Reversing the Atrophe

Part 2: The Muscle Remembers

Posted by Bubba on November 14, 2014
Posted in: Reversing the Atrophe. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

For six weeks leading up to the operation, sometimes four times a week, always at least ninety reps a week: I was doing leg raises. Tedious and tiresome, I rarely failed to complete the routine. I needed momentum going into the surgery, but my options were limited. The knee was shot. Couldn’t squat, couldn’t extend, couldn’t descend without a throbbing reminder of my mortality. But I could ascend. So I did, time and time again, and the muscles remembered.

Ascend

Recovery: Day 5. 

Sunday night. Sleep overcomes the majority of the household. I’m restless, though, and pumped full of narcotic-induced bravado.

I’m going for it.

Using a maneuver I’ve perfected through the years, I shift from the couch seamlessly to the floor without waking the sleeping giants within. Those slumbering behemoths are the four horsemen of an excruciating apocalypse. The quadriceps, resting a bit longer.

In between deep breathes, a mantra: “…align the knee to toes. Engage the thigh. Push down to go up.” I have to remind my body how to function. It’s like someone hit the reset button. I’m relearning how my leg works, but this is the fourth time taking this test. I’m a better student now. I studied for forty days. I remember. The muscles remember.

Engage the thigh. Align the knee. Push down to go up and…pain. Pain everywhere. Pain all the time. Giants awaken. Push down. Go up. Push down to go up. Ride out to meet them! Engage. Align. FIRE! Apocalypse. Keep pushing. For death and glory! Breathe. Go. Rise!

Boom. Goes. The. Dynamite.

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Game: blouses. One more little victory. One more morale boost. One more momentum-building moment for a psyche desperately craving a win. Suddenly, this recovery seemed less daunting.

Part 1: The Patient

Posted by Bubba on October 19, 2014
Posted in: Reversing the Atrophe. Tagged: , , , , . 1 Comment
The Patient

Taken from the comfort of my hospital bed with an iPhone 5, edited in Snapseed.

Music: familiar but unidentifiable in my inebriated state. Frustration mounts. I know this damn song. The synthesizer rhythm section waxes and wanes, inaudible beneath the cacophony of science and conversation resonating in the OR room. I’m up early, again, shrugging off the anesthesia half an hour ahead of schedule. I’m cut open from thigh to cafe. A nerve block paralyzes my body from the waist down. A doctor hammers my new knee into place. I just want to name this fucking song.

A momentary lapse in the construction. Lyrics. I can hear lyrics. “Don’t look back, you can never look back.”

Boys of Summer. Got it. Friggan’ nailed it. Dad would be proud.

Somewhere in my pacified nervous system, dopamine releases, and with this tiny victory – a disproportionate amount of euphoria. I smile at the anesthesiologist, “…is this Don Henley?”, already knowing the answer. “Hey, you are alert!” Dr. Greensmith said, surprised.

I wouldn’t fall back asleep until 8 that night, taking pride in my defiance of the anesthesia. Of all the mottoes I’ve adopted in my travels and learnings, getting “little victories” has been especially pertinent. Chalk one up for today. Small, somewhat irrelevant, but victorious nonetheless – overcoming copious amounts of sedation to correctly identify an 80’s pop song playing in the operating room.

The recovery commences.