Doctor, you know. Give her the gravol." Poor Dr. M.

So the gong show continued as Nosy Nurse tried several times to insert an IV. Once the IV was in, she realized there were no IV poles in the vicinity. Dr. M, completely frustrated with the situation, marched in, sighed emphatically, and stood on a chair beside my bed, holding the bag of gravol above my head so that it would infuse. Good God. Wow, this guy is being paid a shamillion dollars an hour to act as an IV pole. Like me, I'm sure Dr. M just wanted this day to be over.

Eventually, the symptoms began to dissipate and I just desperately wanted to be home and in my own bed.

Darren took over the IV holding duties and suggested we make a break for it. "I'll grab a wheelchair, pull the truck up front, and get you out of here," he suggested.

"OK, but it's 4:30. I'm going to see all my co-workers. I don't want to be seen looking like this in a wheelchair," I complained.

"Throw a bag over her head!" joked Dr. M from another patient's room, "How's your knee feeling?"

"F*&# the knee!" I yelled back. Wait a second. Did I just  holler an f-bomb at my surgeon? - the one guy who can actually help me? F me.

I actually couldn't help but laugh at that point. Was this for real? Where are the hidden cameras? It felt like a ridiculous Seinfeld episode.

After 4 hours of idiocracy, the debacle came to a close and I was able to walk myself out of the hospital.

"Thanks for joining us today," joked a defeated Dr. M, "I think that was your last cortisone injection."

"Yep. Best day ever," I sighed.

Ok so cortisone isn't really "doping," but it sounds way cooler.

No...you listen to me!

I was flying high after my first week back to work. Mentally, I felt invincible, and I was sure that my body would just follow along. So I went for a bike ride. A real bike ride. I rode the shit out of that bike (well, let's be honest, I took it around the block). Wind in my hair, flies in my teeth, the taste of freedom  on my lips - it was invigorating, to say the least. The last time I had seen the end of my block was during one of my wheelchair walks with Ev. Although the wheelchair walks were lovely (except for that one time when Ev took me down the hill and forgot to buckle me in), and often the only thing that I looked forward to in my day, the bike ride was kicking wheelchair walks ass. Nothing hurt. I was riding my bike like a regular bike-riding person. I felt a sense of pride when a car would drive past me. In my mind they were thinking, "look at that regular person going for a regular bike ride." Once I turned the corner; however, and the wind picked up speed, howling against me, I realized that the bike ride was getting...well, hard, I guess. I limped back to the house at top speeds of 0.5km/hr and immediately collapsed on my couch. Although exhausted, I was still pretty cocky about my epic bike ride and even had the nerve to post it on facebook, "First bike ride. Boo ya!" Boo ya, my ass. Within an hour, I realized that the bike ride was a bad idea.

The next morning, I awoke to one swollen, hot, puffy knee, one angry aching knee, a hip that popped when I moved, and a rib out of place (can a rib actually fall out of place? I don't know. All I know is, the only way I could breathe was to aggressively push on a specific spot on my back). The only position that gave me relief was flat on my back on my hard wood floor. Within minutes, both Dundee, the dog, and Biloxi, the cat were laying top of me, obviously concerned with their owners predicament (or laying claim to my body should I drop dead at that point?)

Now, normally I would have just called in to work "immobile," but I had a video swallow study arranged that day. While I was off work, patients awaiting swallow studies were told to wait until my return or go on Saskatoon's wait list, so I felt obligated to suck it up, get into work, and do this swallow study.

Back on the crutch (how the hell do you hold a crutch when both your knees hurt and your rib is "out"?) I limped into the therapies department. I had been so cocky about how awesome I was doing that my first thought was, "Please don't let me actually see anyone I know today." Of course, I ran into everyone and their dog in my state of disrepair.

"Uh oh, pushing yourself a little too hard?" asked a colleague, "Listen to your body, Kirstie."

"Thanks. Yep. Got it," I wheezed.

Making my way to x-ray with a patients file, a tray of food, and my crutch, I secretly hoped that a sniper was hiding in the halls to finish me off at this point.

Ron, my awesome OT buddy, caught site of me and noticeably flinched in dismay, "You need help?"

"No, I um....Ya. I totally need help, Ron."

So thankfully Ron helped me to x-ray where I was able to get going on this swallow study.

Of course, the Radiologist that I was working with that day was young and hot, as opposed to the typical old angry Radiologists on call. Given that the only way I could breathe was in a shallow panting manner, and the fact that I frequently gasped while passing the barium to my patient, hot, young doctor likely suspected that I was in heat.

Bottom line: I did it.

As I shuffled out of the hospital, I, of course, ran into another colleague that I hadn't seen since my return.

"Oh, you're still on the crutch? Things not going well?" he asked with concern.

"No, it's going well. Just pushed myself a little too hard, " I panted.

"uh oh. Listen to your body!" he replied.

Yup. Got it.

My body's message was not subtle. My body was communicating to me loud and clear: "F*ck You!"

Lesson learned. Mentally, I was ready. Physically - not quite there yet. But you know what, I'm tired of "listening to my body." I think it's time that my body listens to me, damnit! However, I don't really feel like fighting with the body this week. Truce? Body, let me pour you a nice glass of wine and run a bubble bath for you. You're welcome. Love you.

Thethil

I'm back at work! Yay! It feels great. I'm starting slow with just a few hours a day, but it's enough to get me out of bed, force me to put some pants on, and actually use my brain (there's also the added perk of socializing with my work buddies!) I'm still experiencing some pain in both knees, but the pain is totally manageable and I'm spending most of my days sans crutch and sans brace. I texted Dr. M, "Guess what? I'm crutchless and braceless!" and then nearly had a heart attack when I thought I had typed, "I'm crotchless and braless" (although entertaining, that would have been...weird). Anyways, I'm free! I was also happy to hear that Britney was releasing her new video, "Work Bitch" this week. It's no coincidence that she's back in fantastic shape singing, "You better work bitch," the exact same week that I'm returning after 5 months of being down and out. I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down, Brit Brit.

After 5 months away from the hospital, I really do appreciate my job and the people that I work with. It seems to me that so few people actually enjoy what they do for a living, and although 5 months away from the office may sound like a grand idea, it's made me realize just how much I appreciate and enjoy the people I work with and the job that I do. My awesome office-mate, Heidi, covered my patients for me the entire time that I was gone. She never complained to me once. Heidi rocks. Heidi and I share a passion for speech therapy and the adult population. It's our thing. This week as we caught up, discussing complicated cases and brainstorming therapy ideas, I felt whole and consciously aware of the fact that this piece has been missing from my life. It feels great to be back doing what I love.

The one thing that's been missing from my epic week back to work is a phonecall from my favorite patient, "Thethil."

When I first began working as a Speech-Language Pathologist nearly 8 years ago, I received a call from a man who was in desperate need of speech therapy services.

This man explained that his name was "Cecil," however, with the terrible frontal lisp that he demonstrated, it sounded more like "Thethil." He explained that he had lived with this frontal lisp his entire life and now that he was 30, he was ready and willing to work on improving his speech.

Calmly and professionally, I explained to Cecil that he would need to commit to regular therapy with myself in order to eliminate the frontal lisp. As I explained the process, Cecil began laughing hysterically. It soon became apparent to me that "Thethil" was actually Evan. Funny. What a jerk - mocking my noble profession 3 weeks into my first job!

About a month later, I received a call at work from a gentleman with a terrible stutter. As he painfully attempted to explain that he had stuttered his whole life and was now finally ready to receive therapy, I put two and two together and and just knew that Evan was playing with me again. I wasn't going to let him get away with it this time.

"Yep, Ok sure, " I responded on the phone, "sounds like you stutter alright - good one."

As the line went silent, a sickening sensation took over me....Shit. This was not Evan. This was a patient. A real patient. Oh my god. I quickly backtracked and began a professional and compassionate response that I would normally offer a patient in this situation. I managed to save it, but felt terrible for the way I had initially responded, assuming Thethil was back at it.

Four years later when I received my job as an SLP in Prince Albert, I was excited to check my very first voicemail message. I sat down, pen in hand, ready to document my communication with my first patient in my new position. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically when i heard,

"Kirthtie! It'th Thethil! Where have you been? I mithed you tho mucth!"

Thethil! If you're out there, I'm back at work again buddy! Call me :)