Tested

Have you ever felt like you were being tested? Like, just how much shit can I take before it breaks me?

I'm not writing this to say my problems are worse than anybody else's, or for sympathy or pity. I, honestly, have a pretty good life. I just think at some point in all our lives, we go through periods when we feel like we are being tested. Just how much more can I take before it breaks me?

For me, I think the last nine months of my life have been my hardest test so far. I actually thought the test was over, and I had passed. But the universe decided to throw a few more wrenches to dodge, so you keep ducking and come out stronger in the end.

So my story starts with my previous post: I've fallen, and I can't get up. If you read that you'll be up to speed.

Part 1

At one-week post-op, we went for a long weekend away with friends. It was way too soon for me to be traveling, but the weekend had been planned for months (long before my accident). My husband and another friend were running a half marathon, and the rest of us were tagging along for fun.

At one-week post surgery, I was still taking some pretty heavy duty narcotics, and I was completely non-weight bearing. I was also not allowed to drive, and riding in cars was very uncomfortable (my incision is on my rear-end--where the butt cheek meets the thigh).

The group had rented a large Airbnb, and everyone agreed that Mark and I would take whichever bedroom was on the main floor. When we arrived at the house, we quickly realized none of the bedrooms were on the main floor. So I either had to go down a flight of steep steps to the basement bedroom or up and winding flight of stairs to one of the upstairs bedrooms. I was hoping for a private bathroom since I needed a shower stool, and my husband had to help me cover my incision and help me in and out of the tub/shower.  Unfortunately, the bedroom with the private bath had a very high bed, and I wasn't able to get myself in and out of it. So we were stuck with a shared bathroom.

None of this is too tragic or insurmountable, I'm just laying the groundwork.

It was Saturday night. The whole group decided to go into town (Louisville, KY) for dinner and beverages. Everyone but Mark and I took an Uber. We drove our Jeep Wrangler because I had to use a wheelchair at this point. As I mentioned, I was only one-week post-op. I was still taking hefty drugs and tired very quickly, so Mark and I headed back to our Airbnb earlier than the rest of the group.

It was a cold, rainy night in October, and I realized once we were on the road back to the house, I really had to pee. Oh well, just a half-hour drive back. I can hold it.

Finally, just one exit from the house! I can make it!

Mark starts slowly coasting the Jeep over to the shoulder of the interstate.

"What are you doing?"

"The Jeep just died."

"What?!?"

"It just totally cut out. That's why I coasted to the side of the road."

"Shit."

So now we are on the shoulder of an interstate in the rain. I have to pee, and the Jeep is as dead as it can be. It's not turning over. It's not making a sound.

Mark starts looking up tow truck companies. We message our friends, who are still downtown. We are trying to figure out what to do with the Jeep and how to get home (with my wheelchair). Meanwhile, I am very close to wetting myself.

We find a towing company that can tow the Jeep back to our rental house. And we manage to find an Uber who will pick us up on the side of the interstate and has room for my wheelchair. (The tow truck driver told us he wouldn't have anywhere to put the wheelchair, hence the Uber).

We have about a 20-minute wait for the Uber. The tow truck driver knows where the Jeep is.

At this point, I can't hold it any longer. It happened to be one of the rare occasions I'm wearing a dress. I do the only thing I could do...I slide my underwear off and very carefully stepped out of the Jeep and into the rain on my good leg. I hung on to the Jeep for balance and very carefully peed while balancing on one leg. It runs down my leg and into my shoes. The only thing in the Jeep to wipe with is my underwear. I quickly tucked it under the seat of the Jeep and pulled myself back inside. Have I mentioned that I'm very thankful that I have pretty decent upper body strength?)

Amazingly, the tow truck and the Uber arrive at the same time, so we don't have to stand (or sit, in my case) on the shoulder of the road, in the rain, waiting for our ride.

The next morning, Mark is out of the house early for his race. I am left to find a dealership or mechanic to fix the Jeep on a Saturday.

To make the rest of this long story short: We find a dealership that agrees to look at the Jeep. Dealership can't figure out what's wrong during the four hours they are open on Saturday. Mark and I have to book two extra nights at an Airbnb while they try to figure out what's wrong with the Jeep. They tell us they can't figure it out, but it's starting for them. I now want to be home so bad it's really starting to affect my mood and recovery, so we Uber to the dealership and risk driving the Jeep back to Ohio. We made it without issue.

The next morning we take the Jeep to our dealership. We tell them to keep it as long as they need to figure out the problem. I wasn't allowed to drive for seven more weeks, so we didn't need it.

Part II

On November 28th (6.5 weeks post-op) the surgeon let me ditch the crutches and fully bear weight. I was allowed to walk on flat pavement as tolerable.

On December 1, my brother called to tell me my father was back in the hospital.

My dad had struggled with M.S. since I was a small child. He had used a wheelchair by the time I was in my low 20s. And his quality of life during the past ten years had been very poor. My step-mother did everything a human could possibly do to help him, but it was a lot of work. And sometimes she wasn't so great at keeping us updated on his condition. This was one of those times.

On December 3, I went back to my full teaching schedule, and I started again with all but one of my dog-walking clients (she was a bit of a puller, and neither her human nor I really wanted me back in that wheelchair).

Long before any of this happened, I had been planning a surprise 50th birthday weekend for my husband the weekend of December 7.

In the midst of all of this activity, the Jeep dealership had told us they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the Jeep. So we picked it up and hoped for the best. I had already cheated a bit on my driving restriction because I needed to get to the hospital while Mark was at work.

After being back at work a whole four days, I had to ask for subs and cancel my dog-walking clients because I was needed at the hospital. During my previous visits, either myself or both Mark and I had basically just sat there because my father was unresponsive. I knew he was in septic shock from pressure wounds, but that's pretty much the extent of what I knew.

When I arrived at the hospital on the morning of December 7th, it was just me. I had yet to talk to a doctor or nurse about his condition. I had only talked to my step-mother, who assured me that my dad was a fighter, and he wasn't done yet.

Before I had a chance to sit down, doctors and nurses were in the room asking me questions I didn't know the answers to.

Did your family decide to sign the DNR? Do you know where your mom (step-mom) is? We really need to speak to her?

My morning visit turned into a very long day of meeting with the palliative care doctor. Having a long conversation with my step-mother about next steps (involving some tough decisions about feeding tubes and comfort care), and realizing that we were at the end of a very long road concerning my father's health. It was a hard, emotionally draining day.

And the plan was to head out that afternoon for my husband's surprise birthday weekend. He and I talked on the phone. "Do you want to just skip it?" he asked. Part of me did. What kind of weekend were we going to have with all that was going on? Part of me wanted to go...to release a little stress. Smile. And also because I had saved up a decent amount of money to plan this weekend for him. He's the big breadwinner in our household. I love what I do, but I certainly don't make the big bucks.

We ended up going. It trip was just to Cleveland--three to four hours away. If need be, we would just turn around and come home.

We arrived at our rental house (we rarely use hotels anymore). It was up a steep set of stairs since I had booked it long before my fall. I was starting to get my walking legs back, so I manage. I did carry a cane for when I would get fatigued.

I had booked a Christmas tour for the night. It stopped at the Christmas Story house, as well as at several bars that went all out with their Christmas decorations. Drinks were flowing, and I was feeling the stress of the day start to leave a bit. I definitely overdid it on the drinking. Not the healthy way to deal with your problems, but what can I say, it was what I did that night.

We got back to our rental apartment, got ready for bed, and the dam just broke. I cried and cried--it was an ugly cry. Mark just held me and let me cry. (I still wonder what the downstairs unit thought. I'm pretty sure they could hear me.) It was cathartic. Those emotions needed to come out. I honestly felt so much better afterward.

As December continued on, Dad remained unresponsive in the hospital. On one of the visits when I went alone, his room was empty. Panic hit me as I looked at the empty bed. I went to the nurse's station, and they told me he had been transferred to the ICU.

From the ICU, it was decided that he would be transferred to the hospice unit.

There was one day during his stay that he was lucid. We all got to talk to him that day. Mark and I, my brother and his wife, and our step-mother. We were able to tell him that we loved him. He smiled. He even showed a little bit of his sense of humor.

Later that night, he went unresponsive again.

The Friday before Christmas, I met my brother and sister-in-law at the hospital. Mark was stuck at work and couldn't make it. We knew it was our last night with him. We had read the hospice articles about what to expect when someone was dying. My sister-in-law is a nurse, and she told us to make sure we said anything we wanted to say to him.

I walked back to the Jeep, another cold and rainy night, feeling pretty shitty.

I started the drive home, and the God damn Jeep lost power on the highway. I coasted over to the shoulder. And there I sat, by myself, in the rain, on the shoulder of the road, two days before Christmas. So I sat there and cried...a good, half-hour, ugly cry again. Less relief was felt this time.

The Jeep finally started back up, and I drove home.

Early the next morning, my step-mother called to tell me my dad had passed.

We postponed our holiday plans with my in-laws. We took the Jeep back to the dealership and told them to figure out what was wrong.

Christmas was a blurry mess of planning a funeral, helping my step-mother with burial arrangements, etc.

The story of being tested doesn't stop there, although the rest isn't as important.

The day of the funeral, the Jeep dealership called to tell me the Jeep needed a $6000 new engine. They also informed me the warranty company denied coverage because I had one unauthorized oil change at a Valvoline. It's six months later, and we're still involved in a lawsuit against them. I've been borrowing cars since late December.

I thought the test was finished. I thought I passed and came out stronger for it. But as I sit here, my grandmother lies in the same hospice unit Dad was in. She's 97-years-old. She has lived a great life. And she's ready to go. But it really doesn't make it any easier. Walking back into that same hospice unit six months later was not an easy task.

But we'll make it through. I'll make it through. When it's time, Grandma will be at peace, just like Dad finally is.

Life tests us. Isn't that what life is? You hurt. You grieve. You deal. Hopefully, you get stronger. Those scars make you a little tougher (but not too tough) than you were before.

I've Fallen, and I Can't Get Up

Pretty much everyone who knows me, knows I had a bit of a mishap last fall.

Worst. Story. Ever. But, I'm going to tell it anyway.

It was late afternoon on a Thursday evening. Friday is trash day, so I was cleaning up messes to go out with the trash. More specifically, I was cleaning up a puddle one of our ferrets had left on the floor. I was wearing my pink Croc-like shoes so I could quickly go from garage to house to outside. I sprayed some cleaner on the ferret pee and turned around to grab a paper towel. As I turned around, I stepped in the wet spot (a combination of pee and cleaner). The shoe flew out from under me so that I landed with my right leg in a weirdly angled split. I heard a loud pop, and I felt the most excruciating pain of my life.

I laid on the floor for a few minutes waiting for the pain to subside, like when you stub your toe. The pain didn't stop. I tried to stand up but could not put any weight on my leg whatsoever. My phone was across the room, so I managed to crawl over to it like a three-legged crab. I called my husband, Mark, and said those famous words from the Life Alert commercial, "I've fallen, and I can't get up!" He had plans with his running club that night. I had caught him before he left work. He asked if he should come home. I actually debated this for a minute because I didn't want to ruin his plans. But I literally could not get off the floor. Then I posted a message on my work Facebook page saying there was no way I could teach my Friday morning fitness class.

He arrived about a half hour later, and I was on the floor crying. The pain was just unbelievable. We couldn't figure out how to get me to the car. Even with his help, I could not be upright. We debated calling an ambulance, but I managed to crab crawl down the garage steps and get in the car.

In the E.R., they gave me a muscle relaxer (in hopes I could straighten my leg for the x-ray) and some pain medicine. The x-ray didn't show any breaks, so they gave me a pair of crutches, told me to make an appointment with an Orthopedic doctor, and sent me home.

I couldn't use the crutches because being upright made the pain too intense. That night I attempted to sleep in the living room recliner. My husband wasn't sure what to do with me. He curled up on the couch, and later the floor.

The first thing the next morning, I called the Orthopedics/Sports Med office to see if anyone could fit me in that morning. One doctor had an opening. We took it.

I'd like to give kudos to this doctor--Dr. Lawless with Premier Orthopedics.  Within minutes he knew exactly what I had done. He said I had torn my hamstring from the pelvic bone. His words went something like this: You've torn your hamstring. If you had just torn one tendon, I would suggest physical therapy. If you had torn two tendons, we would debate between physical therapy and surgery. I'm pretty sure you've torn all three tendons from the bone, we have to re-attach it. We'll get you in for an MRI to confirm, and we'll do surgery a week from today. You'll be non-weight bearing for six weeks after surgery, then we'll work on strengthening the hamstring.

I make half of my living teaching fitness classes and walking dogs, so this isn't really news I wanted to hear. Luckily, I make the other half of my living as an editor, so at least I'd be able to do that.

A little stunned, I asked a few questions. Can I ski in January? Absolutely not. Can I run my trail half marathon in February? No. You'll have no time to train for it. Can I ski in April (we already had a trip to Vail planned)? Maybe.

So, right off the bat, this was not my favorite person, and I really hoped the MRI would show he was wrong.

He wasn't wrong. The MRI showed I had a complete tear of the right hamstring and a partial tear of a glute muscle.

One week later, they rolled me into surgery.

The week between injury and surgery was not pleasant. I had to find people to cover all my fitness classes and my dog-walking clients. I was in a lot of pain. I found a forum on Facebook for people who had this exact injury. It was beneficial because I knew more of what to expect. It was also terrifying because I knew more of what to expect. One of the things people in the forum kept saying was to make sure you find a doctor experienced in this type of surgery. I looked up Dr. Lawless and kept finding videos saying he specializes in knees. In fact, he's related to a friend of mine. The friend asked who my surgeon was. I told him. He said, "Oh, he's my cousin. I think he only does knees."

To be perfectly honest with you, I was so miserable and in so much pain that week, that I would have let my gynecologist sew me back together.

My surgery went well. The surgeon even called me the next day (a Saturday) to see how I was doing. I honestly don't remember the conversation, I was pretty drugged up at that point.

It was a long, frustrating recovery. But I followed 90 percent of the doctor's orders (nobody's perfect). And I got back to my activities long before many people in the forum did. In fact, some of them scolded me for doing too much. But I know my body, and I know what it can handle.

I've had a small complication with scar tissue attaching to nerves, but I'm working with a medical masseuse to solve that problem (you want to talk about evil...).

Getting hurt (or sick) is a humbling experience, especially if you are used to being a very strong, Independent person. It's hard to ask for help when you are used to doing things on your own. I don't know what I would have done without my husband during this recovery--or my mother and aunt. They helped me with everything. I needed help getting dressed. I needed help in and out of the bathtub to shower those first few weeks. I needed help covering the incision with plastic wrap so I could bath. I wasn't allowed to drive for eight weeks (and I made it almost that long). I got pretty good at carrying my coffee while using crutches. You get pretty creative when you have to.

Although this injury sucked (there's just no other word for it), it helped me grow. The saying is true--what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. I am working out harder and more consistently than I ever did before. When something gets taken away from you (in this case, exercise/running), you appreciate much more when you get it back.

So, while I hope to never go through this again, it was a learning experience, and positive things did come from it.

So to Dr. Lawless, thank you. Thank you for fitting me in your schedule the day after this happened, and getting me into surgery a week after that. And obviously, thank you for taking a non-knee case and doing an excellent job of sewing my hamstring back onto my pelvis. (And for keeping an eye on me when you saw me in the gym.)

Thank you to my husband, mom, aunt, and all the friends who checked in on me while I was recovering.

I'm back, and for the most part, stronger than ever.

Back to the Blog

I've had a few blogs in the past. I was never very good at keeping up with them, so they kind of went by the wayside. Lately, I've realized that I miss writing. It's a nice outlet for me. So here I am starting up another blog. This time, I'm not going to limit myself to fitness post (don't let the title fool you). Any topic goes.