Bad knees and dogs . . . .

I haven't posted in a while because I have been relaxing at the shore and there was no Internet connection available. There usually is some wi-fi I can hack into on the air waves but I think people have gotten smarter and now they lock  their wi-fi signal .

I heard from the hospital and surgery is scheduled for 7 am tomorrow. I have to be at the hospital at 5 am! Holy scalpel!  Who is awake at that time? Can my doctor function at 7 in the morning? I am first on the list so that is good because I won't have to fast that long. Giving up food is a big deal for me. It's also good because he probably is fresh in the morning. After all, I do my best work in the morning when I am awake so let's hope Dr. Booth does, as well.

This afternoon I am trying to figure out what to take to the hospital and what to pack to have Gabe bring when I get transfered to Bryn Mawr Rehab. When the lady from Dr. Booth's called today she said I couldn't bring anything to the hospital and that I should not wear any makeup, perfume, jewelry or nail polish. No make up? I don't even go to WaWa without makeup. I could be sick as a dog and I wear makeup. I wear make up to the beach! What am I going to do? This is harder than I thought. I wonder if it is too late to cancel?

Finally, I was thinking about what my legs will look like after this surgery. Here are my pre-op knees. Pleasingly plump, tanned and well rounded. I like the shape of my knees. After surgery I will have a nice 8 inch long scar on each knee. It got me thinking about how that might affect my future career.

1.  I won't be able to be a stripper. I think the scars on the front of my knees might detract from the multiple folds and saggy boobs.
2.  I can't be a bathing suit model. Nobody wants to have a bathing suit model that looks like she had a run in with a slasher.
3.  I don't think I have a career in sky diving. Landing the wrong way on my $50,000 knees might piss off the doctor a little bit.

Other than that, I hope things will look up soon. This time tomorrow I will be in a heavenly morphine coma with two bionic knees. Everybody keeps telling me "everything will be fine" and think of where you will be this time next year". Right now I am fixated on where I will be this time tomorrow. Am I scared? Sure I am. I'd be an idiot if I wasn't. However, I have been blessed with a family that cares very much about me and wonderful friends. I am counting on that to get me through this whole adventure. I hope to blog more along the way--as soon as I wake up from the pain meds.

 In the meantime, if you are the prayerful type, talk to St. Roch--the patron saint of knee problems. He is also the patron saint of dogs so I figure he has to be a good saint.  I found this picture on google and thought it showed him fixing a knee and helping a dog at the same time. My money is on him. Tell him I never want to be a stripper or a bathing suit model--just walk without pain.

Getting ready to veg . . . .

Today is my last whole day at home before the surgery. I am leaving tomorrow for 10 days for the shore and then come home on Wednesday night and go to surgery Thursday morning. Then I probably won't be home for another 14-19 days, depending on rehab. This is both scary and sad. I am so sad about missing my poor Queenie. I know what you're thinking---what about the husband? Well, I will get to see him but I doubt there is visiting hours for the dog (although I am definitely going to check with Bryn Mawr Rahab). I mean ---- what is more therapeutic than a dog's touch or a kiss from the pooch? Anyway, that is one of the things I will miss the most about being away. Gabe tells me that dogs have no memories of being away from you. Somehow I don't find that reassuring.

Of course I will miss my family but I will try to Facetime, Skype and talk on the phone but not until after the morphone. Come to think of it, it might be a pretty great entry if I write a post while on the morphine! You get very good drugs when you have a knee replacement.

I will miss my great big screen TV and how Gabe watches The O'Reilly Factor each night while I read and try not to listen. Needless to say, our political views are starkly different. But I will still miss hearing him yell at the TV, flip the channels on the remote, settling somewhere between the WWII on the history channel and the tattoo guys on Discovery. I can only hope my roommate has the same remote flipping tendencies.

I will miss my soft bed and my room air conditioner that makes it feel like the morgue. Menopause has nothing on me when I got to bed at night. I have discovered the way to get rid of hot flashes is to keep the room at 37 degrees and to hell with pajamas. I hope my roommate likes the room cold!

I will miss good food and those midnight raids to the fridge for cold spaghetti and Doritos. My only hope is that the food is so bad I loose weight and come out looking like a fashion model. Somehow I don't think that will happen in 19 days but I might loose a few pounds and every pound helps.

Most of all I WON'T miss the pain. There will be a long period where things will look worse than when I started but eventually there is light at the end of the tunnel. I have been in such pain for over a year now that I am ready to surrender. Whatever it takes. Lay it on me baby!

So, for the next 10 days I will be dreaming at the shore of pain free days and nights--just sitting on the porch feeling a nice sea breeze, reading a trashy novel and dreaming. Sounds worth it!

Vanity . . . .

Nobody could describe me without saying that I am vain. Vanity is not a bad thing, just a personality trait for me. I don't go out of the house without make-up. I try not to be caught dead at the grocery store in sweats. I curl and primp my hair every day, even when I am sick. But the thing I am most vain about is my nails. They are sculptured (I don't call them "fake") and I have had them for 27 years, since my 13th wedding anniversary. Shocking, I know, but true.

They are long, always freshly painted and I owe them all to my beloved nail salon owner, Lisa, from Heaven and Earth. Once every two weeks I go and get my nails and toes done--a glorious 2 1/2 hour therapy session where I spill my guts, relieve all my tensions and leave with a smile on my face and a pep in my step. My nails are so beautiful at times that I get comments from the grocery checkers. They take my fifty-something year old hands and turn them into much younger versions. I love colors with names like "ChicaGo Get a Manicure" and "La Paz Itively Hot". OPI nail color is my key to happiness! Needless to say, I love my nails and I love my bi-weekly visit to the nail salon.

Today, in preparation for the surgery, I am getting them all cut down---not off--that would be too traumatic for me. I need to do it today because I am going to the shore for the 10 days prior to surgery and won't have a chance to get to the nail salon. We are literately coming back from the shore on Wednesday night and going to the hospital on Thursday morning.

Anyway, I need to get them cut completely down so that they can put the pulse ox on my finger during and after surgery and so I will be able to use the walker without slicing my palms to shreds. I also will not be able to get to the nail salon for at least 5-6 weeks. I will miss those visits with my "therapist". I think she probably knows more about my life than my own family. It's amazing how while I am sitting there aimlessly getting my nails done that I seem to be able to spill my guts to what should be a stranger. But . . . . I have been going to Lisa for nearly 20 years and she is no stranger. She has become a friend that I depend on to listen to my trials and tribulations. She doesn't think I am vain. She just laughs at my funny stories and supports me when I need it. She knows that I like the pedicure water hot and my nail colors should never be red--always something pink and purple. She knows I like oval nails, not square and that my right foot is slightly numb from the peripheral neuropathy. She knows that I have excruciating pain in both my knees and takes her time allowing me to put my foot on the stand at my pace, not hers.

I started this blog this morning talking about being vain but I realized I was thanking a good friend for being there for twenty years . . . . . and helping me to be vain if I want to be.

Cowardice . . . .

OK. I admit it. I am a chicken. Bawk! Bawk! I backed out of the whole blood donating thing. Here's what happened. (see my Thursday night post)

I perseverated all night the night before on how I might bleed to death and loose my tan from the loose of blood. Irrational but true. Then on the morning, going down to the hospital I drove Gabe crazy asking him questions about when he gave blood. He was absolutely no help because he repeatedly said "I can't remember". Is that man-code for "you don't want to know" or is it just that he is a man?

I went to the pre-admission testing at Dr, Booth's (which included an order to pee in a cup--which I could not do--bad sign for the day). While talking to the nurse I mentioned my fear of giving blood and she hinted that I didn't have to do it if I didn't want to. I  puffed up my chest and said, no problem. Who am I kidding?

After the cardiologist we only had 45 minutes to get to the blood band for my "donation" so there wasn't enough time to get lunch. We stopped by the gift store and got a bag of M & Ms (the universal donor candy).  We went up to the 7th floor with me munching on my M & Ms all the way. When we got there a very nice young (and I stress young) girl was on the phone talking to her mother. She said she had to go and asked if she could help us. I told her I had an appointment to give blood. She eyed the M & Ms suspiciously and asked if we had eaten a meal. We told her we had a big breakfast at 7:30 (6 hours before) and she went (and I sweare this is how she sounded) "tsk, tsk, tsk---you need to eat a BIG meal right before you give blood". I showed her my M & Ms and she rolled her eyes. She sensed I was anxious and she then proceeded to tell me that when she gave blood she passed out cold and was incapacitated for the rest of the evening.Not a confidence building statement. She assured me that blood bank blood was perfectly safe, tripled screen. I actually asked if she thought Dr. Booth would be mad at me if I didn't do it. How lame is that? She told me it was fine and  I figured--how can I not trust someone who calls their mother??

Finally, I said to Gabe, "we're outta here" and we turned around and headed for home. Bawk! Bawk!

Pre-opping is not for the faint hearted . . .

I'm posting tonight because I will be busy all day tomorrow and wanted to share what was happening. Tomorrow is "pre-op" day. Yippy (she says drooling with sarcasm). I have to go to Pennsylvania Hospital first for pre-op stuff (bloodwork, chest x-ray, etc.), then to the cardiologist, then up to the 7th floor blood bank to donate blood. My opinion of the whole day is rather grim.

First, I hate driving or driving on the Surekill Expressway. I usually need a Xanax just to get in the car. Gabe is driving me and (God bless him) he puts up with a lot from me. I brake, I cover my eyes, I squeel. By the time I get down to the hospital my blood pressure will be sky high.

Then there is the whole idea of waiting. I will be waiting at Dr. Booth's office, waiting again at the cardiologist's office and then waiting to give blood. Mary, my scheduling guru at Dr. Booth's office set the appointments up one after another for our convenience. It does make it easier to get it all done in one day but what a long day!

Then the cardiologist, whom I have never met, has an office that is two blocks away. OK, now remember what kind of surgery I am pre-opping here?? I don't walk very well but I have to go two blocks to get to the cardiologist's office. I can't wait to see how that EKG turns out!

Finally, I have to "donate" blood. There is nothing donating about it! Donate means to give something willingly for a greater cause. I am definitely not willing to do this. I hate giving blood. I always get light headed and I am usually convinced that I am going to die. Don't tell me that I am being irrational. This is MY blog! Not only do I have to give blood tomorrow but I have to go back down to Penn and do it again next Friday. For a double knee replacement you need to have 2 units of your own blood on hand "just in case". This DOES NOT give me a lot of confidence. What do they mean by just in case? Just in case they nick an artery and I bleed to death? Just in case I wake up during surgery and need a blood "fix"? I am not happy about this part at all. And the literature says to make sure I eat before I give blood. That's almost impossible since I will be jogging up the street from the cardiologist to the 7th floor of the hospital with little time to spare. I better take along some M & Ms. You've heard of the universal blood type? Well, M & Ms are the universal food type . . . they cure everything.

Last, but not least, I get to drive on that insane expressway all the way home again . . . . during rush hour traffic. Give me another Xanex.

Braces . . . .

No, I don't mean the teeth kind. I mean the S & M type contraptions that I need to wear on my legs to walk. I have the standard knee brace on my left leg (the blue one). This has a hinge for me to bend my knee but also makes me sweat like a weight lifter, not to mention the smell after a day or so (UGH!) Thank God it's washable. Then there is the one on my right leg. That's the leg of my last operation. This sucker is the mega braces of all braces. It is specially designed to turn my knee outward so as not to put any weight on my inner knee, since that is bone on bone. It costs $546 and (yes) the insurance paid for it. The truth is I don't think it works. I still get that "pinch" every few steps when there is bone contact, even though it does make me walk a little better.

Getting these things on in the morning is a trip. When I wake up I have to pee so bad that I don't have time to get them on. I hold the walls to get to the bathroom and sigh with relief. If you are under 50 and reading this you have no idea what I am talking about. Then I hold the walls to get back and  put the torture contraptions on. It takes me about 10 minutes to get them on and adjust them so I can walk. Then I walk like a zombie (stiff legged) for another 10 minutes until I get used to them.

I have been wearing these braces for about 3 months now. They suck because (unless I wear a skirt or maxi dress) they show under everything. I went to Boscov's the other day wearing a pair of shorts and scared kids for miles!

I can't wait to get the knees done just to get rid of the braces. I know I will have ace bandages and other stuff for a couple of days but then . . . . freedom. The good (and bad) news is that I have PT this morning and get to take off the braces. :)

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Bad start this morning . . .

I seem to be late at everything today . . . late getting up, late for PT, late posting . . . I didn't do too well for a Monday.       Let's talk about PT. I think it should be called physical torture. I am going twice a week to get stronger and strengthen my leg muscles in preparation for the knee replacements. I will probably have PT for at least three months after the surgery. To say I am getting familiar with my therapist, Wendy, is an understatement. Some of the positions I get into when she is stretching out my legs are downright obscene!

If you read this before Tuesday at 6:30 pm then the first and second paragraph were switched. When I did an edit I switched them by mistake!

I begin with 6 minutes on the recumbent bike. She keeps threatening to increase my time "the next time". Then I go to a series of machines to do leg lifts to strengthen my quadriceps. Next it is a series of exercises on the table including leg lifts, bridges, and knee slides. Now, keep in mind that the place is filled with the over 60 crowd. I am the youngest one there. Some of these guys are in their eighties and "working their program" better than me. 

Anyway, there is nothing funnier than to look around the room and see several of the more mature clients doing bridges. That is the one where you lay on your back, bend your knees and lift your pelvis in a not so sexy way. Up and down. Up and down. It's definitely a challenge not to laugh when I do this exercise. The only time I want to bump and grind is after a good bottle of wine and a romantic movie.

Next, Wendy takes my leg and lifts it over my head and asks "do you feel the stretch in your bottom?" Do I feel the stretch? I feel like a contortionist in Cirque de Soliel. Then she takes my leg and stretches the right leg over the left side of my body and the table and visa versa. Believe me, this should be called physical torture. It hurts but I smile demurly when asked and say (gritting through my teeth) "no, it's fine" because I want to get strong before my surgery. Gabe keeps telling me that I have to be strong.

I feel like I am building muscles I didn't know I had or have never used before. I would think that I would have lost weight by now but I remain the same every morning when I step on the scale. Maybe it's the snack I have when I am done therapy. I'm usually really hungry after a workout and feel the need to reward myself for "getting strong"!