Woe is me

There’s something humbling about knee replacement surgery that no one really prepares you for. You go into it thinking, “I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” and then reality gently (or not so gently) reminds you that healing has its own timeline. As I inch closer to 70, I’m learning that my body doesn’t always cooperate the way it used to. Some days it feels like my knee and I are in negotiations… and let’s just say, I’m not always winning.

It’s a strange realization, this awareness that our bodies are, little by little, wearing out. Scripture tells us this earthly tent won’t last forever, and now I’m feeling that truth in very real ways. Getting up takes a little more effort, walking requires a bit more thought, and don’t even get me started on stairs. Whoever invented stairs clearly never had a knee replacement!

But here’s what I’m holding onto: while the body may slow down, the spirit doesn’t have to. So in the meantime, I’m choosing to live the best I can, one day at a time. I’m learning to rest when I need to, laugh when I can, and manage the aches with a little more grace (and maybe a heating pad or two). There’s still so much life to live, even if I move through it a bit slower these days.

And through it all, I’m thankful. Thankful that I can still get up, still move, still embrace each new day God gives me. It may not look like it used to, but it’s still a gift. So I’ll keep going, one careful step at a time, with a grateful heart and maybe a slightly dramatic sigh every now and then. After all, if we can’t laugh a little along the way, we might just cry… and I’d rather save my energy for walking. 

A month since surgery

It's hard to believe it's been a month since I got the new knee. 30 days have passed quickly and painfully. I had no idea I'd experience such pain with this surgery. I figured since I've already had several major surgeries, this would be a piece of cake, but I guess age has played a factor in this one. 

I wish people hadn't sugar coated it when I asked about their experiences with the same surgery. I like to know what I'm up against. That's why I normally tell it like it is. I guess they wanted to protect me and encourage me to go ahead and do it. 

Yes, I needed the surgery. Yes, I could have waited a little longer but I'd already pushed it off for 2 years and I'd already had 2 surgeries on that knee during those 2 years, so...I figured I'd better go ahead and do it before I got too old. 

The physical therapy has been tough and gets tougher every session. I think physical therapy should be called perpetual torture. 

The doctor had said I'd need 6 weeks of therapy post surgery. I did 4 and told them I'd do the rest at home. There's no reason for me to have my insurance company billed almost $600 a session and for me to pay my share when I can do the same things at home for free. 

So, I'll be working toward getting a good range of motion over the next few months so I can get back to doing the things I enjoy, like hiking. Right now, I'm using a walking when I need to and using a cane when I feel steady enough to do it. 

If you want to know the real scoop on knee replacement, it's a really challenging surgery. It's extremely painful and will take months and possibly years to recover from. Don't let people fool you into thinking it's a piece of cake, because it's not.  

 

Rest is a vital part of recovery

It's been 8 days since I had my knee replacement surgery, and boy has this been an experience! 

I fell the day after surgery and landed smack dab on my knee that had just been replaced. Talk about pain! It took my breath away. So I went to see the surgeon to make sure everything was okay. He did three x-rays and said all was good, thank the Lord! 

A few days later the back of my calf started burning and hurting really badly. Another trip back to the surgeon! He was concerned about a deep vein thrombosis and sent me for a veinous ultrasound. As the tech moved to the wand up and down my leg pressing on it at various locations, all I could think about was the ultrasounds that were performed when I was pregnant with my children. That was a long time ago, but the memories are still fresh. The ultrasound tech was not able to give me an official report, but told me as I was getting ready to leave his office, that he didn't see anything concerning. That gave me huge piece of mind. 

Today I got word from the surgeon's office that the ultrasound was indeed clear and I could breathe a sigh of relief. 

My sweet husband has been helping me do the at home exercises which are very challenging. I have a lot of swelling in my knee which makes movement difficult. Even though I have the swelling, I continue to do the exercises. I don't need to have scar tissue form that prevents me from moving freely in the future. 

I guess this surgery has been difficult because I'm much older now, but it's definitely reminded I don't need to take things like walking for granted. We need our knees more than we realize. 

Hopefully it is willing will go down eventually and I can move better. 

Tomorrow is another physical therapy day. I'm going twice a week now and will probably continue for 6 to 10 weeks. It's very expensive at $45 a pop, but it's necessary. 

My physical therapist is sweet. Her name is Dr Mahayla Herron. She's very patient and kind which I appreciate. I hate that she's going to be out of town tomorrow though and I get to work with another therapist. Poo! Hopefully things will go smoothly. 

There are so many things I wish I could ve doing right now, but God has me in a seasoyof rest and recovery. One of the side effects of the major pain medication I've been prescribed is drowsiness. It's not like me to take naps in the middle of the day, but lately I have been. I guess I need it. Rest, I'm told is a vital part of recovery, so I'm learning to accept and embrace that. 

Joint school

Well, today was interesting! As a requirement of the hospital that's performing my knee replacement surgery, I had to attend a virtual joint school. It was an hour and a half presentation that went over what to do before and after surgery. I'm not a huge fan of internet classes, but I was thankful I didn't have to turn on my webcam to attend. It was funny to watch the faces of the participants that chose to turn theirs on, though. Some of them looked so bored and others looked like they were extremely serious. I fell into the middle thinking I could read the Powerpoint slides myself. 

The nurse that hosted the class wasn't very good. She had a deadpan voice and I'm sure the whole thing was rote to her. It would have been nice to have had someone with a little more positivity, but hey, I guess they get tired of doing the classes so frequently. 

I was surprised at the number of people in the class today. There were 18. If that's average, and they do a class every day of the month for this area, that's a lot of people needing hips and knees replaced. 

I'm so nervous about the surgery! I don't want to have it done at all but it's gotten to the point I'm unable to walk well without a brace. And since I've already had 2 surgeries on this knee, a replacement was my only option according to my orthopedist. 

Getting old is not fun. It seems every day is filled with more aches and pains but, we have to be thankful for the medical advancements that help keep us going, don't we? 

While I was taking the online joint class, my husband was sitting beside me watching, too. All of a sudden he turned to me and said, "You sure are beautiful." Oh my gosh! My heart melted. After almost 32 years, he's still enamored with me. He has no idea how much I needed to hear that today. My body is so broken from past surgeries and medical procedures and it's about to get even uglier, but he still loves me. I am so blessed! 

Hopefully surgery will go well and I won't have any complications. I'm supposed to have physical therapy 2 times a week for 6 weeks. I'd better be up and "running" by October because I've got a trip to the mountains planned then and then later in the year, I have cruise. I'll be doing everything I can to have a quick recovery. 

As soon as I wrote that last sentence, a song from the old TV show my kids used to watch popped into my head - "Bend and stretch, reach for the stars, there goes Jupiter, there goes Mars. Bend and stretch, reach for the sky - stand on tippy toes, oh so high!" (Romper Room way back in the day!) I guess I'm mentally preparing for lots of pain ahead.  

30 minutes isn't long enough

Today I watched the online service for my ex sister-in-law. She lived in Canada and I wasn't able to attend in person, but thankfully, her girls sent me a link so I could watch online. A lot of people may not understand caring for an ex relative. Divorce is supposed to sever all of those ties, right? But that's not always the case. 

On February 1, I got a Facebook message from one of my ex nieces. She told me her mother's condition was grave and I might want to call before it was too late. I wasn't shocked by the call. For several years, her Mom had been in an assisted living facility and had been struggling with many health issues. We'd stayed in touch during that time and had been sporadically in touch since 1974 via phone or mail, but with the invention of Facebook, we touched base several times a day. 

When we first met, over 50 years ago, I was thrilled. I'd never had a sister in law before. She was like a big sister to me and though she wasn't that much older than me, I wanted to be like her. We had so much in common - our love of crocheting, sewing, and many other types of crafts. We didn't get to see each other often, since distance was an issue, but when we did, we made the most of our time doing things we loved. 

Once, shortly after my first husband and I married, she and her husband came down to spend the week with us. They traveled from Vermont all the way down to Georgia. It was such a fun week as we cooked together, played card games, and ran around sight seeing. When it was time for them to leave, we made a promise we'd see each other again soon, but that never happened due to several things. Her husband passed away and I got divorced. 

We passed gifts to one another back and forth through mail, always trying to find something unique and fun. It was a way of letting each other know we still loved and cared for one another. Once she made me a beautiful crocheted sweater and sent it to me for Christmas. I wore that thing until it fell apart. And who knows how many mugs we went each other - personalized with both our names, so we'd never forget. Now she's gone. 

During that last phone call, I could tell she was struggling to breathe. She'd been on oxygen for a long time because of COPD and other issues, but I hadn't expected the constant breathlessness as we talked. At one point, I was so worried about her talking, I asked her to stop and rest. I wanted her to take a break, not only for herself, but also for me. It made me extremely anxious hearing her struggle for air. During that time, I recounted old memories and she'd giggle as she remembered. Before we hung up, I told her I loved her and wanted her to keep fighting. I had no idea she'd die the next morning and when I got the news, I was heartbroken. Not only for her girls, but also for her second husband. I also beat myself up because I hadn't thought to share the plan of salvation with her. Instead of reminiscing, in an effort to make her laugh, I should have been more concerned about where she'd spend eternity. I've tried to take solace in knowing she was raised in the Catholic faith, but I still feel I let her down. 

The service was streamed and only lasted about 30 minutes. During that time, a very young priest did his best to give a nice sermon. Since he'd never met my ex sister-in-law, he only knew what the family had shared with him. He did an okay job, but could have done better. 

I was so sad to see her urn sitting on a wooden table at the front of the funeral home. There was one very small floral arrangement there. Before the "service" began, a quick slide show was presented. There weren't even 35 photos...it was so sad. 

The camera was angled toward the front pew. Sitting there were her 2 daughters and one son in law. I couldn't help but watch them as the priest talked. One of the girls was very distraught. The other was doing her best to be strong. 

30 minutes. That's all she got. This wonderful friend, wife, mother, grandmother, sister, and aunt...half an hour. It seemed ludicrous to me. How can you honor someone who's lived and loved for 74 years and sum it up in 30 minutes? But that's all she got and that made me wonder how much time I'll get when I leave this Earth. Will my family take time to celebrate my life? I hope so. Will they be devastated at my leaving? I assume so, but I also hope they'll be happy for me - that I'll have no more pain or suffering. I've been through an awful lot of that throughout my life. 

When I die, I plan to be cremated. I've already got my urn. I bought it at an antique sale held by the mega church I used to work for many years ago. It's a lovely shade of turquoise and I got it for $5 - what a steal! I told my husband and the kids I wanted to have my ashes put in the urn and then, whenever they were ready, I wanted to be taken to one of our favorite camping spots - Cumberland Island, and be sprinkled there at Sea Camp beach. 

I don't really care if I get more than 30 minutes but I do hope they take time to remember good things about me. I've tried to live my life well and live it to the fullest - despite criticism, hurt, and pain from those who didn't even try to understand me. And many of those have been family members who say I use things I experience as "fodder" for my blog. It hurts to know they feel that way, but blogging is cathartic and healing for me. I don't force any of them to read what I write. 

I'll miss my sweet friend and ex sister-in-law. She was a good person and she will be greatly missed. 30 minutes doesn't seem like a long time down here, but up in heaven, I imagine it would feel like an eternity. I pray I'll see her there one day and if I do, we're going to do a lot of catching up.

Oh how I hate cancer!

If I could kill something I would and that something would be cancer. I hate it with my entire being, especially when I learn, day after day, another friend has either been diagnosed with cancer or has found out a family member has been diagnosed. 

In my office, I have a whiteboard where I keep a list of prayer concerns. Daily I watch the concerns grow as I add one after another after another name and different type of cancer. Currently, I have 15 names on that board and that's just those who've shared their news with me since January of this year! It makes me physically ill every time I get a call, text, or email with a plea for prayer. Sometimes I'm so overwhelmed I want to run away and never come back. 

I've cried so many tears, I could never count them but I know God holds them all in a bottle because the Bible tells me He does. That makes me think He considers each one priceless, but tears don't fix the problem, they only relieve a little of my stress and soothe the cracks in my heart that have formed with each painful notification. 

I don't understand why I'm still here, after 11 years, and so many of my friends are not. I don't understand why my cancer seems to be dormant or perhaps completely cured, and theirs rage out of control. 

When I get to heaven, I'm going to have to sit down with God and ask all these questions. He may or may not give me the answers but I'm hoping He will. And if He doesn't, I pray He'll give me peace to accept the things He's allowed, because right now, I don't have it.

Will the health challenges ever end?

I wish I'd understood how age affects one's health. Even though I saw it first hand, I didn't grasp the concept as my in laws and my parents began to decline. I knew their stamina would wane, that's just part of life, but to fully understand the challenges of aging, I think one must have first hand experience. 

By today's standards, I'm not really old. Yes, I'm closer to 70 than 60, but to me, that's still pretty young. I don't necessarily feel my age. Perhaps that's because I push myself day in and day out. Since my cancer diagnosis back in 2014, I've pushed even harder than ever before. I've often asked myself why, but when I think about it, I believe the feeling I need to use up every minute of every day is rooted in the fear of wasting time that I am not guaranteed to have. Funny how a disease can impress that on you. 

This year has been extremely challenging. I've been hospitalized more times than I can count. Some of those hospitalizations were planned surgeries and others, complications of surgeries or unexpected issues that snuck up on me when I least expected them. 

I don't like hospitals but I will say I feel comfortable in them. I know, even in hospitals where the care isn't the greatest, I will receive some care. That gives me a weird form of security, but I have to say, the last few visits to the ER were definitely not good experiences. In fact, they were pretty bad and I'm not just talking about personnel, I'm talking about uncleanness and ineptitude. I never thought hospitals in our city would be that way. How naive of me! 

Today I had a CT scan on my knee. I wasn't expecting to do it so soon. On my last visit to the bone and joint center, I'd had a good many x-rays done. My poor left knee had been giving me problems for the past 2 years. I'd already had a lateral menisectomy and a condroplasty on it. I'd also had 4 cortisone shots. Those bought me some time, but the doc said we were now at a point of making the choice to better my quality of life or keep winging it with medical patches. He said the x-rays revealed my situation was now bone on bone. There was nothing left to do other than a complete knee replacement...OH JOY! 

I wondered why they wanted a CT scan after I'd received this news, but the medical assistant cleared it up for me. She said they needed the scan in order to make my prosthetic joint. When she said that, I became very quiet. 

My poor body has been through a lot. In fact, sometimes I wonder how I'm still alive with all the pieces and parts I have missing. You could say I'm a miracle, but I think God isn't done with me yet and that's why He keeps letting me go through one health trial after another. 

I keep hoping my kids will see and understand the things I didn't as my parents were aging. If they lived closer, I imagine they would. I don't ever want to have to need their help, but eventually it will come down to it. 

Aging joints, lack of strength, needing to rest more often, random aches and pains - I've got all of those, I'll admit. It sucks, to be honest. I'd love to have the strength from my youth again, but that won't ever happen. 

If this surgery can make me more mobile, I'll be thankful. I don't look forward to all it entails, but sometimes you do what you have to do to keep going. 

I've got my walker fitted with little gliding tennis balls and I'm psyching myself up for physical therapy. Just like the train in the Little Engine that Could, a story I used to read my children when they were small, I'm telling myself, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..." I sure hope I'm right. I don't ever want to be confined to a wheelchair again like I was after my awful car wreck in 1990. That was a time of excruciating pain and trauma. My right tibia and fibula were completely

crushed and it took almost 3 years for me to be able to walk without pain again. Thank goodness it's the left leg this time. Boy, I'm glad we only have 2 legs!

Fire ants!

How can something so little hurt so much? I've asked myself that question a thousand times and always in regard to some tiny, evil, red devils properly named FIRE ANTS! If you've ever encountered any of these wretched insects, you know what I'm talking about! Their potent venom can inflict so much pain. 

On a hike, about a week ago, my husband and I stopped to have lunch. There was a concrete picnic table in the state park and we decided to have lunch there. As always, I looked under the table before sitting down. (I've learned in the past, creepy crawlers like to hide and nest there.) When I looked, I didn't see anything but decomposing leaves, so flinging one leg then the other over the concrete bench, sat down to enjoy a sandwich. After lunch, we drove home thinking about the perfectly beautiful day we'd had. 

But...

About an hour into our ride home, I began to itch. That's when I realized I'd been attacked. 

As soon as we got home, I pulled off my pants and saw the damage, about 30 bites covered my legs. They were flame red and welted up. I recognized those bites from past attacks. Pulling out the Benadryl, I coated my legs but got little relief. 

For the next several days, I itched and scratched. I slathered myself in hydrocortisone cream and alternated with Benadryl, I even took oral Benadryl hoping the medication would quell the antihistamine roaring through my body, but nothing worked. 

It's a good thing I keep my nails short, or I would have been bleeding all over the place! Even with short nails, I did some damage as I was scratching, but try as I might, I had to do it. It wasn't until I scratched off the top layer of skin that I got some relief and then, a friend told me to try Lavender essential oil. That was the only thing that helped. 

I don't know why God invented some of His creatures, like flies, mosquitoes, and ants but I'm sure He had a reason. 

Fire ants could be a weapon of mass destruction, or at least feel like it! 

 If you see any of those little red devils, BEWARE! They don't play! They are seriously equipped to inflict pain and can even cause anaphylaxis. 

A Perplexing Situation

All week I've had pain in my right hand extending from my ring finger to my wrist. It hurt so badly, I thought I'd managed to fracture a bone. My hands are small and my bones tiny. I hadn't fallen or whacked it on anything, so I had no idea why it was hurting so. To remedy the situation, I pulled out an old wrist brace I'd saved in my medical equipment box. (It was from a time I'd fallen in a hole in the backyard and fractured my wrist.)

Several days after wearing the brace, the pain got better. That helped me realize 2 things: 1. My bone was not broken 2.;There was a logical reason. 

Trying to figure out the cause was hard. I went over multiple factors, but I finally think I have the answer- my cell phone.

My phone is big and heavy. I looked up the weight, 6.6 ounces. Add an Otter Box on top of it and I've probably been lifting 8 ounces a day repeatedly. My poor little bones were screaming out for relief. 

When I solved the problem, I decided to only pick up my phone when necessary, to use my earbuds, and to switch hands often if I had to hold the phone. 

I wish I had a lighter phone. I guess I could always go get a burner, but I like all my bells and whistles so I won't. 

There is an article will some helpful info if you have "phone wrist fatigue" too. 

~ Random musings from yours truly

Read more about smartphone wrist fatigue

If it ain't one thing, it's another!

 

Trying to smile through the pain

I've been AWOL for a while now, so this post will more than likely be longer than most. I don't even know where to begin so I guess I'll just start and possibly backtrack at some point. 

On May 6th, I was scheduled for a hiatal hernia repair surgery. I went in for surgery, stayed one night and thought all was well when they sent me home. I had 8 laparoscopic incisions and was definitely sore, but figured that was par for the course. 

I was sent home with detailed instructions on diet - 2 days of completely clear liquids, 2 weeks of soft liquids (think protein shakes, yogurt and non chunky soups) and then a full liquid diet for a month before progressing to normal food 2 months later. Long story short, that never happened. 

On Friday of the same week, something weird started happening. My belly swelled up like I was carrying triplets and it really hurt. I knew something was definitely wrong and told hubby I'd better go to the emergency room.
Quickly, he shuttled me there and I didn't have to wait long to get put into a room. After many tests, they determined I'd developed an Ileus, a complication from abdominal surgery. Without going into tons of detail, it basically means your belly is full of gas and your bowels aren't working. It's an emergency situation so I'm glad I went to the ER!

They immediately inserted a nasogastric tube, which is extremely painful! I've only had it done once before and that was way back in 1971 when I had emergency gall bladder surgery. I'd forgotten how painful the procedure was.  The nurses were kind and kept saying they were sorry as they shoved the hard tubing into my nose and down my esophagus into my stomach. I cried the entire time and that's saying a lot for me. I have a pretty high pain tolerance but this thing, I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

I stayed in the emergency room overnight as they tried to decide what to do with me. Finally it was determined I'd be transported to Piedmont Atlanta, the hospital my surgeon was based out of. They felt like he needed to follow up since he was the one who did the original procedure and to quote one of the nurses, when I asked why they weren't keeping me at Piedmont Newnan, "We don't like to clean up other folks messes." That didn't make me feel good...

About 7:30 AM I was put into a specialized ambulance with the capability for suctioning and draining the nasogastric tube. (I'd been told 3 times prior different times I'd be moved but those ambulances weren't equipped with the suctioning machinery, so I had to wait.)

When I arrived at Piedmont Atlanta, I was put on the cardio thoracic floor. Since I also have blood pressure issues, I guess they wanted to monitor everything all at once. The nurses were attentive and I was thankful Phil was about to stay with me. At that time, I had no idea I'd be kept there an entire week. 

When he found out I was being transferred from one hospital to another, I told him to go home and get some sleep. He'd been with me and hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in about 14 hours. I asked him to pack a bag for each of us with clothing and necessities and he assured me he would. Well, guys don't pack like we do. 

When he got back to the hospital the morning they were moving me, I asked if he'd packed several different things. He said he'd forgotten because he was so tired. I didn't know what we'd do, since the ambulance was arriving and we had to leave. 

He followed me to the hospital and when we were assigned a room, he brought our things in from the car. We had no idea what was going to happen until later that afternoon when one of my docs partners stopped by to explain things to us. 

They would keep me hooked up to a suctioning machine that would remove all of my stomach contents and help ease the swelling. I wouldn't be allowed to have anything to eat other than ice chips for 2 days then they'd reassess. In the meantime, they ran all sorts of bloodwork and monitored me every hour or two with blood pressure checks and recording vitals. 

Since I had the nasogastric tube in, I didn't get much sleep. I normally sleep on my side but had to sleep on my back. Also, I couldn't have my cpap on so they had to hook me up to oxygen at night. 

Every day, one or more of my IVs would blow and they'd have to find another place to insert one. With Lymphedema (a complication of breast cancer surgery) they could only use my left arm below the elbow. That meant every IV had to be done in the tiny veins of my hand or in one of the ones below my elbow joint. There weren't a lot of options! Most of the IV team had to use an infrared scanner to even find a vein. 

Every day I was also give Heparin shots to prevent blood clots. Those suckers hurt like a really bad bee sting! They gave them either in my stomach or in the back of my arm. (When I went home, I looked like I'd been in a bad fight with all the bruising!)

At the end of the week, after trying to give me TPN through an IV and having it infiltrate into my shoulder muscle, the doc said they'd remove the nasogastric tube and let me try liquids again. I was so happy! 

A team of 4 nurses came in to remove the tubing. At the time, I didn't realize there were so many of them because only one had ever seen one inserted or knew how to remove it and she wanted to teach the others. 

When they began to pull the tubing out of my nose, I said, "Once you start pulling, you'd better do it quick and not stop or I might scream!" So they did. 

That afternoon, they brought me a small container of apple juice, some crushed ice and some chicken broth. That stuff never tasted so good!

Fast forward 37 days. I'm still on soft liquids. When I tried to progress through original diet plan they gave me, I had trouble with food getting stuck in my esophagus. Immediately I contacted the doctor and she said I'd probably have to have my esophagus stretched again. (This will make the 3rd or 4th time now!) I can't get in to see her until June 21 so I imagine I'll have lost even more weight by then. I've already lost about 15 pounds since all this junk started. 

I'm so thankful Phil has been so encouraging and supportive throughout the entire process. Without him by my side, I don't think I would have made it. 

I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my middle daughter, Laura, who went shopping for me. She picked up most of the items Phil forgot when he was packing. 

My youngest daughter, Jamie and her husband, Thomas, came to visit as well as my son, Dave, and my sister, Valerie. I really needed those visits more than they knew. I had become quite depressed at all that was happening to me medically. 

It's hard when you can't control anything about your body. I still don't know exactly why my insides decided to shut down other than things I heard medical staff say. They told me when you have abdominal surgery, docs fill your belly with CO2 to inflate you enough to clearly see and work on your organs. Most times, your body expels that gas but sometimes, when they're in there jiggling stuff around, it can cause your intestines to stop functioning and that leads to big problems. 

I guess, when I see the doc at my upcoming appointment, she's going to recommend I have my esophagus stretched again. That means being put to sleep and having an outpatient procedure. 

I was supposed to have a knee replacement earlier this year but have been trying my best to put it off as long as possible. I've already had 2 surgeries on that knee but the doc said at my last appointment it's now bone on bone and my last option is replacement. 

I told Phil I think my body is just falling apart. As we get older, things just start to wear out. It's so hard because there are so many things I still want to be able to do and I really need to be able to walk without pain. (I've been wearing a knee brace for the past 3 years - since my lateral meniscectomy and my chondroplasty.) I definitely don't want a knee replacement and don't look forward to rehab after but I guess I don't have much choice. 

First of all, I have to get this belly junk resolved and then we'll think about the knee. 

I have an upcoming vacation I want to enjoy and early next year, I have another cruise to go on. I'm praying, by then, I'll be healed up and feeling normal again (whatever that feels like! It's been a very long time since I've felt normal...)

Please keep me in your prayers and if you feel like it, leave a comment (please be nice!) Thanks for reading and hopefully, I won't be lax in posting again. Hopefully, you can understand why there's been such a gap after reading this post.

When you can't walk well, write!

Since surgery, I've been having a lot of trouble walking. My knee is so swollen and sore! It hasn't even been a week since the arthroscopic surgery, so I should give myself grace, but resting is so hard to do! I'm a person who always needs and wants to be doing something. 

Today, I decided I'd do what I could. Usually the mornings are when I have the most energy, so I tidied the bed, pulled out the laundry from the dryer and put another load on to wash. Then, I hobbled out to the freezer to get some burgers out for tonight's dinner. As I did each thing, I could feel my knee balk. Though I was using the walker for balance, I'd often find myself putting full weight on my injured knee. I wasn't supposed to be doing that yet. The doc had said only 50% weight bearing right now. I had to remind myself to be careful. I definitely didn't want to re-injure that leg or undo what the doctor had just done. 

Next, I pushed my way into the kitchen, prepared items for dinner and put them on to bake. It was more difficult that I'd thought trying to hold a baking pan filled with food and slide it into the oven, especially when I didn't realize the Pampered Chef stoneware was still in there! That stuff is heavy!

I managed to get the stoneware out and the other food in but as I tried to do it, I managed to burn my fingers on the stoneware. As fast as I could, I hobbled over to the sink to use the lavender/aloe burn spray. My fingers felt better after using it. 

Setting the timer on the oven, I made my way to the office and fired up the computer. There was a story brewing and I had to get it started. 

On our last trip to Florida, I'd come up with the idea for a short story as we traveled through the small town of Sopchoppy. I'd mentioned it to my youngest daughter and she'd laughed. I told her I wasn't kidding. I was going to write a story and soon, she'd get to read it. 

The other night when I had a bad case of insomnia and had crawled out of bed at 1:44 a.m. the story was forming in my mind. I went into the guest bedroom and pulled up the voice memo recorder on my phone. In the dark, I lay there and recorded my thoughts. I didn't want to forget any of them. As they swirled, I continued to talk. 

The next morning, I opened the app and listened to what I'd recorded. My voice was sultry and deep - lack of sleep, for sure, but also because of having had my thyroid gland removed in 2005. Since that surgery, my voice had taken on a sultry, sexy tone. I thought it frustratingly funny. Frustrating because my voice had gone down a few octaves and my husband could rarely hear when I was speaking to him. Funny, because whenever I get a head cold, it sounds like I should be running an 900 number for phone sex. 

The story was fun to listen to and gave me enough info to get started. 

Since I couldn't do much else today, I had fun building my characters and lining up the setting. I sent the first few pages to my youngest to read. She just sent me an email telling me it was really good. I was happy to hear she enjoyed it. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't write. 

Since I was a young child, I've written. At first, I doodled, but when I learned the alphabet, I wrote nonstop on any and everything. I haven't stopped since then! 

I love that God gifted me with the ability to share my thoughts. Words have such power. 

Proverbs 18:21 says, "The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit." 

We have to be extremely careful with our words. You can't call them back once they're spoken. 

Writers must choose their words carefully to convey their thoughts well. I try to do that. 

Writing is cathartic for me. Since I can't do much else right now because of my healing knee, I'm spending time wielding words wisely. 

I hope you have a creative outlet. It makes life a lot easier especially in these evil days. If you don't, why not look for something you enjoy? There are so many things to try. I'm sure you'll find your niche but you have to start looking!

These old knees ain't what they used to be!

 When I was a kid, I remember singing a silly song entitled, "The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used to Be." It was a song that always made me giggle. Well, today, I feel like that old gray mare. I am definitely not what I used to be. These 65 year old knees are wearing out. 

Wrapped up and resting

For the past 2 years, I've dealt with pain and swelling in my left knee. I've had 4 steroid shots and have been through a series of braces. While those things bought me some time, they didn't fix the problem and it continued to get worse. Finally, last month, I was back in the orthopedic doc's office begging for help. I could barely walk and knew if I didn't do something soon, I was going to need a complete knee replacement. I didn't want that!

Since I loved hiking and being outdoors, it was urgent I do something. I wanted to stay mobile as long as possible. Talking with the doc, we came up with a plan. After XRAYS and MRIs, the verdict was a lateral meniscus tear and severe arthritis. I knew the arthritis was part of aging, but when did I do damage to that knee? I couldn't pinpoint it. I'd had several falls over the last few years, including a really hard one on my right knee while in Israel, but this was my left. Did I perhaps damage it then too and not realize it? Who knew. 

So the doc planned surgery for the following week. He would perform an arthrosocopic lateral Meniscectomy, Chondroplasty, and debridement of the patellofemoral compartment and medial compartments. Now that's a mouthful! In essence, he was going to make 2 holes in my knee, stick a camera in one hole and cutting instruments in the other. Next he would remove the torn ligament, scrape out damaged tissue and try to remove as much arthritis as possible. Sounded like a quick and easy procedure...

Icing

Well, the day of surgery, I was pretty calm thanks to all the prayers going up from my friends and family members. The anesthesiologist was able to find a vein in my hand on the first try, which was amazing because that never happens for me. After being rolled into the surgical suite, I was moved onto a gurney and within a few seconds, it was lights out for me. 

I woke up in recovery to some pretty rough pain but the nurse was instantly there with ginger ale and pain meds. After an hour, I was able to go home with instructions to keep my leg elevated and iced. I was also given an arsenal of pain meds. 

Things went pretty smoothly until the anesthesia wore off and the pain set in. I wasn't expecting it to be so bad, especially since I'd been through a horrendous automobile accident in 1991 where both bones below the knee in my right leg were crushed. But I was younger then. 

I had a fitful night but managed to make it through. I wasn't looking forward to the

day as physical therapy had already been scheduled and I'd be making my way there in a couple of hours. Thankfully, one of my girls had volunteered to come chauffeur me to the appointment. 

My therapist was a young, oriental woman but boy, she was tough as nails. She worked me hard and I was exhausted by the time our hour session was over. As I was leaving, she said she'd see me twice next week and we'd continue for about 8-10 weeks! What???!!! I wasn't expecting that! Getting old sucks!

My therapist

So, I'm doing my best to look at the positives, which is a little hard right now. One day soon, I'll be able to walk without pain. At least I'm not confined to a wheelchair like I was back in 1991 for a year and a half and then I was on crutches for another year. Now I'm shuffle along on my trusty walker. 

I'm thankful for gel ice packs, pain meds, a sweet husband who picks up the slack, and kids who do what they can when they can. I am tired and I'm doing my best. 

God continues to prompt me to rest and I find it interesting that I'm currently reading a book on that very subject. I don't know why I have such a hard time resting, but I do. I feel so worthless and unproductive when I'm not doing something. 

Surgical sites and doctor's initials

The Bible says God rested on the 7th day. He didn't rest because He was tired, He'd just completed His work. If He deems rest important, I guess I'd better learn that lesson sooner rather than later, otherwise, I may have to keep going through physical maladies until I understand. I definitely don't want any more object lessons, not for a very, very long time. 

The book I'm reading

I was able to remove the bandages long enough to take a shower yesterday. I was scared to death I'd fall in the shower, so I had my walker half in and half out so I could hang on. I'd had to put waterproof bandages over the surgical sites before showering to protect from water, but that wasn't a big deal. After drying off, I had to remove those bandages, put new ones on and rewrap everything. By the time I was through, I was exhausted and ready to ice my knee again. 

Today, I'm going to take it easy until time for therapy. I hope I can do it. There's so much I want to be doing, but my knee is hurting so they'll have to wait. 

If you have good knees, love them! Take good care of them! Knees are so important. I plan to pamper mine after healing from this surgery. Otherwise, knee replacements are in my future and I am not wanting to go through that, especially since this surgery has been so painful.

Her name was Rain

I stood in line to checkout, balancing packages and waiting my turn. As the line moved forward, I greeted the cashier with a hearty, “Good afternoon.” She responded with a grunt and that’s when I noticed her face studded with metal. Trying not to judge, I wondered why she’d chosen so many piercings.

 
She rang up my items one by one as I tried hard to think of things to talk with her about. My eye caught her name tag. It said her name was Rain. Interesting, I thought. This woman looked to be about 25. I didn’t think her parents were from my generation, so I asked about her name. “I like your name,” I began, “It’s so different. May I ask if it’s your first name or your middle name?” She looked up from bagging and said, “It’s not my name, it’s just one I identify with. My name is Kate.”

I became quiet for a moment, not knowing how to respond. I’d never encountered someone who’d chosen a name purely on its merits.

 
She continued working and I watched her countenance. I could tell, by her facial expressions as by her mannerisms, she didn’t enjoy her job and didn’t want to be there.

 
Trying my best to be cordial and kind, I offered to help her bag. She appreciated the offer and said she hated fighting with them. For several minutes I continued to watch her as I bagged my purchases.
Rain. She was definitely not a gentle, soft one. No, she was more of a brewing storm. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, the Holy Spirit spoke to me, “Be gentle, she’s been wounded.” That’s when it clicked- all the piercings, the attitude, the demeanor/ they were all a hard, protective shell. I was sure, somewhere underneath, was a soft, moldable little girl yearning for love.

 
Thanking Rain for her help, I leaned forward and lightly touched her hand. Our eyes met for a brief second and I said, “It’ll be ok. He sees you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. The next customer pushed forward, and I moved out of cue making a mental note to pray daily for Rain/Kate.

 
In the next few days, I’ll stop back in and visit Rain. This next time, I’m hoping to plant seeds of hope.
I was reminded we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. We need to see not only with our eyes but with our heart. There are so many walking wounded among us. They need Jesus. They may not even know it, but they do. It’s our job to offer them small doses whenever we can.

 
“I planted the seed,Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So, neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor. For we are co-workers in God’s service; you are God’s field, God’s building.” 1 Corinthians 3:6-9

Let go of the victim mentality

Victim. The dictionary defines victim as a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action. That about sums it up. It's how I see myself - as a victim of cancer. I didn't ask for cancer. I never expected it. But it came. And when it did, it did a number on me.

You'd think, after 8 years, I'd have let go of the victim mentality, but I haven't. I didn't even realize I was suffering from that type of thinking until recently. 

After a bout of Covid and then several consecutive illnesses, I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I blamed it all on cancer or cancer related fatigue, really, since cancer, as far as I knew, wasn't still active in my life. But ever since diagnosis, I haven't felt myself. My energy level was practically non-existent. I was finding it difficult to get through each day without making myself do the things I needed to do. Every day was exhausting but I pushed through and did what I needed to do anyway. 

It wasn't living, it was existing. There was no happiness or joy. I wanted to thrive, but I didn't know how. How do you celebrate life when it takes every ounce of energy to get through a day? 

Oh, I'd wake up each morning, thanking God that I'd made it one more day but as the day wore on and I faced one challenge after another, I wondered why it was so hard. So, I asked Him. On my face, in my prayer closet, I wept turning my burden over to the Lord. 

"Why can't I let go and break free?" I asked. In that still small voice, He said, "You've got to let go of the victim mentality." 

Though I heard the words clearly in my mind, I was shocked. Had I really been living that way? Had I been thinking that way? I didn't consider myself a victim...not really...but I guess, somewhere in the back of my mind, I did. 

Eight years had passed. You'd think I'd have long since left thoughts of cancer behind, wouldn't you? But that nagging fear had taken root and wouldn't let me go. Every ache, every pain, every uncontrollable thing my body did made me wonder if I was going to be under attack again. 

That's what cancer felt like to me - an attack, just like a rape or a robbery or some other violent crime, an unprovoked, unexpected assault on my person. No wonder I'd adopted a victim mentality!

After any kind of attack, whether it be health related or otherwise, the victim has to decide whether or not to survive. Something inside them has to "want to" keep living. Making that choice is crucial and can greatly impact one's future. 

So, I had to come to the realization that I wanted to live. Not only did I want to live, I wanted to live well. I wanted to do the things I enjoyed and have fun doing it. No longer did I want to allow my body, and the way it was feeling, to dictate my choices. 

I asked God to forgive me and asked Him to help release me from the victim mentality I'd been clinging to and I'm happy to say, He has! 

The day He revealed my stinkin' thinkin' to me, I was dumbfounded. First of, that He'd point out my flaw. But He didn't do it in an accusatory way, the way Satan would have, He quietly and sweetly whispered to my heart and said, "You've got to let go..." 

I knew, He wanted the best for me because that's the way my Abba is. He loves me unconditionally. He knew I needed to be set free and He gave me time to come to the point of need so He could swing wide the gate and point me to freedom. It had to be my choice. 

Since making the decision to let go, I've felt an indescribable weight lifted from my shoulders. No longer am I carrying around a burden I wasn't supposed to bear. Now, it's like I've been given a new lease on life. 

Sure, I still struggle with fear, worry, and anxiety and I probably always will. Those are weak spots in my armor, but I know, He's got me. He won't let me fail as long as I walk with Him and trust Him. And no matter what comes into my life, He's able to handle it. I won't have to handle it alone. That gives me great comfort. 

My calendar already has several upcoming trips on it and I'm looking forward to those. In the past, I'd be hesitant to go anywhere because of the possibility of catching Covid or having a health crisis. Now, I move forward in faith. 

I'm so glad God allowed me to see the error of my thinking. I'm thankful He loved me enough to point out improper thoughts and gave me the key to freedom. Now I can honestly say I'm working on learning to celebrate life in big ways and in small ways, every single day. 

What a difference a day makes!

Yesterday was rough. My knee was killing me! All I could hear, as I hobbled about the house, was "You're going to have to have a knee replacement surgery." Those were the words the orthopedic doctor had said to me early last year when I went to see him about my painfully swollen left knee. I didn't want to believe him and made up my mind, come hell or high water, I wasn't going to have one. I'd known too many people who'd had knee replacements done and every single one of them had either gotten bad infections or rejected the implant requiring another surgery. There was no way I was going to go through that. 

Staying off of my leg yesterday was hard. I'm not one to sit and do nothing all day, but I knew my poor knee needed rest, so I made myself sit and binge on Netflix. I found a good series by one of my favorite authors and it didn't take long to find myself immersed in the story. 

Today, I'm feeling much better. The swelling has gone down, and I've been a little more mobile thanks to an off-loading knee brace. Hopefully, tomorrow will be even better but there's a cold front coming in and the cold weather usually makes the bones ache. 

I guess it's all just part of getting old. I hate to admit that, but it's true. And I guess being old is better than being dead, huh? It's all in the way you look at things! 

Happy Weekend!

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used to Be...

Well, well, well - that's a deep subject for a shallow mind, isn't it? Lol. I just had to say that. My grandmother used to say that and I always thought it odd until I grew older and figured it out. Starting this post with a little humor seemed appropriate since I'm going to talk about pain in just a minute. 

When I got out of bed this morning, the pain was unbearable. As I stood and tried to make it into the bathroom, it felt as if there was no cushion between my bones and they were grating upon each other. Hobbling along, I finally made it but realized my gallant efforts at painting had come back to haunt me. Getting up and down from the step ladder wreaked havoc on my left knee. I'd already been having issues with that knee for months. It had been swelling and had caused difficulty walking. I did see an orthopedic doc and he'd given me a couple of shots of cortisone, and an off-loading knee brace (a brace that would shift the weight onto my good leg).  I thought that would solve everything but apparently not. The doctor said if the cortisone didn't do the trick, the next step would be a knee replacement surgery. I wasn't happy to hear that. I didn't want to have any more surgeries. 

Today, I pulled out the walker and knee brace. I'm popping Tylenol every 4 hours and hoping to stay off my feet as much as possible. Getting old sucks! When body parts start wearing out, you realize you aren't what you used to be. 

I remember laughing in grammar school when we'd sing the song, "The Old Gray Mare." I always thought it funny when we'd reach the line, "She ain't what she used to be." As I remember that song now, it's not quite as funny because I'm finding that song applies to me. 

Why do our body parts begin to fail as we grow older? Is it because they just wear out from use or is it because some of us don't have wonderful genes? I've seen videos of people in their 90s who're as fit as fiddles and here I am, at the ripe old age of 64, and I'm falling apart. 

There are so many things I want to do and I'm finding I'm having to pace myself as I age. I don't like it, not one little bit. 

Hubby told me this morning to try and stay off my leg, to just rest. That would seem like a dream to many but not me. I like to stay busy. It's hard for me to rest, but today, I'm going to try. I know my knee will thank me for it. Maybe I can finish reading one of my books while I sit. 

Thankfully, we don't get put out to pasture as we age, especially when we're well loved. This old gray mare ain't what she used to be but she's learning to temper her projects with her energy. 

Grief is like the ocean

 A few days ago, a dear friend of mine asked me to meet her at the cemetery. She was going to view her dearly departed husband's headstone for the first time since his death in August. I didn't really want to go because my own grief was so heavy. I'd lost my brother in July and hadn't been able to completely process the loss yet. Visiting the military cemetery where my sweet friend's husband was buried was going to be hard for several reasons. My parents were both buried there and my brother could have been buried there too since he'd served in the Army, but his wife had chosen to have him cremated. Without going into detail about that, I'll just say there is a lot of unresolved hurt in our family over the way his death was handled. Anyway, back to my friend's request. 

My husband and I drove 2 hours to get to the cemetery. It was important for us to be there to offer moral support to my friend, Janice. We didn't know it at the time, but she had asked some of her aunts, her brother, and sister in law to join her. I was thankful she wasn't going to be there alone, but when we got to her, the tears began to flow. 

I watched as she clung to Jack's headstone. As I went over to her, she told me she didn't want to leave, that she wanted to stay there forever. I did my best to console her and tell her that she'd see Jack again one day when she got to heaven, but I could tell the words weren't much comfort. 

As we all stood in front of Jack's gravesite, I did my best to remember his sweet smile and his hearty laugh. He was always so jovial and optimistic. I missed him terribly and wished he'd never been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Though he'd done everything the doctors had suggested to prolong his life, he didn't even make it a year past diagnosis. 

When Janice was ready, we left the cemetery and headed for a nearby barbecue joint for lunch. We all reminisced about Jack while there and as we were about to leave, Janice reached into her purse and pulled out a sandwich bag. I knew what it was without her telling me. She'd mentioned a special request to me at his funeral - she wanted me to make some sort of keepsake for her that would include clippings she'd taken from his beard his last week on Earth. Discreetly, she passed the bag to me and I nodded my head. She knew I'd do my best to make something meaningful and that I'd treat his beard with respect. I didn't want to take it but I did. I'd promised and I would keep my word. 

On the way home, I cried. Phil asked what was wrong and I told him. That bag of beard trimmings in my purse was a tangible reminder of my sweet friend. I didn't want to open the bag and touch his beard. I knew it would be too much. 

When we got home, I took the baggie out of my purse and put it in my craft room. I couldn't bear to look at it and I needed time to think of something to make for Janice. 

I wracked my brain trying to think of something I could make with his beard and the only thing I could think of was a keepsake pillow. I'd put the beard trimmings inside the pillow but somehow I'd have to make them accessible to Janice, too. 

Making the pillow was easy. I took some muslin and printed a photo of Jack onto it. It was one of Janice's favorite photos - one of Jack as Santa Claus. He used to work as Santa every year at Christmas for a department store in Florida. They requested him because of his "real" white beard and his happy spirit. After printing the photo of Jack on it, I used my Cricut machine to cut some iron on vinyl into a saying, "I'll hold you in my heart until I can hold you again in Heaven." I ironed that in place and then embroidered a heart in the center of the photo and the wording. I took the muslin and a pretty floral piece of fabric, some ball fringe trim, and made a pillow then stuffed it with poly-fiberfill. Next came the part I dreaded - incorporating the beard hair. I had to think of a way to do it that would keep the beard trimmings together and yet allow Janice to touch them whenever she wanted. I prayed about it and asked God what I could do. He gave me the idea of making a small heart and stuffing it with the beard hairs to place inside the pillow permanently. 

I made the heart out of 2 pieces of muslin and embroidered the edges with a blanket stitch of maroon embroidery thread. When it came time to stuff it with Jack's hair, I wept. I did not want to open the bag. I didn't not want to smell the sickness of cancer on his beard and I did not want to touch the hair. I know it will sound callous and unkind, but I'm being truthful. I'm embarrassed to admit it but I put on an N-95 mask and some nitrile gloves before removing the beard hair from the bag. 

Through the gloves I could feel the coarseness of Jack's beard and I couldn't contain my sadness. The tears came quickly and overwhelmed me, but somehow, I managed to push all of the hair into the small heart and sew it shut. 

Gently, I place the heart inside the pillow so Janice could see the outline of it through the muslin. I centered it directly under the embroidered heart I'd sewn between Jack's photo and the wording. When I was done, I showed the completed work to my husband and asked what he thought about it. He said he was sure she'd like it. 

In the next week or so, I'll meet up with Janice to give her the pillow. I pray it touches her heart. 

Grief is so hard to process. It comes in waves like the ocean. Sometimes the feelings are mild and gentle ebbing and flowing. Other times, they're rough and relentless pounding hard against the inside of your heart. 

Jack as Santa

I don't ever want to make a keepsake like that again. I know the custom of keeping a deceased loved one's hair has been around for a very long time, but to be the one to touch and hold it after the person has passed is so very difficult. 

Christmas will be coming soon and I've got a picture of Jack in his Santa suit on a table in my living room. I prefer to remember him doing something he loved and I can just bet he was a great encouragement to all of those dear little ones as they visited him at the mall. 

This year has been tragic in so many ways, but I can't dwell on all the negatives associated with it. I know God wants me to focus on the good things. Jack was a good friend and a jolly soul. Janice still needs my love and support and I'll do my best to give it to her. Friendship is a wonderful gift and one I'll always treasure, but sometimes, a broken heart reminds us of the brevity of life. We should never take a day for granted.

The keepsake pillow I made

Where do the wounded go?

 

Where Do They Go?

By Bonnie Annis

 

Where do the wounded go when the cut is fresh and deep? 

Where do they hide to keep others from tasting the bleeding?

Where do they go when healing begins, or when it's too slow in coming? 

Where do they go? 

Where do they go when the wound has mended? 

When scars once raw no longer weep? 

Where do they go when the pain has eased but the trauma remains? 

Where do they go? 

And when the scar is old but still reminds, where do they go? 

I'll tell you. 

They go where they've always gone, into that dark, quiet place. 

The deep space inside where warriors live. 

The place of solitude and strength. 

The place of sorrow and tears. 

The place of resilience and hope. 

That's where they go. 

How do I know? 

It's where I live. 

Day in and day out. 

Until cancer came, it was a secret place. 

But then, I received permission to enter. 

That’s when I discovered I was not alone. 

There were others. 

Invisible to me, but they were there. 

Kindred spirits.  

We were the wounded warrior women. 

The ones without choice in the matter.

But we bore our scars with dignity. 

 © Bonnie Annis 2021