I underwent double knee replacement surgery for bone-on-bone arthritis in my knees about two years ago. Most everything was going fine–-I could walk again. I couldn’t run, jump, or sit on a floor (or in a bathtub, my preference for bathing), but I wasn’t in pain. I was starting to let myself breathe a sigh of relief for getting through the surgeries. Then something went terribly wrong.
I was visiting family in California this spring, and my brother’s house had a lot of stairs that I scaled frequently. I wasn’t used to stairs anymore. My husband, Tom, and I had moved from our second-floor apartment to an infinitely nicer first-floor condo. It’s great not having to deal with stairs, but when I do have to confront them, I can’t manage them as I once did. I was hurting, and doctors determined I had a hairline fracture in my right knee, probably from climbing stairs again.
My knee surgeon prescribed wearing a sleeve over my right knee to keep it straight and allow the fracture to heal on its own. Okay, that stinks, but I’ll deal with it, and, as Tom said, at least it’s not a cast. If only that had been the whole story. But there’s more.
From shifting all my weight to my left knee and favoring it, a button on my left knee replacement popped out. This is very uncommon but doesn’t require repair-–unless it’s painful. And it was very painful, which isn’t always the case. So now, basically, both of my knees are messed up. And, if I continue to feel pain in my left knee, I might need another surgery, not a full knee replacement but still a repair.
I feel very depressed about this. But my mom really understood what a toll this was taking on my schizoaffective disorder, even before I did, and she explained it to my doctors.
My mom and I took a trip to Door County, and I had thought the hated sleeve would ruin it, but actually the trip made wearing the sleeve more bearable. Also, before the trip, I talked to a priest at our parish because my usual reaction to things going wrong is to think God is punishing me. I trust him and he told me that God loves me and that He wasn’t punishing me, and that I am a talented, lovely person. This always compassionate priest encouraged me to keep using my talents. He knows me really well, and he owns one of my photographs. This is all to say that talking to him helped immensely. I had taken a hiatus from writing with all this going on, but his words inspired me to get back to it.
I told my therapist I’d talked to a priest, and she said it sounded like this was really helpful.
I was given Norco for the pain, but I’m trying to wean myself off of it before my current bottle runs out. I tried going off of it cold turkey, but that gave me a panic attack. I’ve already quit smoking and even light drinking… the last thing I need is another addiction.
I am also grateful for Tom, who has picked up the housework I’ve had to neglect and has proven himself adept at pushing me around in my wheelchair. I am surrounded by people who love me and whom I love. They say God is love. Maybe He (or She) really has been there all along.
