An honest update

 How are you?

I’m good, thanks?

But how’s your knee?

It’s better every day. Thanks so much for asking.

This is how the conversation goes.  I genuinely appreciate the thoughtfulness of anyone who asks But I’m not being completely honest in my answers because it’s just too hard. 

The real answer is “it’s hard”. Very. Very hard. Every day I deal with pain.  And I have to make a choice.  I can sit on my couch and be mostly comfortable.  Or I can choose to keep moving. To get on that bike, to push in my exercises.  I’m pushing against the bad form that keeps creeping in on the bike. My knee begs me to point my toe. My toe begs me to bend my knee. They are fighting each other constantly. 

Pain shoots through my knee at the most random of times as my nerves work to regenerate.  The most common time seems to be around 3 am. Right after I’ve finally drifted off to sleep as I’m still dealing with post joint replacement insomnia. 

Every fucking day.

I’ve still got about 10 hydrocodone left … that’s about the only way I get sleep. But the supply is dwindling and I know the worst thing I could do would be to try and get more. I need to deal with this in a healthy and responsible way. But I’m just so tired. 

Please don’t think I’m not aware of far greater problems in the world. Afghanistan (full stop).  COVID (again, full stop). Tomorrow I get on a plane and fly to Texas to spend 6 days with one of my dearest friends who is quite literally going through hell to save her life.  But that’s not “perspective “. It’s just more heartache. 

So dear ones. That’s my real answer.  I’m fucking tired. 

Catharsis

 Looking back through my older posts on Maybe Tomorrow,  I sense a theme.  In the beginning my blog was a place to connect and share funny stories about my kids or my musings on motherhood.  In recent years my blog has become a place of solace for me when I'm facing hard times. I guess the good news is the months that often span between posts are happy and light.  And I certainly have many periods of silence on the blog - for which I am thankful.

Right now is not one of those times.  I can feel the familiar fingers of depression reaching out to try and take hold and drag me down.  Everything in me wants to curl in - make a protective little bubble where nothing can hurt me.  During these times Ryan usually becomes my anchor.  The only thing I feel sure and strong - holding me in place and keeping me from running away.

Every day tasks feel exhausting.  My body is so worn down from all its been through - the act of loading my car after vacation, or cleaning a few rooms, leaves me feeling worn through.  Last night I came home to a mess at our Airbnb - cleaning it took hours as going up and down the stairs is such a challenge.  Afterwards I was too worn out to even think about making dinner.  Cue the feelings of inadequacy and self loathing. 

I catch site of my reflection in a window as I walk into a shop and I am horrified by the unfamiliar curve of my leg, the unnatural gait, the swollen and scarred joint.   Walking into the store the other day, feeling people watch me, I wanted to hide.  Knowing I was being looked at because of my limp and the bend of my knee.  The fear that it won't improve.  That I'll look lopsided and awkward forever.

I was supposed to meet my dear friend at the pool this morning and I cancelled on her.  Because I'm afraid.  I don't know what swimming or pool jogging will look or feel like. I don't know what my cardiovascular system will sustain.  And I don't know if I'm ready to know yet. I don't know that I can handle any more disappointment.  

Maybe you didn't ask, but there is the answer to "how are you doing?".  The answer is, "not great". But as history would show, the periods of sadness, the times when my blog is a catharsis are short, and the greater periods of peace and joy always return.  So for now I will hold onto that hope of a return to silence. 

When grief comes.

 Something I've learned in the past few years, is that its often hard for us humans to just let others sit in their grief. To really give people space to grieve, without trying to put a positive spin on the situation.  

Maybe I'm unique and others appreciate that optimism during the grief process, but when someone who is not in my situation wants to shine a positive light on it FOR me, I tend to push back.  Because my pain is my own.  And while I am sure that many of the positivities are true, it doesn't mean that I'm ready to hear them.

My body has brought me great joy in this lifetime, it has also brought devastating grief.

The reason is simple.  I'm an athlete.  That is just part of my identify.  

If you ask anyone who knew me in high school to describe me during that time, I'm sure that almost every person would mention soccer.  I loved everything about the game.  The community. The feeling of pushing yourself to your limit.  The sweet feel of victory and even the bitter taste of defeat.  I worked my ass off to achieve what I was able to.  Because I tore my ACL the first time right before my junior year, and then my second ACL half way through my junior season, I didn't have anything to show potential college recruiters. But I knew if I worked hard enough I could walk onto a Division One team.  And I did.  I put in miles on the track by myself, hours on the field doing skill work, by myself.  Playing every single chance I got.

 All the hard work and pain paid off when I made the Liberty soccer team.  Then halfway through the season I was hurt again.  I went into surgery with the doctor optimistic that it was just a meniscus tear and I'd rehab and play again the next season.  I came out of surgery to find out that my ACL had been torn and that I would likely never play soccer again.

It was devastating.  The grief process was long.  I lost my sense of identify when I lost the version of myself that belonged out on a soccer pitch. Watching my teammates head out on a trip to an away game while staying behind in the dorms was heart breaking.  I knew that if I tried to play again, my knee wouldn't survive it.  Even simple things like kicking a ball often caused my knee to shift as my ACL couldn't hold it.  Last fall when we were together with Ryan's family a bunch of the kids were playing soccer.  The ball came towards me and when I tried to kick it back up over a small wall I could barely do it.  My nephew turned to his dad and laughingly said "I thought you said Aunt Lacey played in college".  I would be lying if I said that I didn't come home and cry.  

A few years later I found running.  I'm guessing that just about anyone who knows me now, knows how much I love to run.  For a lot of the same reasons as I loved soccer.  Pushing my limits, the camaraderie of my running friends, crazy adventures together to races, plus, I was really good at it. 

Well, needless to say I was very happy when we decided I was a good candidate for a partial knee replacement.  It meant that, while I might have to cut back on running, I would still be able to do it!  So, it felt like deja vu last week when I sat in my doctor's office and he looked at my knee and told me the partial replacement hadn't worked.  The ACL wasn't able to hold the implant in place.  If you haven't seen the X-rays it a pretty good representation of the awful situation my knee was in and why my pain was so bad (you could say I'm somewhat famous (i.e. freak of nature status) at my physical therapy office). 

So I knew what conversation my doctor and I were going to have when I woke up from my surgery on Monday.  My running days are over.  Done. 

And that, is really, really hard to come to terms with.  So, I am again going through a grieving process over part of my identify.   And I just need to sit in it.  And give myself time to adjust.  Hopefully with a minimum of well meaning, but unnecessary,  attempts by others to make my situation seem better.