Gene Mueller’s blog
It’s been eight weeks since I traded in my rusty, crusty arthritic knees for a brand new pair of fresh joints. Two months is a fairly small sample set, but allow me to share how the procedure is playing in my day to day life. Consider it a public service to those of you pondering such a procedure, or a chance to share war stories with those who’ve already done it.
First of all, I can move without pain. My bi-lateral procedure (a fancy way of saying I had both done at once, rather than one replacement at a time) was rare, making me a bit of a unicorn among hospital staff and PT experts who didn’t know where to start when they saw me sliding my way toward them in my walker the day after surgery. They plied their trade well, to the point where I can walk without pain. Sure, there’s the odd twinge here and there, but nothing like what I was living with before.
Speaking of which–I’ve come to find people are, for the most part, very polite. Folks seeing me now are eager to know how I’m faring and also very honest in telling me how old, awful, near-death and dreadful I looked before going bionic. “You look so much….younger!” is their polite way of saying, “You dragged yourself along as if you had a pant-load before getting this done.” Others are more, um, abrupt. “You walked like s–t.”
Learning how to shuffle again is hard. That may be a little extreme but the fact is that years of bad habits had me jetting around with something less than a typical human gait: think more like Herman Munster. With severe gout. Old muscle memories had to be re-learned, now that my bow legs are gone and my limbs are realigned. My knees actually touch now. It’s taking time to reacquire my stride, and god bless the PT folks but my mind is bursting with things to remember as I put one foot in front of the other–suggestions about what my hips should do, where my back should be, how to carry my shoulders, and when to swing my arms. At one point, my therapist asked, “What do you think about when you walk?” I prattled off the list of must-do’s to the point where he finally said, “Forget that. Just go.”
Pants are a thing. Yes, I still wear them, but they don’t hang like they used to. I didn’t notice this when I was rehabbing in warm weather sporting shorts but now that I’m out and about in the cold, the jeans that fit so nicely are now an inch or two too long. Consistently. Dress slacks, too. Even my beloved Dockers. I can only figure it’s a side-effect of the re-racking, the process of taking the bend out of my limbs must mean a longer inseam. I’ve honestly had several friends tell me I’m taller. Can’t wait ’til I’m throwing down two like Giannis in the paint!
You get used to being the novelty, or at the very least the object of curiosity when acquaintances see you for the first time. There’s genuine interest in how you feel, the pain you endured, the rehab/PT process and the change in quality of life they hope you’re enjoying.
Then, they want to see your butt.
“Okay, walk away from me so I can see how well you’re moving.” Most are impressed, especially those who’d seen me struggle with being ambulatory before September 4’s procedures. A couple are more critical. “Yeah, you seem better, but you’re still not normal,” they say. Normal is something I’ve never been accused of, but I worked really hard to get back to the point where I can put one foot in front of another without breaking a sweat. No one’s going to confuse me with Usain Bolt but jeez, I’m still a work in progress.
And will be, from all indications, for the next year or so. Average down time is six to eight weeks but everyone’s different. Plus, major operations are what my surgeon calls “insults” to the body, events that require mending that goes beyond the healing of the operational scars. That means fatigue as your system invests a lot of its energy first into healing that which got cut/trimmed/plumbed/reconfigured before it wonders about giving you the moxy to back out of the driveway. That means even more naps than usual by day, followed by nights when post-surgical aches keep you from nodding off. Again, it’s part of the new reality, like the sounding of alarms at metal detectors and a fear of throw rugs.
Two months, and all is as well as could possibly be hoped for. Farewell sprinting and kneeling, goodbye to cleaning gutters and anything else involving a ladder. The goal now is to avoid a slip/fall that could send this whole process back to square one. Don’t think I’m being rude if I walk past you with my head down. I’m just making sure there’s not a spill about about to step into.
My butt and I thank you in advance for understanding.
