Posts Tagged ‘stupid knee’

The Hardest Part.

The most difficult part of a serious injury isn’t the immediate aftermath.

I mean, sure, you’re in a lot of pain. A LOT of pain. But the doctors? They give you wonderful medications to help you deal with all that pain (or at least space you out enough so that you don’t care).

Plus, people are worried about you. No one minds picking up extra chores or carrying your bags or grabbing your lunch.

So it sucks, but you’re not left to suffer alone.

The worst part of an injury comes after that. When you’re starting to feel better. Starting to feel like you should be able to do things. But your body? Just laughs when you try.

But you? Are determined not to be broken anymore. So you do something stupid. Like try to take a walk in the sunshine.

At first it feels good. Your blood starts to pump through your veins. Your brain brightens up under the sun. But then? Then all hell breaks loose. You knee starts to yell at you. Then scream. By the time you get back to where you started, it’s all you can do not to cry.

But you can’t whine anymore, because everyone’s sick of listening to you (unless you have a blog. Then all bets are off).

You can’t ask for any more favors, because you used all those up weeks ago.

You just have to suck it up and smile, saying, “me? Oh, I’m fine. It’s MUCH better than it was. I’m practically good as new!”

Inside, of course, you are cursing up a blue streak. But no one knows that (unless you have a blog. Then all bets are off).

At the end of the day, you limp home, curl up on the couch, and hope no one asks you to move until morning.

But, of course, you have a family.

A family who needs you.

So you suck it up. Do what you have to do. And try not to whimper.

And they? Are none the wiser (unless you have a blog. Then all bets are off).

Someday, this in between period will all seem like a bad dream. You’ll be up and running again (or at least walking).

Until then? At least you have a blog. A blog where you’re free to whine.

Thank goodness for that.

(real post coming tomorrow. I just had to get this out of my system).



Silly Shoes.

I’ve always been a little bit of an, ahem, shoe whore.

I love shoes. Shoes don’t care if you gain ten pounds or lose 35. It doesn’t matter if you’re having a good hair day or a bad muffin top day. Shoes still look the same, fit the same, and make you feel the same.

This summer, I went on a wedge sandal kick – the higher the better.

No matter how steep the platform, I could walk without feeling like I was going to tip over. They made me feel, well, tall (an accomplishment when you’re as short as I am). And like I could kick a little ass. Those wedges, they made my legs look pretty damn good, too.

I intended to keep the trend going with a bunch of high-wedge boot s for the winter.

But you know what they say about the best-laid plans? It’s totally true.

Thanks to this knee of mine, I won’t be wearing heels again any time soon. Or, you know, ever again. This charming leg brace  rules boots out, too.

You know what kind of footwear that left me with? A pair of running shoes and a pair of black flats that stink to high heaven. Literally.

This was not an acceptable state of affairs.

So coupon, crutch, and sleepy preschooler in hand, I headed to the store to buy some new flats.

Have you ever tried to excavate shoes from the lower shelves in Kohl’s when you can’t really bend? It’s a bit of a challenge. That’s where my mini-me shoe lover came in handy.

She brought me every pair of size 8 shoe she could find. She brought me red ballet flats. Powder blue slippers. Hounds-tooth rain shoes. Even some neon yellow kicks.

And then she helped me put them on my feet, easing them over my toes and smacking them on to my heels.

But I found a reason to reject every single pair. One was too tight. One was too big. Still another too small. And the other one was, well, neon.

She started to droop a little, but still she didn’t give up.

And then she found them. The Perfect Pair of Shoes.

They were silver. And purple. They sparkled. And they had, well, see for yourself:

They're silver. They sparkle. And yes, they have cat faces on them.


Those, my friends, are cat faces. Complete with black whiskers and purple sparkly ears.

Tori slid the first one on my foot, sat back and smiled up at me, her grin heartbreaking in its joy.

“Do you like them, Mommy? Because I think they’re beautiful.”

“They’re very pretty.”

“Are you going to buy them?”

“Well…I’m not sure.”

“Oh, Mommy! You have to! You look like a princess.”

I looked at her shining face. Down at the shoes. Back at her. Back at the shoes. And I had to admit, they were  pretty cute. Completely ridiculous, of course. But I’m stuck wearing a big black brace and the same three pairs of leggings over and over and over again.

I deserve a little sparkle in my life.

“Of course I’m going to buy them! Too bad they don’t have them in your size, or I’d get you some, too!”

“Yay!” she said, jumping up and down. Then, very seriously, “We could look on Amazon, They have everything on Amazon. Then the delivery man could bring them to me!”

“Alright, baby, we’ll look,” I said (we probably won’t). “But now let’s go buy these and get home to daddy, okay?”

And that’s why the last thing I bought was a pair of silver sparkly kitty cat shoes.

It’s also why I’ll smile every single time I wear them.

Proudly written as part of Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop.


From Bronchitis to Broken Knees: But Still, I’m Thankful.

It was a cold, dark November night.

I awoke from a strange dream, breathless from another coughing fit. I sat up, took a swig of water, popped a cough drop, but nothing quieted my hacking.

When I started to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen, I rose from my bed and headed for the stairs – and the codeine-laced cough medicine that awaited me below.

Still hacking, I stepped down the first stair. But below my foot was not the hard tread of the threadbare carpet, but something soft and slippery.

Before I knew it I was falling down one, two, three, four, five…six stairs.

I heard an ominous pop and my kneecap started to slide. Petrified of another dislocation, I slammed it back in with my fist.

Only then did I realize I was in serious pain. And that there was no way in hell I was going to be able to stand up on my own.

“Brian?” I yelled. “Brian, I need help.”


“BRIAN? Brian, HELP me!”

Still nothing.

“For the love of God, Brian, WAKE UP!”

I heard the first whimpers from Tori’s room, meaning she was awake. But still nothing from our room.

“Tori? Tori, I need you to wake up your daddy,” I called.

“Mommy?” she called back sleepily.

“Yeah, baby, I need you to come here.”

She trudged down the hallway and peered down the stairs at me.

“Mommy? Are you okay?”

“No, honey. I fell down the stairs and I need help. Can you get daddy?”


She disappeared into our room, calling for her daddy. A lifetime (or a  few minutes) later, he appeared, pulling on his jeans.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I fell down the stairs. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“No, I had my headphones on.” Then, as he shook himself awake, “Why weren’t you hanging on to the banister? You of all people…”

I have a history of falling down the stairs, you see. But I didn’t want to hear it.

“Can you please just help me up,” I snarled.

He did, and a short while later, I was ensconced on the couch, ice pack on my knee, three Advil in my stomach.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” he asked.

“No. No, I do not. I’m fine.”

I was so not fine. But I was determined not to admit it.

In fact, I didn’t go to the doctor for two days. I even went to work. It wasn’t until my leg started to resemble that of an elephant that I gave in. And still, I thought nothing much was wrong.

Nothing much, that is, until the doctor looked at me with horror.

“When did you do this?” she asked.

I told her.

“And you’re just now getting this looked at?” She shook her head.

Several painful moments later, after she twisted and turned my leg in all sorts of directions it didn’t want to go, she had a diagnosis.

“Something is really wrong in there,” she said. “I’m thinking you’ve got some torn meniscus floating around. You, young lady, are going to see an orthopedist.”

I groaned. That was not in my Thanksgiving weekend plans (but at least she called me a “young” lady).

Then she ordered me to stay off the thing entirely. Made me get crutches and everything.

I hate crutches.

Still, I’m using them. And forcing myself to stay put on the couch as much as possible.

It sucks.

But at least I didn’t dislocate the damn thing entirely. And for that? I’m grateful.

Stupid knee.