My husband had knee replacement surgery on January 3. I moved into a small hotel within six blocks of the hospital so that I could walk there and spend time with him every day. The surgery was on schedule and went well. The nurses had him up and walking the first day. The physical therapist started him on exercises by day two. Four days and the doctor gave the thumbs up for Rick to come home.
Within minutes after entering the house, Rick shed the walker. The cane was necessary, but frequently forgotten. Rick pushed himself hard, determined to teach our home Bible study on schedule. Well, honey, I’m glad you’re so dedicated, but that isn’t going to happen. I imagined blood clots forming if he sat at a desk and studied for the hours he usually put in.
When he headed for the stairs with his walker (which he needs downstairs as a barrier against an affectionate 10 month old 97 pound German Shepherd puppy), I yelled at him. I don’t mean a dainty, “Wait, dear. Let me help you.” I bellowed at the top of my lungs while I ran at him. “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself? You’re going to end at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck. And if it isn’t, I’m going to break it myself!!” Or something like that. (This is the “Frantic Frani” side of me coming out.)
He’s now going to physical therapy and looks a little gray after each work-out at a place called (appropriately) “Back to Golf” – which is exactly what Rick has in mind. Thankfully, the dark purple bruise from his backside to his ankle is turning to a nice lilac and yellow. The swelling around his knee has lessened, and the incision is losing the adhesive strips.
I still hover and check and get a little shaky when he tackles the next phase of recovery and I see that look of pain on his face.
This morning he was on our exercycle.
If I’d had the surgery, I’d still be in bed watching chick flicks and asking him what he’s fixing for dinner.
Well, maybe.