The Surgery Chronicles, Part II

 8-31-26

Tomorrow will be the halfway point of non-weight bearing. I was able to cut it short by a few days I hope by grabbing a Monday appointment. In some ways, the time has gone fast. In other ways, it does seem like there is so far to go. Another 3 weeks of hobbling around on crutches and now the novelty of it all has worn off. I've gotten better at most things, but I'm still running over my feet on the knee scooter.

The lack of going anywhere is hard. I was so excited to pump gas yesterday. Just get me out of the house! I've been grateful Adam and the dogs haven't had any major catastrophes, but I'm also terrified if that happens. Especially if I'm trying to heal and I'm needed for something more than my body is ready for. 

When I researched the timeline, it seems silly that I'd be able to even do the half at Rehoboth. I went through the stages of grief about it in my mind. There was a lot of bargaining with a generous course time limit, but I know that even if I'm the most patient patient, the progress will be slow and far from linear.

I think it's been so long that seeing other people do amazing runs isn't even making me sad any more. I guess they call that acceptance. I'm genuinely rooting from the sidelines because I know how great it all is when everything is working properly. I think people are scared of that for me like having a drink around an alcoholic. But it keeps me in the realm of running so that hopefully I can eventually just slip back in it. 

9-7-26

2 more weeks to go until I'm hopefully done with the non-weight bearing. I'm sure I'll need to rely on the crutches for a few days more but I'm really hoping my ankle can start to tolerate walking around a bit, even with the boot.

I've figured out a lot of adaptations, but every little bit of normalcy helps. I use a backpack or pockets to carry things around the house. The basket on the knee scooter has helped tremendously. I've been using a modified shower chair but it is such a pain to move it in and out every time because Adam needs the extra space. I get dressed sitting on the bed or on a chair. Cooking is doable, but my good leg gets tired if I'm standing for a long time. I've had to figure out how to move pots of boiling water off the stove and pull hot pans out of the oven.

While I'm not grateful for the reasons we have them, it is very handy to have grab bars in our bathrooms and the stairlift. I've used Adam's rollator to move laundry up and down the hall and to lift his legs into bed. 

Yesterday, I let the dogs outside in our fenced in backyard like I do every morning. I went back to the door a few minutes later and called them in. Crickets. I peered my head around the door and saw one of the side fence doors was wide open. My worst nightmare had come true. 

I threw my boot on and screamed up at Adam that the dogs escaped and wildly crutched out the front door. I had no shoe on my good foot and was still in my pajamas. I flew across the yard on my crutches as I spotted the dogs on my neighbor's driveway. I thought I might get lucky and that they would follow me, but Moe seemed to have other plans. When he got close to me, I stupidly tried to reach down to grab him and promptly fell onto my neighbor's driveway, scraping up my knees.

Another neighbor happened to be in his driveway and heard the commotion. He asked if I needed any help and I nodded as I pulled my bloody and broken body back up on my crutches. He helped lure the dogs into the backyard and secured the fence for me. 

I then had to rush back inside to close the front door as I left it open in case they went inside on their own. Once everyone was finally indoors, the pain in my knee hit me. It is the same knee I use on the knee scooter and the past 24 hours have been spent mostly on my crutches due to the pain. 

I really can't make this stuff up. 

On a more positive note, friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers have really shown up for me. Megan took care of Adam and I through the worst of the post-surgery days. She has come over to take out my trash and recycling and just hang out. My sister came after Megan and cooked, cleaned up my yard, and helped out when our air conditioner died and we had workers in our house for 2 days straight. Neighbors have mowed my yard, dropped off food, flowers, cards, and pulled my trash cans to and from the curb for me. Oh, and a dog rescue! My mom and her boyfriend brought me dinner, puzzles, and books. My dad and stepmother took us out for lunch and sent flowers. My sweet coworkers sent me all kinds of gift cards, cozy gifts, champagne, and checked in on me regularly. My work husband lent me his knee scooter and sent me fun accessories for it. My running friends have taken me out to breweries, dinners, and come over for hangs.

9-12-26

I'm sitting on the floor of the powder room, cleaning baseboards. The smell of cleaning supplies is overwhelming in the tiny space. My feet are out in front of me, one wrapped up in a boot. I'm just over 4 weeks out from surgery and as expected, feeling frustrated. Only 9 more days before I go back to the doctor for a recheck, but I still have so many weeks before I can even think about running. I have so many questions about when and how to push. I'm used to pain. I like pain. Pain usually means progress or pushing myself to new limits. In this case, I don't want pain to be a back step, or God forbid, take off this much time again to heal.

I feel so lopsided in my body. My whole left side is tired and achy from supporting my broken right side. In the evening, my surgery ankle starts to have a dull ache, and often there are shooting pains and needles. I know this is just a normal part of the healing process, but it's hard to believe that things are getting better. I don't trust myself anymore.

The mental struggle has been a roller coaster. Some days, I am handling it all quite well and feel relatively okay. Some days, I'm spiraling. Being at home all this time is making me even more hyper aware of all the things that happen at a house nearing the 20-year mark. I look around and panic at all the time and money that are required to fix just one of the many problems. I tell myself just to take it one day at a time. Hence, me cleaning the baseboards. Oh look, here's something I can control and fix.

I've had a few people say they don't know how I am doing it. Frankly I don't know how either. It's hard enough to be a caretaker with a fully functioning body. To have the mental release and happy endorphins of running. To have full use of all of my body parts to do everything around the house and keep the dogs and Adam alive. I've had so much support, but only a few people have felt some of my reality. 

I think about how I should be sitting in my Airbnb in Courmeyer right now, double-checking my pack for the necessary gear to run 200+ miles in the Italian Alps. Instead, I'm taking a break from vacuuming, mopping, and cleaning the bathroom with one leg. I should have a belly full of prerace pasta, but bittersweetly, I have a belly full of salad that my friend brought Adam and I earlier in the week. 

Sometimes I catch myself in the full spiral of things and wanting and wishing for a different timeline, but then I'm reminded of all of the things I can be grateful in this timeline. It doesn't necessarily make me stop worrying, but I sometimes can catch myself before I hit the bottom.

My 9/11 Story

It was the summer of 2001. I started looking for an off-campus place to live. I don't even remember how I found the place, but this was in the era of Craigslist and school bulletin boards, so I'm assuming that's where I found it. I'm sure I had to convince my dad that it was the financially responsible choice so cheap and close were my parameters.

I met my potential new roommate one evening in August. I needed to see the place and she needed to vet me. Her current roommate was there, making dinner in the tiny galley kitchen. She was lithe and olive-skinned, an exchange student from Spain. It was so simple, but I remember how wordly and adult she appeared, holding a small glass bowl of pasta with cherry tomatoes. 

I moved in a short time later, mostly with just bedroom items, my clothes, and a few things for the kitchen. It was a townhome with a kitchen, breakfast nook, and living room on its first floor. The second floor had 2 bedrooms and one small bathroom. My bedroom faced the front and was the smaller of the two. I think I paid $25 less per month since mine was smaller, but it seemed luxurious after living in tiny dorm boxes for 3 years. 

I decorated my room in burgundy and black, a color scheme that seemed sophisticated at the time. We didn't have laundry so I'd still go to my mom's house often to visit and run a few loads. My roommate's parents lived close by as well and she would do the same. 

Her boyfriend lived in the same apartment complex, just down the street from us. He spent a lot of time at our place, even when she wasn't there because we had a more comfortable living room and a better TV. I found it weird, but I wasn't there much myself so I suppose it never got to the point that it really bothered me. I was either in class, at the library studying, or hanging out with my boyfriend around town.

The morning of September 11th, I had a yoga class that I was taking for one of four required physical education credits. An antiquated requirement for a liberal arts school even in 2001. As I was driving back to the townhouse, I had the radio on and there were reports of an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center. It was a short drive home, but the DJ never switched to music and so I immediately turned the TV on once I got inside. 

I called my roommate to come down and watch and we sat motionless in our tiny living room, unable to believe the story unfolding. 

Years later, I'd meet my husband who recounted his own story of being at work in Manhattan that day. They had a meeting that morning and he ended up going in earlier than usual. Had he gone in at his regular time, he would have been under the World Trade Center at the time of the attacks. Instead, he was uptown and talked about his cell phone jamming and sitting at a bar waiting for more information before eventually making the long walk home to Brooklyn. I didn't know him in that world. It was the one in which he sold phone service to Manhattan businesses and carried a messenger bag to work. He smoked cigarettes and lived in Park Slope and knew exactly where to stand on the subway platform to be right in front of the door. 

Having never lived through such a news event outside of being a child, I wasn't sure what to do about regular life. Do I sit and watch TV? Am I supposed to go to class? School closures weren't announced via text or social media. I had a microbiology class late that morning and decided I should go in case it wasn't canceled. We all sat in the lecture hall for a few minutes, murmuring quietly about the news. The professor came out and canceled class and our afternoon lab given the unknowns of the world.

I decided to go to my boyfriend's apartment that afternoon. He had blue jersey sheets on a bed pushed up against the wall. We sat on the edge, side by side with our elbows on our knees, eyes glued to the TV.

I wrote about how I felt the next day, a lengthy journal entry of sorts. Somewhere in the many moves of my early 20s, this piece of paper was lost. But I'll never forget the dystopian feeling I had that morning of September 12th, the world in which I lived seemingly shaken forever.