THE DAY OF SURGERY

I lied to myself about a lot of things before my ACL reconstruction, mostly out of ignorance. I told myself I’d be off crutches in a week, that my swelling would be non-existent in two, that my recovery would be a breeze and I’d be back to doing quad sets at 100% in no time flat; I believed the pain would be minimal after the first couple of days, and that I’d be pedaling on a stationary bike immediately after surgery.

I’m not sure where these ideas came from, but they are probably responsible for the courage I felt walking into Alpine Orthopedics and Sports on the morning of the 23rd after tearing my ACL two months prior (read that story here).

I drove my mom and myself 35 minutes from Crested Butte to Gunnison in the dark. We arrived at the surgery center just before 7AM and I walked in alone, feeling less apprehensive and more curious. I sat down on a blue couch in the brightly lit waiting room and pointedly ignored the snack and coffee station to my right. I had elected not to go under general anesthesia, and instead went with the anesthesiologist’s recommendation for two nerve blocks in my leg, a spinal block, and drugs to help me relax. This meant I had been allowed to drink coffee before 5AM—thanks be, I’m not myself before coffee—it also meant I wouldn’t have to be intubated for my procedure.

A cheery woman in scrubs emerged from a door to my left and sat down next to me. She took a few minutes to guide me through a series of online documents and medical release forms before leading me back into the surgery. She seemed nice, safe, I wanted her to see me as brave, somehow, like none of this phased me, but it did. How could it not?

I shook with nerves and cold as I changed into my hospital gown; the valium I’d been given on arrival eventually quelled my unease and the warmed-up blankets the nurses covered me with stopped my shivering.

Dr. Beim’s entire staff was female, which I couldn’t help but view as cool. And after I had been visited by the anesthesiologist and was administered all of my blocks and her cocktail in my IV, I remembered relatively little. I woke up once during surgery—but felt nothing—I had only the vague sensation of my leg being lifted and moved around.

Once out of the surgery, I rallied quickly and wanted to go to the bathroom; the RN who was assigned to me looked dubious, but as she helped me out of the hospital bed and saw that I was capable of doing a squat on my good leg, she called for a wheel chair and took me as I requested. I had no feeling below my waist and so my visit to the bathroom was pointless, but as soon as she brought me back to room and got me out of the wheel chair, I peed on the floor.

Thankfully, no one seemed phased.

At some point Dr. Beim poked her head around the dividing curtain and told me everything had gone well; she was thrilled with the autograft she had shaved from my quad. She also told me my patella was cracked but she had filed it back into a regular shape.

With my surgery complete, my mom was notified and arrived quickly to pick me up. I’d been given cranberry juice and crackers while I waited to make sure I wouldn't be overcome by nausea and I happily munched and sipped, noting the growing feeling of pain right where I knew my bladder was.

By the time we got back to CB, I was in so much pain that I could barely stand to breathe as each gulp of air competed for precious space in my abdomen—I was still unable to relieve myself on command. I began to google spinal blocks and clicked on an article that talked about catheters being implemented in extreme cases to avoid bladder rupture. Full. Stop.

Luckily some combination of heave-crying and the absolute terror instilled in me by the idea of the nearest catheter being a 40 minute drive away, caused me to pee.

My right leg stayed numb until the evening of the next day. And then all of my nerve blocks seemed to wear off at once, finally allowing me to feel everything—I was hyper aware of the two buttons drilled into my bones, which stapled my new graft to my tibia and femur, and the synthetic brace behind it with all its staples, and the shaving that had been done to my patella, and all the pressure from the swelling—I wanted to die—at the least I wanted drugs, drugs I had opted not to take out of my desire to maintain my sobriety.

POST- SURGERY MILESTONES

• Day 0 (3/23): ACL Reconstruction Surgery

• Day 5 (3/28): I removed my bandages + took myfirst shower

• Day 10 (4/2): I went to my post-op appointment + had my knee drained (my swelling was excessive, so fluid was removed with a syringe) this improved my progress in physical therapy immensely

• Day 13 (4/5): My first time driving after surgery + I began moving around the house without crutches

• Day 17 (4/9): I began riding the stationary bike at my 5th PT session + was cleared to ride on bike trainer at home for 20 min every day w/out resistance + cleared to ditch the crutches completely

• Day 23 (4/15): I walked 1 mile, relatively flat, without crutches around the neighborhood (days prior, I was walking laps around a cul-de-sac for 20 minutes at a time, practicing gait training exercises)

• Day 31 (4/23): Squats and side stepping introduced in my 8th PT session + I was cleared to add some resistance to the bike trainer; my current goal = walk without a limp

Around day 13, my independence really increased and I was able to make my own coffee, cook dinner, take care of basic chores and stand for much longer periods of time. My swelling was under better control, which made all the difference in my immediate recovery.

Being able to achieve some semblance of independence during my second week of rehab really helped improve my state of mind.

MAJOR TAKEAWAYS

Replacing Social Media with More Valuable Pursuits

I removed myself from social media in the days leading up to my surgery and remained off of it up to this point; ultimately I think this was a valuable decision because rather than scrolling mindlessly on Instagram, I spent countless hours reading amazing books like the entire Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series by Stieg Larson, When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön, Rising Strong by Brené Brown, The Body Keeps the Score, by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D., and many more. I have written blogs, infinite journal entries, and I took an online writing class through Telluride’s library. I’ve listened to podcasts like My Favorite Murder, Lady to Lady, Revolutions, and Dare to Lead, plus I picked up a pen and began drawing again; I’ve spent time with friends face to face, and dedicated hours each day to rehabbing my knee. Okay, okay, I’ve also done some hardcore Netflixing—Community has, in many respects, gotten me through this ambiguous time.

I did not want to fall down the rabbit hole of comparing my life situation to that of others on social media, because I’ve found it causes my anxiety spike (how could it not?) and ultimately serves to make me less happy. I have a lot to be stoked about and I want to focus on how grateful I am to have the life I do, rather than fixating on how “I’m not doing enough_______.”

Prioritizing Mental Health

Beyond throwing an immense amount of time and energy into my physical recovery, I have also placed huge emphasis on healing in other ways. I have seen my counselor 10 times now—about once a week since the beginning of February and twice more times than I have been to PT—I can honestly say I wouldn’t be navigating this major change nearly as well as I have been without finally breaking down (literally) and making my mental health a priority.

The mental work I am undertaking has proven to be just as challenging and exhausting as my physical therapy, and the reward is that with each passing day I am defined less by my disproportionate anxiety response, and more by WHO I REALLY AM.

Lessons in Compassion

Compassion is tough for me to talk about, I think because pre-injury I did not exercise it much in my own life or in my critical view of the lives of others. A judgmental mindset brought me a sense of security; if I could pick apart another person’s life to discern why it wasn’t going so well, then I could avoid making those same mistakes. If I could pinpoint why or how I’d screwed up some aspect of my own life then I didn’t have to acknowledge my fortune—good or bad—is out of my control.

According to Stanford Medicine, “compassion comes into the English language by way of the Latin root ‘passio’, which means to suffer, paired with the Latin prefix ‘com’, meaning together—to suffer together.”

Over the course of my life, I spent a lot of time avoiding my own suffering (and the suffering of others)—it still happened, of course, I was just numb to it—but through this process of healing I am learning to be present with it; I am showing up (begrudgingly), I’m feeling my own pain (and it’s ugly), I’m crying for hours if I need to (no, seriously), and I am trying not to judge my own experience so harshly (trying).

What I hope to carry forward from this time in my life is a renewed compassion for myself and for others. In moments of extreme anguish, I see now what I really want is to achieve a sense of connection, to reach out and hold a hand, to hug a loved one, to feel less alone. I want someone to be with me. And guess what, that someone can be me.

Suffering is inevitable, to wholly avoid it, we would have to sacrifice the best moments of life too; we do not get to selectively numb.

Staying the Course

I can’t tell you exactly what “the course” is, since I don’t completely know where I am going, but I imagine staying it looks something like waking up everyday and trying my damnedest to do the next right thing, which could be as simple as making coffee and writing in my journal or doing my at home PT routine even when I feel depressed.

Previously, the most important goal I had was to “make progress” (catch those air quotes) and I viewed disruptions, like tearing my ACL, as inhibiting my progress—but what am I ultimately progressing towards? Some final, polished, end product? Death? And should my goal really be to live my life with as few interruptions as possible? What if I started to look at these interruptions as just a part of the continuum, and navigating them as staying the course?

When I examine my life, I see it bears innumerable, blurred handprints belonging to all those people I have ever come into contact with, and like a pane of glass, I have been given dimension by the interactions I’ve had with the world around me and by the marks I bear, no matter how messy or smeared.

Even in my darkest most isolating moments, I am not alone; truthfully, I never was.

Thank you mom for flying out to Colorado to help me during and after my surgery, and for making “not doing enough” (as I like to call it) fun; thank you Logan for loving me through this process, even when I ugly cry and say crazy things that do not make a whole lot of sense; thank you Ueli for laying on the floor with me while I do PT and for accompanying me on slow walks while I try to find my legs again; thank you Tim and Sarah for being a constant source of positivity and inspiration and for making me feel so included in your family; thank you BB for chatting with me and making me laugh even when initially I called wanting to scream; thank you dad and Mary for answering the phone just to let me talk; thank you to my amazing friends who have taken the time to drink tea & eat guac with me on the porch or connect with me over the phone; thank you to my counselor and my PT who are helping to give my life purpose and direction during this process of recovery; thank you to everyone who has reached out to check on me; thank you to those of you who have read this far in the blog, I’m writing as much for you as I am for me.

And a final thank you to the birds, who put on a show daily beyond the edge of the porch and remind me that things are always changing, even when it feels like I am standing still.