Today I am at 97 days after my surgery. I can’t tell if time has flown by or dragged excruciatingly slow. When I was in the hospital, it dragged. Sometimes I think it actually went backwards. I felt hopeless, like I was never getting out. I’d look at pictures of my dogs and think that it had been forever since I had seen them and forever more until I would see them again. I genuinely worried that they would forget me. Since then, I have days that fly by and days that crawl. I guess that’s to be expecting. It’s tough because I have never been a patient person. I want to be up walking. In my mind, I could get up and walk across this room right now. Clearly my legs just aren’t getting the message.
This morning I had physical therapy. After strapping my legs into braces and ace bandages, I was able to walk for about 60 feet. I look like a drunken sailor when I walk. I can’t make the walker go straight. The physical therapist I worked with today kept forgetting to move the walker for me. The audacity to make me do it all myself. Ok, I guess that’s part of the therapy part. I’m always saying I want to do things for myself. It’s just unfortunate that I kept pushing the walker into the wall, rather than walking in a straight line. (Hence the drunken sailor remark.) By 60 feet, I was pooped. I’m pretty sure that 60 feet equals 2 miles. Uphill. In mud.
Last week at this time, I could only walk 50 feet, broken up into 20 feet and 30 feet. The week before that 50 feet broken up 15, 15 and 20. Today it was 20, 20 and 20. Beyond that, my legs were remarkably less wobbly. Before it was like a baby giraffe trying to figure out these new stilt-like contraptions below my body. Now they’re more like al dente spaghetti: not quite hard but not exactly a limp noodle.
97 days in and however many more that it takes ahead of me. Better than I was yesterday and not as good as I know I will be tomorrow.