Last year, my friends convinced me to join a women's rec soccer team. I had started running after King was born and they assured me that to play soccer, I just needed to know how to run. Turns out, that's kind of like saying that to play football, you just need to know how to squat. I was tackled (while running) in our 6th game and the snap of my ACL tearing off my tibia was so loud it echoed in my head for days after.
So, last Wednesday (we delayed it until after the move) I had my ACL reconstruction surgery. It went fine, from the surgeons perspective, all routine. It was my third surgery - the first was an oral surgery when I was 12 that makes for a great gross-out party story, the second was my c/s when King was born.
I know when Kingsley was born I had heard about women who bounce back and are great, but I was not that woman. My wee babe had surgery on his back and then his brain and the boy was off drugs weeks before I was, acting like it was some foggy memory while I whined and moaned for nearly 9 months. Same with his next two surgeries.
This kid is a superhero or something. I'm not sure where these genes came from or why I don't have any.
I am one week post op on my little knee surgery and I'm still popping pills around the clock, hobbling on crutches, sweating and swearing through PT, and my leg is swollen and bruised every shade from black to yellow from my mid-thigh to toes. Thank God for my parents and mother-in-law or Rachel would have had to be in charge because I'm useless.
I honestly have no idea how Kingsley makes surgery look so easy.
On a silver-lining note though, I can tell you that this house is truly accessibly awesome. I haven't had to go up or down a stair or face any obstacle in the past week, other than the girls bedroom. ;) The elevator rocks my socks and the wide halls and doors are totally appreciated. I can even see why drawers are so much better than cupboards.
In a week or two, I will be off crutches and within the month I'll be allowed to drive again if all goes well. In the meantime, I will endure Kingsley making grossed out faces when I take off my wrap and brace, telling me he doesn't want to see Mommy's owie and to put my 'ups-ups' (his name for his knee-immobilizer braces) back on. I think he secretly thinks I'm a wimp.