Knee Surgery, Day 4

The other thing you lose with mobility is dignity. And that loss can affect you deeply, albeit not physically, but certainly a blow to your morale and ego. We are raised to be independent, to do things for ourselves, to dress ourselves, feed ourselves, to be self-reliant on ourselves for so many things in our daily life. And when we lose mobility and have to depend on someone to help with the smallest things that were previously in our control, our dignity suffers.

You feel incapable of doing even the basic tasks; you become an invalid. And while it may be only temporary until you recover from the surgery, it still puts you as an adult back into dependence, as if you were a child. For an adult, that can be embarrassing.

The simple act of walking across a room is fraught with pain and effort. Using a walker to shuffle a few centimetres at a time screams “old man” and, even though I am well aware of my age, I am reminded of my senescence every hour.

And, of course, when we need help to do things we tend to do privately or in seclusion, like washing, putting on underwear, putting on slippers, getting up and down from the toilet, we feel the helplessness in our bones. Dignity can’t hold on while someone helps pull our underwear up. Nor can privacy.

I experienced something of the same when I went through, and then was recovering from prostate surgery. It was hard to feel dignified when I had my genitals on display, poked with a catheter.

My hands and shoulders ache from the pressure of holding myself up on the walker and cane. Neither is designed for comfort. My palms, especially, are sore, and I sometimes worry my hands won’t be able to hold me up when I need them to. I might try using my bicycle gloves to see if they help relieve the pressure a bit.

Another thing that bothers me is sleeping. Or, rather, not sleeping. I don’t get much now because the pain in my leg tends to keep me awake, but when I finally nod off, it is on my back. Not good for me: I’ve always been a side sleeper. On my back, I tend to snore (which irritates Susan, too); my mouth gets very dry, my back hurts, I wriggle trying to find a comfortable spot, which exacerbates my knee pain. I am anxious for the time when I can again roll over on my side and get a better night’s sleep. On my back, I tend to awaken more often. And, of course, I need to get up to pee two-three times a night, which involves a whole production with Susan helping me to get up and move.

Movement still hurts, of course, and stairs remain the worst offenders. I’ve managed to get up from sitting positions a few times with less aggravation than initially, but I don’t take it for granted. A slight twist as I stand can spark a fire of pain. Toilets remain a challenge, and I understand why people get a Versa frame with arms to help them rise.

One more day into recovery and I still say fuck a lot when the pain startles me. I reconcile myself to it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll get better.

Notes:

Here’s another useful document about knee surgery and recovery:

www.healthcareexcellence.ca/media/2fjlmpq3/erc_kneereplacementsurgeryday-en.pdf

Words: 586