Column: After surgery, it's time to care for . . . myself

I was meeting with the surgeon at the end of January and setting the date for a total knee replacement—March 8th.

I had hoped to put it off for at least a few more months. When I had unrelated surgery at the end of October 2021, complications kept me in the Critical Care Unit for a week. A lengthy recovery at home followed. For weeks, I didn’t want to see a medical professional, never mind contemplate more surgery.

Now I didn’t want to disrupt my life for a month or more.

But my right knee was in bad shape. I was limping all the time, and having a hard time sleeping because of the pain. I mentioned my initial reservations to the doctor and said, “But I have to do what’s right for me.”

The surgeon, who is Scottish by birth, responded, “Americans are much better at doing that than we are.”

I knew exactly what he meant. But it turns out I’m not great at putting me first.

This had occurred to me before. But I think I was surprised that I was doing it with this surgery. My DNA may be mostly French, my ancestry is heavily Portuguese, but somewhere along the line I developed the good old “Protestant work ethic.”

As a result, while I know recuperating is job one right now, a little voice keeps saying, “Really?”

My first hurdle was shushing that little voice. It helped that I have a rehabilitation regimen that keeps me busy. I have pages of exercises to follow and therapists to report back to. I can almost make it feel like work.

The second and third weeks after surgery, I had home visits from physical therapists three times a week. I also had exercises to do three times a day. After every visit and exercise session, I needed to ice the knee for 20 minutes. I also iced late in the afternoon and before bed.

In the fourth week, I graduated to outpatient PT, which involved a whole different set of exercises (along with the icing routine). One involved me dragging my bent leg toward my torso, and then raising the heel up and down. Ten repetitions. Five times. I couldn’t do this on the bed, so I got on the floor.

It was not a pretty sight, but no one was looking.

I have mixed feelings about the exercises. I dread them, but they don’t take long and the stretching feels good. It’s been helpful to see the progress, too. It took me a week to be able to do a simple leg lift. Now I have no problem at all.’’

I also have struggled with having to depend on my husband, Paul. Now that I’m a month out from surgery, I can do a lot more on my own. But he had to help me wrap my bandaged leg in plastic wrap and then get into the shower the first couple of weeks. I couldn’t do much meal preparation. Paul doesn’t cook much, so I was directing his efforts while perched at the kitchen table. Luckily, this stage of my recovery did not last long.

I’d given Paul a tour of my dressers and armoire before the surgery. I didn’t anticipate going upstairs for at least a couple of weeks, so he brought down my clothes each morning. And he filled my “Iceman” machine daily.

Paul was very helpful and gracious, but I hated asking him to do things for me. I was happy when I could finally get upstairs, under his supervision, but now I’m even happier that I can get up and down on my own.

My final hurdle was dealing with the guilt of sitting around. Since I’m a librarian, I could at least feel I was doing something useful with my nonstop reading. The more books I’m familiar with, the more helpful I can be to my patrons.

But shouldn’t I be using my time to work on my writing as well? And I could resume my decluttering and organizing projects. Surely I could do some of those while elevating my leg, maybe even while icing it.

Well, my mind can try to make me as miserable as it wants. The fact remains that my body is top dog in this fight. I can make simple meals now, and have ventured out to the supermarket a few times (with Paul’s help). I tried driving the other day and was pleased to find I can do it. I have nowhere to go aside from my therapy sessions, but it’s good to know I can hit the road if I have to. I try for a 15-minute walk outside every day.

In between I’m sitting, icing, elevating, and yes, napping. I’ll be feeling all pleased about my progress, like the morning I got ready for an early-morning therapy appointment in less than an hour. I even had a few minutes to spare. But as soon as I sat down in my armchair, I realized I had no energy left.

I closed my eyes for a five-minute snooze. Sometimes I really have no choice. I just have to take care of me.