Fat Girl Running

I had my preop appointment, my lab work and ekg, my covid testing. All the boxes were checked, and the surgery was still on. I kept waiting for something to happen, for it to be cancelled or delayed. I couldn’t sleep the night before, I stayed up until midnight the night before finishing a puzzle and trying not to think about surgery. I finally fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning.

Finally the day had come! Adhering to my npo status I had nothing to eat or drink, but simply got dressed in clothes I meticulously laid out the day before, grabbed my bag that was packed the day before, and got into the car that I filled with fuel the day before. Did I mention I like to be prepared? Sean drove me to Buffalo, and we got there 20 minutes early, in compliance with our personalities. I presented my driver’s license and insurance, and was called back where the nurse Jill promptly wished me happy birthday. I signed a bunch of things, which I thought was odd. Why wait until 2 hours before the surgery to have me sign consent? Isn’t that something a person would want taken care of? Then there was the separate anesthesia consent. Like, duh? Am I going to consent to surgery but not to anesthesia? What insanity do we live in where it is not assumed that the risks of anesthesia come with the risks of surgery? Also, they doped me up with pre-op meds before having me sign the consent, which I thought was questionable at best, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I would have signed it before I took the drugs, so it’s all good. Then I had to sign a form saying that I was informed that I was having surgery in the middle of a pandemic. What? A pandemic? When did that happen? Oh well forget that then, nevermind, I’ll just limp forever. Then the anesthesiologist came in to do the nerve block with a crna student and an ultrasound machine. They shoved some propofol into my IV with all the grace of a piledriver, and then I watched while the student manipulated the ultrasound for a particularly long time until the attending told him where to go. Then deep needle into the thigh. I assumed there was enough lidocaine in that needle to numb anything anywhere near that nerve, so even with a student it was a failsafe.

They wheeled me into the operating suite, bright lights, lots of blue scrubs and hair nets and gloves and packaging. Blue walls, white lights, bright and shiny and clean. Just in case you are doped up on stuff and get confused with heaven. Then my arm gets strapped down to a board, they put a mask over my mouth and told me that it’s going to taste funny. I expected it to be like the laughing gas when I was in labor, which I felt was just to make you take deep breaths, not to actually relieve any pain. I took a few deep breaths, then started to count backwards from 10. Not because they told me to, but because that’s what they say in movies. I got to 8.

Then I’m rag-doll limp, and someone is wrestling me into my shirt. I don’t fight them, but I’m sure I was not very helpful. Also, my IV was annoyingly in my AC, so my long sleeve shirt caught on it. Then I go back to sleep. These people underestimate how much I love sleep. Then they want me to get up to a chair. Excuse me? First of all I can’t keep my eyes open, and second of all, there are about 3 chairs blurring in front of me. And my leg hurts! I didn’t expect that. I know that sounds stupid, but I figured the anesthesia and the nerve block would mean I wouldn’t feel the pain yet. Wrong. So I stand up wobbling like a new baby deer, and pivot with all the grace of a wounded turkey, and collapse into a chair, dozing once more. They asked me what I wanted to drink, and I had to focus to form words, like I was learning to talk, and the sounds felt huge and foreign in my mouth. Ginger ale appeared at my side, although I’m not sure that’s what I requested. I slipped and found I could swallow. That was exciting. Then the guy next to me retched loudly. Yikes, at least I didn’t have that issue. I told them ahead of time to double dose the zofran. The brace rep showed up and had me sign the form for the brace. Are you kidding me? The anesthesia consent after the oral tramadol was questionable, but signing for a brace they already put on my leg, after I just regained consciousness from full anesthesia??? Shadey shadey.

Then a wheelchair showed up and I again gracefully flailed my way from the stable chair to the wheeled chair. Then Sean was in the car, and I was being folded into the passenger side, and we were off. That was it, I had my first surgery in the books, and it seemed pretty anticlimactic to be back in the car 6 hours later, leg hurting and brain foggy.

I don’t know what I expected, but this definitely did not live up to it. I did get to keep my underwear on, and I wasn’t intubated, they use LMA’s, so three of my fears (catheters, being naked on the table, and intubation) were non-issues. In the last 50 years surgeries have come so far, what would have been a major incision with days in the hospital recovering, now was a ‘same day procedure.’ Kind of amazing. Happy birthday to me!

The surgery has been scheduled. How insane is that? A week ago everything was unknown. Now I have a surgery date, a med clearance appt, pre-op bloodwork and an Ekg to get, a covid test scheduled… Crazy! Every step is hesitant, another inch closer to surgery, and it’s exciting and overwhelming all at once.

When I got to my appointment (45 minutes early, thank you Mennonite genes) I wasn’t sure what to expect. Was my quad muscle strong enough? Would they know I only did the exercises once a day instead of twice? Would they scoff at my puny excuse for a leg? “What? That thing? I wouldn’t operate on that if my life depended on it! Go back and try harder!”. Or could they tell I’d been swimming without permission? Would I get a tongue lashing? Fortunately that didn’t happen. First the Fellow (like a super resident) came in, did all the same laxity testing, and talked to me about the benefits of surgery and different types of grafts and etc. Still trying not to get my hopes up, of course this visit was the first time the surgeon was running late. Like 45 minutes late. I was starting to sweat. Then he finally came in, all cheer and smiles. “You’re ready!” He said.

We discussed the procedure, he drew me pictures on this cool touch screen in the room, he told me he prefers to harvest my own hamstring, loop it over, and then pass it through a hole he’s drilled in my femur, anchoring it with some staples and stuff. I’ve seen Ortho surgeries, it’s reminiscent of a blacksmith working on a sword at an anvil, so I didn’t want to think about that too much. They would also remove my old tendon, and repair my meniscus if needed. He says he always has a cadaver ligament on hand though, in case the hamstring falls on the floor! 😂😖. I laughed out loud at that. In return, I would get 9-12 MONTHS of recovery, but it would be back to 95% function.

Wow. I guess I didn’t realize 9 whole months. That made me pause. Here I am nine weeks out of the injury and I can walk, I’m going back to work, I’m swimming and spinning, now I’m going to go back to doing nothing, back into the dark hole of blackness, just to be back to full function in 9 MONTHS??? And that’s the low estimate. No running for 4 months, no swimming for 6. This is to help the new ACL fully graft to the bone. This then makes me reconsider trying to push the PT too hard. I don’t want to impair the grafting, because that can affect everything later. I will admit I fully intended to try to swim asap, but this has made me reevaluate. I will need to follow his instructions specifically in order to minimize my complications in the future. In the words of Inigo Montoya, “I hate waiting.” But after I went home and really thought about it, and I almost slipped on the ice, and I over extended my knee in the kitchen, I can to the conclusion that I have to do this. For future Elizabeth. To do more triathlons. To be able to trust my knee. Not to be crippled on pain management at 60.

I got my pre-op bloodwork done today. I walked into the lab, and they have a sign saying they can’t do any urine tests at this time. I was perplexed. Why not? You’re a lab, right? You have a bathroom, right? Is there some special covid bathroom thing I don’t know about? The chatty phlebotomist very deftly drew my blood, then handed me a cup to take home and bring back. Now this whole thing baffles me. 1) I’m not having uti symptoms, why do they need a urinalysis for my surgery? 2) why can’t I just pee in the lab? 3) what if I had to use the restroom? Would they still tell me no? Clearly they can handle the specimen once it’s deposited in the cup, so why can’t they handle the depositing process? But covid has everyone on edge, and I didn’t want to be THAT PERSON. I took the cup, drove across the street to my office, collected my sample, and drove it back across the street. It was a beautiful, sunshiny day, and I’m sure my urine enjoyed seeing a bit of the world before being forced into a tube and through the machine. Maybe that’s why the lab wouldn’t let me pee there. They wanted free range urine, worldly urine, urine with experience.

Another thing checked off the list. Pre-op clearance appointment scheduled for next week, pre-surgery covid test scheduled, and my mom has her tickets to come for a week to help out. It’s all coming together, in a frightening symphony of medical appointments. I hope all the instruments are in tune.

I’ve said it before, I don’t do well with waiting. Now it’s the day before my ortho follow up, and I’m waiting. My stomach is churning, I’m exhausted from actually working in the office today, and I had a beer and a melatonin. I should be crashed out in bed. Instead I’m worried what they are going to tell me tomorrow. 4 more weeks of therapy? I don’t think I could do it, I will go insane. How long does it take to schedule surgery? What’s the recovery? I hate not knowing.

As a medical professional, I come to the table with more base knowledge than the average injured person. I’m not sure if this then makes it harder for me to not know? Then there’s my boss and scheduler, who have been very patient and accommodating, but clearly would like to be able to plan a schedule as soon as I know. Then there’s my mother, who wants to fly in from Seattle, but can’t plan her time off or her flight until we know. All of this pressure weighs on me, all of these people wanting to know. The lack of knowledge is uncomfortable.

I ‘graduated’ from PT last week. My DPT told me that I was doing very well, that he was impressed with the progress I had made. I have to say that I am pretty pleased as well. I’m swimming and bike riding, I’m doing squats and wall sits and light weights, and I’m walking without crutches. I still can’t run, I’m still unsteady. I’m terrified of ice, with flashbacks of my knee flailing away from my body every time I gingerly and tentatively step onto an icy surface. Overall considering 6 weeks ago I couldn’t put weight on my knee at all, it’s relieving to be moving as much as I am. It takes courage and risk to push myself out of my comfort zone, to try exercises I’m not sure I can do. It’s painful to find some activities still hurt (planks, warrior poses, anything on my knees, dismounting the bicycle the wrong way), and thrilling to find new things I can do (downward dog, chair pose, single leg balance). It’s slow going, trial and error, but improvements are being made. I’ve worked as hard as I could in this past month, I just have to know that and hope it was enough. I am enough.

Growth is optional. I heard this the other day and it struck home for me. These past few weeks I’ve been making slow slow progress. I have been able to ride my bike, doing 20 minute recovery rides 3 times a week. Last week I started swimming, and oh the bliss! The pool brings a level of peace, a combination of meditation and exertion that soothes me like no other activity. I’m an Aries but born on the cusp with Pisces, and I have always been drawn to water.

Some weeks it feels like we as a family are scraping by, living day to day by the seats of our trousers. Some weeks I have it all together. This is the first week since The Fall that I feel like it’s finally somewhat together. Sunday I did 4 loads of laundry, prepped 3 meals for the week, made sure both kids got to and from skiing, watched church on fb, and zoomed with old friends from Iceland. It felt so good to finally be back doing my regular activities.

And I rode my bike for 20 minutes. As I churned the pedals at the low resistance and moderate speed, I felt somewhat irritable with my knee and the whole situation. It’s beyond frustrating to go from running and biking every day to barely walking. Sometimes the pain still wakes me up, and the joint itself feels tight and strange. It does not feel like my knee, like part of my body. Then the class instructor reminded us to be kind to ourselves, and she said, “if you want to give 200%, you need to learn to give 50%.“ and I thought,”yes.” I am very good at helping everyone else go at their own speeds, I am not good at allowing myself what I need. Right now, I need to go at 50%, and this will be my speed for several months, and that is ok.

Change is inevitable; my knee is jacked up whether I want it to be or not. I can continue to rail against the unfairness and the frustration of the situation, the pain and the loneliness. Or, I can embrace it, draw all of the awkward feelings towards me. Accept them for what they are, acknowledge them, and let them teach me, and help me grow. Growth is optional, but it seems like the option I should choose.

As with the previous post, I’m not here to preach to anyone, these are just my thoughts on the matter. I firmly believe that things happen for a reason. Not all the little things, like the weather today, or losing socks in the dryer. But the big things, like international moves or blowing ones knee out, for example.

I realize also, that I am not handling this well. This also indicates to me with big flashing letters that this is happening to me for a reason. Even without the sense of a larger purpose or an all powerful being, there’s a distinct possibility that there is a life lesson, or two, or three, that I could/should learn from all of this.

Unfortunately, I am a terrible student. Not in the traditional sense. I can memorize and regurgitate with the best of them. But for this to be a life changing situation, something that I walk away from in a year as a different woman… Well that’s a different story. Like most people, I resist change like Trump resisted election results. I’m comfortable in my rut, it’s easy and familiar. Change is wierd, it’s uncomfortable and awkward. It takes time and self reflection, and I don’t always like what my reflection looks like. Easier to just snuggle in.

Then, when a huge force comes along that demands change, it hurts. It hurts sometimes physically, like my knee, or childbirth. And it hurts emotionally, as evidenced by my previous posts. No matter how much one rants and rages against the force, it is still happening.

I’m sure that patience is definitely one of the lessons I need to get from this. This is a reoccurring theme in my life, everything in it’s own time. I am not patient, and as my life progresses and I look at my life, patience is a theme. Travelling requires patience. Moving requires patience (9 times in 14 years). Children require patience, the upmost patience, and ASD kids even more patience. Marriage requires patience. Just when I think I’ve learned the patience lesson, my knee comes along. Reflecting on all of this, I’ve learned patience in spades with everyone and everything else, but I rarely apply this to myself. Interesting. Something to think about…

I know if I take my meds and meditate and distract myself and use all my coping skills from years of therapy, it will be better. And most days it is better. But some days the dark waves of depression roll over me with a painful, soothing rhythm, and it’s easier to slide into the depths of despair instead of army crawl out of the trench. Exercise used to help. When I exercised every day, the dark days weren’t as frequent or as dark. One day I’ll be able to exercise again. Until then, I need to tread through the seductive darkness.

Today is our crazy small town’s annual ‘frozen 50k.’ Last year I didn’t run, because at that point in my life I wasn’t running on a regular basis. This year I’m not running because I’m benched. This is officially the first event I’m missing because of my knee. I did not realize how much it would bother me not be able to participate. It’s cold and grey, the road is icy, and it starts at 8 am. If I was running, I would be bitching and complaining about all of these. Now that I can’t run, I’m holding back tears.

It started earlier this week, when I offered to volunteer. It’s a very low key event, no time keeping or race numbers or anything, not much need for volunteers. However, I wanted to stay involved and keyed in, thinking that if I kept up with the group it would encourage me to keep my momentum. Also everyone wants to help with races in the summertime, with the sunshine and good weather. It’s harder to find volunteers in February. They said to show up at 7 and all the pancakes I can eat.

Then my friends started talking about what they were running. And the route. And what the weather would be. And then I got my second covid shot, and I was LAID OUT all of Thursday, feeling like absolute trash. Then my period started Friday, 5 days early again. I was so angry and irritable, worse than normal PMS, and I couldn’t figure out why. It’s so strange how I can be upset about things that I don’t even realize are upsetting me. Then I saw a Facebook post about the race, and it felt like a knife in the chest. I felt like my ribs were flayed open and my heart was bleeding. I cried off and on for hours. I thought about calling the organizers and backing out, saying it was too painful to watch other people run when I couldn’t. I was scared to death I would start sobbing at the shotgun start and embarrass myself further. The poor, fat invalid, whining because she can’t run.

Then I laid in bed and listened to a book on tape, trying to fall asleep. I in no way want to push any religion on anyone, and I have no intention of saying anything except I’ve found what works for me. This is not a debate. I was listening to a book by Rachel Held Owens called,”Searching For Sunday.” In it she talked about a prayer as she lit a candle,”may this light the darkness within me.” And I felt it warm me. I said the Hail Mary a few times, feeling the female power wash over me. I’m not Catholic, but I’ve always loved the Hail Mary prayer, loved the focus on the female. I asked the goddess, the maiden/mother/crone to give me the strength to do this. I fell into a restless sleep and woke up at 5:45, ready to drive and pass out shirts.

The fire hall in Cassadaga NY was cold and dark at 7 am. I propped up my leg and watched people sign in, passing out shirts as they grabbed their goody bags, stretched, complained about the weather, made their last bathroom trips, debated layers and types of shoes. There’s a camaraderie in shared misery, in undergoing something wretched together. Even when it’s self inflicted, when one pays money to participate, there is a kinship of insanity and suffering. And I was on the outside. I felt the shell of protection harden around my heart, and I deliberately separated myself from this. I wished everyone luck, and sat down to eat my pancakes and drink my coffee. I lingered around for a while, waiting to see if anyone I knew would stop in for a bathroom break or a drink, but ultimately I left before they came back. Retrospectively this was for the best, because watching the victory over the adversity of the weather and the distance would have only worked as a hammer to my newly formed shell. This sounds heartless, but sometimes survival is just that. I didn’t cry at the event, which was my main goal.

And I’ve learned something about myself: I’m not a good bench sitter. This sucked. I went home and cried. Then later, when the same friends cancelled other plans due to weather, I cried more. What I realized is that I have nothing to work towards, nothing to look forward to. That has been my main coping technique, always my tactic to get me through, make plans in the future and work towards that goal. Well 1) this is the age of Corona and nothing in certain, 2) I can’t workout towards a race or an event, 3) I can’t travel, 4) nothing is changing anytime soon. I can’t seem to get myself worked up about ‘walking’ being my goal. Not only do I have nothing to look forward to, but now I have to watch while everyone else continues to participate and improve. I need to work on my bench sitting attitude; in other lights and in other times, I will 100% cheer on anyone and everyone, but right now I can’t even cheer on myself. On a side note, the pancake was delicious.

In my interminable boredom, I have been going through my phone, reading old things I wrote. This has nothing to do with my knee or with running, but I wrote it when I was a nursing instructor at a local college.

I see the new grad nurses, fresh of face with starched white scrubs

Ready to save the world

One patient at a time

Like brand new soldiers

Headed for war

Only to come home a broken shell

Scarred and hallowed out by the horrors they see

People call me horrible names

Stupid cunt

Mother fucker

Daughter of a whore

And later apologize

‘I was sick’ they say

‘I didn’t know what I was saying’ they say

‘We appreciate the work you do’ they say

‘It was nothing’ I say

‘It doesn’t bother me’ I say

‘I understand’ I say

‘Thank you’. I say

Because the scars on my soul from every insult,

Every rejection

Every horror

Are so numerous

The scarring is so thick

I can’t feel it

Even as every lash

Cuts into my flesh

And every curse brings a fresh trickle of blood

I can’t feel the injuries that suck the life force from me

Thank you sir, may I have another?

Like the horrors of war, I have seen and been party to terrible things.

I have helped a mother hold her dying infant more than once.

Drowned children, cancer, abuse, overdoses, the ravages.

And we have no decompression

And we come back the next day to do our jobs again

And we get yelled at, puked on, wiping asses and packing wounds and cleaning out maggots.

I shudder when I think of the new nurses.

I want to tell them to run

That this job will twist and scar your soul

Until you are a shell of a person

And you can tell no one.

Your spouse won’t understand

Your kids won’t understand.

Your patients won’t understand

‘I became a nurse to help people.’

‘Well honey, most people don’t want your help.

Here I am, 4 weeks later. I have no idea if this is what I’m supposed to be doing with my brace and my therapy. I can walk short distances with one crutch, but it still hurts. All day. I can bend it to about 90 degrees, and that hurts. A lot. I’m working full time doing telehealth, which I’ve said before sucks. I have two high functioning ASD kids, trying to do hybrid school during a pandemic. I have a husband who refuses to accept that their behaviors are due to autism, and is insistent that they are purposefully and willfully misbehaving. On top of this, said husband went back to work teaching this week. He’s extremely stressed about taking care of everything and everyone and working. And this makes him grumpy. Which makes me feel bad as I am a significant cause of stress. I can’t do anything, and anything I do isn’t right. All I want to do is cry, but is that productive? No. Nothing to look forward to, no end in sight. Pandemic is worse than ever. I’m exhausted all the time. Tomorrow is another day… I’m not sure I can do it.

Growing up, I was taught that any good deed you do was part of your daily work. You don’t get praise and thanks for giving presents or making meals or doing chores. This is what you are expected to do. Of course I got in trouble if I didn’t do it, because it was my job. Maybe this has what has made me so hungry for praise and validation. But I digress.

Fast forward to my early 20’s. I meet my future husband, and his family operated similarly, but they wrote thank you notes. A note for every single Christmas present. Every meal. Every thing done by someone outside of the ‘inner circle.’ Of course you don’t write thank you notes to your spouse or your children. But why not? We will revisit this later. So I dutifully bought a pack of thank you notes, and got to work. It was exquisitely painful. And even more painful was repeatedly prodding my husband to do it. So this action gradually fell to the wayside and I went back to my former method of thanking someone in person or via phone call, and assuming this was good enough.

Fast forward to now. I try to always be helpful in times of illness or trouble. Whether it be putting together meals or cheer up boxes or cards, donating time or money. If I can’t organize it myself, I at least find someone who can. If someone needs help, I will rearrange everything to get it done. In high school a friend accused me of being too self-focused and needy, and this has made me ultra aware of the need to do things for other people, to not be seen as the soul-sucker of the group. As an only child, it’s sometimes hard to be group-focused, I have to make an effort. But I want to be seen as an asset, not a liability.

Recently, tables have turned and I am unable to do anything. ANYTHING. I can’t cook, I can’t drive, I can’t exercise, I can’t go for walks. I am now the energy drain. Now people are bringing me meals and sending me meal gift cards, making me special crutch bags, giving me rides, calling to check on me. I’m overwhelmed with the generosity and kindness of my community. My husband, who will do anything to help anyone, hates to ask for help from anyone. HATES it like Gollum hates Frodo. He gets awkward and doesn’t know what to do. Like me, he was raised to help others. However, he was taught never to ask for help from anyone, and needing help makes him feel uncomfortable. I’ve tried to present the Pay-it-forward idea, that we help someone and someone else helps us, and this kindness is what makes us decent humans. And along with this, I have brought back the thank you cards.

After Christmas I got a very sweet, thoughtful thank you note from a friend for a gift. I love getting mail, and her note brightened my day. However, she doesn’t have the insanity of children and I did have the uncharitable thought (excuse) in my head that ‘of course she writes thank you notes because she has the time. I’m too busy for that.’ Well, I have nothing but time now little miss smart-aleck! As I sat down to write notes to everyone who has helped us so far, this time the words rolled off my pen. It wasn’t a trite thank you for an expected holiday present, it was a sincere appreciation of the time and effort it took for each act of service. My frozen heart warmed with each letter I wrote, glad to be able to express my gratitude and hopefully bring some joy to my friend community. This is the value of the thank you note. Not to fulfill a societal or familial expectation, not because of a debt, but to truly recognize the work and effort of others.

Rewind to when I was a small child. My mother was very ill when I was a child, in and out of hospitals, even transferred up to the Mayo Clinic for 6+ weeks for surgery. When she came home she was very weak and had a huge open belly wound she needed to pack with gauze every day. My father did everything, house, laundry, meals. My mother’s parents helped a lot, but there was a huge burden on him. He told me later that my mother never said “thank you” for taking care of her, and this was the beginning of the separation process. I have three responses to this: 1) I have no idea how accurate this really is, and how much was my father making excuses for his behavior. 2) as a spouse, this is expected of you. You don’t get a thank you for doing your job. 3) now I’m in this predicament, and my spouse is feeling overwhelmed. If I don’t say thank you enough to him, will he feel unappreciated and leave me? let me say that I don’t think logically that this will really happen. However my emotional mind can easily become frantic, and (from the first paragraph) I do wonder why we don’t write thank you letters to our spouses? If anything, their thoughtfulness and laboring should mean the most, it is they who toil daily to make the household function. Yes a pan of lasagna is helpful, but it doesn’t get the laundry done and the kids put to bed. Teamwork is essential, and when one member of the team is out, and the other has to step up to shoulder the burden, that work should be recognized and appreciated. The idea behind this is then that spouse will continue to feel loved and valued, instead of just feeling overwhelmed. Everyone needs a little bit of grace. We all know that things don’t always work out as planned, but these are my thoughts on gratitude on a snowy Saturday.

I’ve already made this pretty clear that I want to speed this up, and I’m itching to get out of this immobilizer, off these damn crutches, and back to running and swimming and biking. In my second PT session, I made the gripping realization that not all physical therapists are the same.

Now I know it sounds stupid, of course they’re not! But I guess I figured that there was a set plan, a certain number of exercises that will go over a certain amount of weeks, and I should make X amount of progress. This week, as I was trying to distract myself from the pain of bending my knee, we were making small talk. I asked him where he liked to snowboard, and he mentioned some local places, and then some places in Montana, Vermont, California. I realized he doesn’t just like to snowboard, he REALLY LIKES to snowboard. So much that he plans vacations around it. A light was glimmering in the darkness of my brain, but it still didn’t turn on fully.

Then, as I’m wrapping up for the day, he’s going over the exercises we did, and I ask about trying to put weight on the gimpy leg. He looks at me with a bit of energy and says, “want to try walking with just one crutch?”. I was stunned. All I had to do was ask? If this was an option, why didn’t he bring it up? But absolutely, I walked about 10 feet away and then back, slowly, with the knee wobbling a bit. The wobble is now more of a jiggle and less of a sickening slide in the joint. Slightly more reassuring. I did it though! I walked with one crutch, on the second day of therapy! I was flying high, and still I didn’t put together the full picture of my dpt.

The next day, as I’m going through the exercises, it hits me. The light switch flipped. Brooks (yes his name is Brooks, I’m sure he has a young Republican card in his wallet and uses more hair product than me) is an adrenaline junky. He snowboards down crazy mountains, he obviously works out a lot, and he lets me push my therapy limit. I have a very good feeling about this. He’s not going to let me injure myself, but he’s not going to hold me back either. If I want to try something or if I say I can take more, he’s going to let me go for it. I’m cautiously optimistic for the first time in this mess. The idea that I can exceed the treatment plan, that I can do more than what is expected or recommended, that’s pure athlete adrenaline junkie, and he’s all in. Let’s do this!