I thought my first blog entry after having my knee replaced would be full of flowery prose, a missive in which I wax poetic about life and love, about facing pain and leaning on those who love you when you are in need. Instead let me say this about getting your leg halfway amputated and a prosthetic device inserted in a bendy place:
OUCH OMG OMFG OUCH HURTY OWIE OUCH DAYYYYYUM OUCH
That pretty much sums it up. This hurts like a mofo. However, it doesn’t hurt quite as much as I feared it would. So I got that going for me. And I had OUTSTANDING nursing care for the two days I was in the hospital. (Yeah, two days. A surgeon disconnects your leg and inserts a new joint and you get two whole days of round the clock care and then it’s see ya!)
Since I came home 60 hours after the procedure, Percocet, icepacks and a husband who is willing to do anything for me have helped me deal with life on the outside. Home health care workers have been a blessing and a curse.
All in all, I’d say I’m doing at least as well as could be expected. I can get myself up and down the stairs. I can give myself an injection of blood clot buster in my love handles (mad props to people who have to self-inject every day forever, seriously.) And yesterday I had my first shower in five days and I felt like a new person.
Still, there are moments of helplessness that have been sobering. Yesterday after my physical therapist left, my husband made a mad dash to Kroger. I was on the main floor, and my raised toilet helper thingy was on the second floor.
It’s disconcerting for a 48-year-old, otherwise healthy and independent woman to realize she has to hold it because she can’t go up the stairs without supervision and thus she can’t access her potty chair.
I am optimistic that by the time my husband has to go back to work on Tuesday (he’s been working from home and taking care of me since Wednesday and I married a saint, y’all, for reals) that I can care for myself, at least for a few hours.