Back in the tower

Tomorrow is my eight week checkup with my foot surgeon. Its been a year full of doctor's appointments, checkups, and being stuck on the couch. After five weeks of bed rest from preeclampsia, I was thrilled to get up and moving again after Yvonna was born.  And then came my surgery to repair my ruptured Achilles tendon.  Initially, he was saying I would be non-weight-bearing (NWB) for three weeks, in the boot for eight, and not driving for eight.  Then came the actual surgery.  It was ugly inside there. The surgeon described it to my husband as trying to sew together the ends from a horse's tail. Fortunately, I had one tiny segment of my achilles still attached that he was able to use as a template for the length that he needed to sew the others. The phrase he commonly uses in my visits is "due to the chronic nature of your injury." Yeah, walking on a ruptured Achilles for nearly nine months isn't the greatest way to heel. The three weeks of NWB changed into eight. Eight weeks. Two months. Sounds long either way.

I know that there are people in this world who have it much worse off than I do. Believe me, I have worked with many of them. And I'm extremely grateful that my condition is only temporary. I get to get off the crutches at some point. Hopefully tomorrow, but at least at some point. Some people live their lives using crutches, wheelchairs, prosthetics. I feel for them. That's one of the reasons I'm a therapist is because I want to help people regain maximum mobility and quality of life. But I've learned that just because there is someone out there who has a worse condition, that does not negate the pain or frustration of what I'm going through. Since March 6, over four months by now, I've been mainly on bedrest. That bedrest was only punctuated briefly by the break that came from having a baby. Which meant that I was up every 2-3 hours, continually nursing, and recovering from bring the baby into this world. But it felt great to be able to get out of the house! And now I've been stuck. Back in the tower again. With two small boys and an infant. I look forward to not needing the significant amounts of help that I've been needing, to be able to take care of my family myself.

After my knee surgery I was on crutches, but the doctor wanted me putting weight on my leg. (It's called WBAT-weight bearing as tolerated. Meaning the only limitation on how much weight I can put on that leg was only limited by my pain levels) That wasn't too bad. Non weight bearing is no picnic. My arms grow exhausted from carrying my body's weight, as humans were not designed to walk on our hands. My left leg grows tired quickly with standing as I'm balancing entirely on one leg. The steps to my dining room are too short and steep to safely navigate, I can't get things out of the oven, do laundry, or even carry my own daughter.  I've learned how to move things along from surface to surface using my gorilla-length arms and hop over on my crutches. And yes, it's safe.  I've been a model patient. Really, I have. This is my one chance to get it right as a second surgery would not have a good chance of positive outcome.  I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize my chance of healing successfully. This behaving is frustrating, leaving me feeling helpless, needy, and thanking God for the wonderful people who have stepped in to do what I cannot. I'm praying to get clearance to start walking tomorrow. I'm getting serious tower fever.

Martha, Martha

Shakespeare called it "the witching hour." Although I do not believe in magic, just about every mother can testify that there is a certain time in the evening in which her children borrow a few pages from the Tasmanian Devil's playbook. This unruly, whiny time always seems to occur in the evening rather than earlier in the day when Mommy is tired and least capable of dealing with it in a rational manner.

This evening was no such exception. William had already been pulled off the kitchen table three times, out of two different cabinets, out of the dog's water bowl twice, and was now attempting to climb my legs and screaming his frustration at his lack of success. I knew that he was hungry, he had already downed a full cup of milk, and I was desperately trying to finish supper (ever notice how it takes an hour to cook a 15-minute dish when kids are present?). Ryan was clamboring on the other side of me trying to get my attention. The dog ran in and out between us just to complete the mayhem and make William's frustration increase another several decibals whenever the giant pink tongue appeared. All of this was happening as I stood in front of a hot stove and tried to ensure that nobody got burned. The third time in 2 seconds that Ryan had called "Mommy," I looked at him and said "Ryan, could you..." my voice trailed off as my frazzled brain couldn't even suggest what toy or activity for him to pursue. That was all right as the smart little guy finished for me with, "Go somewhere else?" I laughed, felt guilty, but was grateful for at least one set of hands to not try to keep away from the hot burner.

William was still trying to turn my legs into a ladder and was getting louder and louder. Obviously, my level of frustration increased and my patience evaporated. Erik heard the clamor and came in to rescue his youngest son and take him to the bath. Instantly the set of eyes fresh to the situation noticed that not only was William hungry, but he was also suffering from the molar that's just coming in. Erik commenting on his way out "William was in pain, and you were to busy to notice." Ouch. True, but Ouch. Brings to mind the story of Martha and Mary in the Bible (Luke 10:38-42). In that moment, trying to provide for my family, I had missed being with my family. I had missed out on the important thing. Yes, my children needed food, but I shouldn't have been so preoccupied that I didn't even notice that my son needed some Tylenol. *note to sef: by more Orajel next time you run to town...* How would the situation have changed had I taken two minutes to take care of William's gums? Today, I decide that I will be Mary instead of Martha.