*translation: I FREAKING HATE CRUTCHES.
see ya on the roads. Actually, I won't - but, whatever.
I am not going to sugarcoat it: Week 2 and 3 post surgery, on crutches, has so far sucked.
No other way to describe it.
Your arms constantly hurt, you can't carry anything like a plate or bowl [wtf? no ice cream?! I thought the whole point of surgery recovery was to eat whatever the hell I wanted!]; don't even get me started on 4am trips to the bathroom to pee (it is like organizing a trip to Everest, all the pre planning you have to).
Stairs? F.U. stairs. Going up 2 flights of stairs on crutches is sysiphysian at best, and "cruel & unusual punishment" at worst. You make it half way and realize, "damn it, I still have 1 more flight". If this doesn't set me up for some wicked triceps, well, I don't know what will [and for those that have seen my "pre-surgery" bi/triceps, I need ALL the help I can get].
And going downstairs? Simply put - you have four options (well, there are in fact "5", if you count falling, but let's not go there):
1. use the crutches - doable, but on carpet, fraught with peril, not too mention awkward.
2. hop on good leg [in this case, my Left] - again, awkward, and puts a massive load on the L hip, which is also not good - and it is just generally stupid looking hopping down the stairs
3. finally, dropping with an extreme lack of elegance and grace onto your ass and "bumming" down the stairs.
4. there is an option "4" - wherein Nurse Ratchet stands behind you, kindly offering to "help" you down the stairs. Note to self: never, ever, ever allow this to happen (see "possibility 5" above).
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| Nurse Ratched |
Then of course there is that phrase every man fears from his wife (worse than "do you want to go shoe shopping in Yorkville with me?")(or, "which shoes/scarf/necklace/earrings/ etc...go with this suit?"): "let's go for a walk". So after taking at least 15 minutes to get ready (me, not Nurse R), out you venture for 2 blocks, maybe 3, at which point I'm so friggin' tired - which, given my quasi athletic background, is not only humiliating but downright emabarrasing - especially because when you arrive at said destination of the walk, not only do you have to turn around and head back 2-3 blocks, but, you have more stairs. (And speaking of "stairs"...let's talk about the "stares" you get from people in the neighbourhood - the ones that say "Oh my, is that our neighbour from up (or down) the street? Well, it's his own fault; for goodness sake, all that man does is swim and ride his bike and run - what did he expect at his age. And his poor wife - she must have to everything for him". News flash - I want to punch those people in the face, but of course I can't, because I need both hands to hold my damned crutches. But I know who they are and I will remember, oh yes, I shall - and revenge is a dish best served off crutches).
When I do take a break (pun intended) from the death sticks, I end up standing entirely on my Left leg - and while I have mastered the zen-like mastery of balance, it has become tiresome to say the least (laugh now, my friend: you try, for example, shaving and then showering and then towelling off - all one one leg. My left ass cheek is so ripped I look like a Brazilian stripper with a half butt implant). And if one more person calls me "Peg" - see above for retribution.
My last comment - for now: I had my first post op meeting with my surgeon this week. Good news: the new X-rays looked clean, so going forward looks promising. Bad news? 6 more weeks (6 -SIX - MORE. FREAKING. WEEKS!!!) on the crutches - no weight bearing on my leg at all, which means, in no particular order: no touching my foot down, no walking, no driving, no riding any bikes outside, no kicking ass of the neighbours who openly mock my poorly executed "crutch walk" etc. And of course that ultimately means no (quality) racing this summer. Hell, even Nurse Ratched will be faster. Merde.
When I do take a break (pun intended) from the death sticks, I end up standing entirely on my Left leg - and while I have mastered the zen-like mastery of balance, it has become tiresome to say the least (laugh now, my friend: you try, for example, shaving and then showering and then towelling off - all one one leg. My left ass cheek is so ripped I look like a Brazilian stripper with a half butt implant). And if one more person calls me "Peg" - see above for retribution.
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| what I think I look like |
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| what I actually look like |
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| ok, fine: this is what I actually look like |
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| Oh well, could be worse. Wait, no, it couldn't. |
I can't wait for week 4.
Mellow Johnny
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