best laid plans

I'm still angry about yesterday.

It was the biggest game of the year: Vancouver, who lost to Boston in the Stanley Cup (National Hockey League) finals last June, was back in town and looking for redemption. The arena was sold out.

Big games are good times for season ticket holders. We know where we sit, the people who sit around us, the path we take from entering the building to watching the game. We know the ushers and the elevator operators (since I'm still using a wheelchair while my hip heals) and the guy who serves fries at the nearest stand. We were psyched.

The first suggestion of trouble came from the elevator operator, who informed everyone that hers was the only one running. There are only two elevators in the building (who builds a 17,000 seat arena with two passenger elevators?) and one was down. She was taking disabled passengers and people going to the Promenade level, for which there is no other access, and that was it. Everyone else had to find their way via the (extensive) series of escalators. The collective tension and anger hung in the air like smoke.

We escaped the elevator at the fourth floor and went to our section. As I crutched down the row, I heard the people behind our seats say something about a problem. And there it was: disaster. My seat, the end of the row against the wall, was destroyed. Not just broken. Wrecked.

Seats at the Garden are long rows of steel chair frames bolted into the concrete with individual seats for each chair. Once before, I had arrived to find the seat part broken. We called an usher, who called maintenance, who fixed the seat before game time. It rode a little low, but it was safe.

This time, not only had the seat been pulled out and left sitting on the floor, but the steel frame of the chair had been ripped out of the concrete as if by an angry giant. Inconvenience aside, it was an impressive sight.

My seat -- the seat -- had been getting weaker and more damaged in the couple of years I've known it. It's never been in good shape. Seatmate thinks the bolt holding the frame was probably loose and maybe someone more amused by vandalism than I am gave it a kick from behind. Once it came free of the concrete, the vandal probably figured he'd finish the job. The Garden will have to replace the whole row (about ten seats).

Seatmate went off to lock up the wheelchair and, not realizing the extent of the damage, pick up our usual pregame food. We both separately called ushers, who called maintenance. By the time a maintenance guy showed up, the pregame montage had started. Maintenance took one look at the seat and said he couldn't fix it (duh). We sat in a couple of empty seats in our row (no doubt held by people arriving late) while the game started and the Garden staff tried to figure out where to put us.

Finally, an usher came to get us. I put on my backpack and grabbed my crutches; Seatmate carried my seat cushion (one of the bones broken in surgery is the the "sit bone") and the tray of cooling food. We followed him to the other end of the ice, where he gave us folding chairs at the far end of the handicap seating area, a large flat section for people in wheelchairs.

A side note: whoever designed the wheelchair seating area didn't consider the possibility of the audience in front standing up. When they do, the people in wheelchairs see nothing but bodies standing in front of them. I can stand up, but the people for whom the section was built lose their view of the action as soon as anything exciting happens. Seriously bad design.

Hockey is played in three periods. In the second period, the goaltenders switch sides, but there are still two periods in which the home team's action is concentrated at one end. We chose our season seats at the end where the home team shoots twice, and we paid extra for it. Now we were at the other end of the ice, with the action close to us for only one period. Not happy.

I decided to make the best of it by doing what I always do: shooting the game. Technically, my long lens is against Garden rules, but the rule is never enforced. Of course, I'm not usually exposed on an open platform where I'm easily visible to any bored security guard. Halfway through the second period, sure enough, security tapped me on the shoulder and told me I had to put away my "professional" lens or he would kick me out. I argued briefly and pointlessly, then shut up and put down my camera.

Then I cried. It was the biggest game of the year, we had been looking forward to it for months, I'd been sick all week and was still sniffly and tired, and the whole day was just fucked. I put my face in my hands and sobbed.

Eventually I got myself under control, wiped the migrating eyeliner from beneath my eyes, and took my long lens off my camera. As I sat there feeling sad, the Bruins mascot Blades sat down on the stairs right next to me. Without a word, I leaned my head over onto his furry shoulder. He tipped his head down gently to touch mine. After a moment, I straightened up and smiled, the first real smile I'd had all day, and Blades got up and headed down the stairs to make someone else happy.

After the game, we went to the Guest Relations office to file a complaint. The woman working there had heard the story from half a dozen ushers by then (we're always there; the ushers know us) and was very apologetic. I told her that I didn't expect her to have answers, but I had questions: why was it my responsibility to find my broken seat and report it right before the game? why had no one noticed the broken seat until I arrived? why was this the second time this had happened to me? how do I know this won't happen again?

So now we wait. Seatmate has sent an email to our ticket rep, letting her know about the problem and asking her to make sure we have functioning seats for Tuesday night's game. If they have to reseat us again, I'm not going to be happy, and it's going to take more than an apology to get me to leave the Guest Relations office. As it stands, I think they owe us at least a refund for Saturday, but we'll see.

I've left out a few little details, like the time the flimsy folding chair folded when I sat back down (because everyone in front of me had stood up) and I almost fell backward onto my carefully-broken-and-healing pelvis, and the fact that teams of people clean each section row by row after every event and must have seen the broken seat and ignored it, and how badly I wanted to feed the security guard a straight right to the nose, and how people cursed at the elevator operator (who we love) because she could not take them with all the wheelchairs that don't fit well on escalators, but I guess I can't tell everything.

And on top of everything, the Bruins lost.

It's snowing again.

I don't mind snow, but it's a hassle on crutches. The snow works its way up into the hollow spaces in the bumpers, then melts when I go inside. Wet crutch tips + hard floor = no traction. I bought some grippy studded caps to go over the tips, but either they're supposed to be as big as Dixie cups or I got the wrong size; in either case, I can't use them.

The other problem is that I have no stamina after six months of not walking. Walking in snow takes more energy than walking on a clear sidewalk, so I get tired fast. Once I'm tired, I'm less focused and more likely to fall. I am not allowed to fall.

"You fall and I'll kill you," my surgeon said last week, looking at my x-rays. He was specifically rejecting my request to go skating, but he would be just as pissed if I fell while walking around in the snow or, for that matter, coming in from it with wet crutches.

So I'm on snow emergency house arrest, at least until the sidewalks get cleared. The forecast is for snow and assorted freezing slush through tomorrow night. Then more on Saturday, but I'll deal with that when it happens.

I am so close to being off crutches. I don't use them at home and my walk is almost (almost) normal, provided that 1. I remember to take small steps and 2. I'm not exhausted. When I'm not home, I take longer strides. It's hard for me to move slowly in public. I feel like an ambulatory roadblock, or a limping antelope trailing the herd.

The left hip, which carried me through this whole adventure, is done. Every step feels like I'm being stabbed in the bikini line. When the right hip is strong enough to be my only hip, it will be time to do it all over again.

It's like a snow globe out there.

Post-op day 111 / week 15.

Happy belated Thanksgiving (possibly not applicable outside the United States). I spent a lovely few days with my parents in DC.

I'm finally walking again, but not easily or far, so I arranged for a wheelchair to get me through the airport. My first wheelchair pusher was new to the job and unsure of standard security procedures. A TSO checking ID and boarding passes watched him fumble and said, "First day at the airport?"

I had never gone through security in a wheelchair, so I didn't know what to do beyond the usual (shoes, jacket, laptop, baggie). My options for forward movement stopped with a TSO and a backscatter machine. The TSO seemed to be waiting for me to stand up. I finally asked him what he wanted me to do.

"You got any metal implants in your body?" he asked.

"No. Uh, yes." I keep forgetting.

"Can you stand for a few seconds with your hands up?"

"Not without my crutches," I said. This is not entirely true, but close enough. Better a pat-down (which was inevitable) than a fall.

The TSO sighed irritably. "You got, like, a foot problem?"

"I have six titanium screws in my pelvis," I said. "I'll take a pat-down."

And I did. The TSO was very professional and didn't touch my junk (as it were), but what a drag. The return trip was the same song and dance, albeit with a more experienced wheelchair pusher. I think the current TSA procedures are bullshit, really. I'm lucky I don't have a prosthetic breast or a urostomy or an insulin pump (TSA reportedly told one traveler to "leave it at home" next time). There must be a better way to keep planes from blowing up than treating passengers like criminals.

Anyway.

I'm getting stronger. I'm using one crutch to get around at home. I never feel as though I'm really using it, but walking without it is ridiculously hard. Calling it a penguin walk would be kind; it's more of an unsettling lurch. Seatmate always thinks I'm going to fall.

The coolest part about being able to use one crutch is that I have one hand free. I can carry things! It's kind of awesome. Little victories keep me going.

I leave you with this video of crazy people doing gymnastics outside:

... and part two.

Post-op day 41 / week 5.

Holy failure to update.

Last Tuesday, I had a post-op appointment with my surgeon, and I left the apartment for the first time since coming home from the hospital. I was nervous; I remembered how hard it had been to get up the stairs six days after surgery, hopping up each one on my left leg, my right leg mostly dead. But I'm a month stronger now, and I went down the stairs easily and walked crutched triumphantly out into the sunshine. Fresh air!

The Millennial crutches are fantastic and worth the $85, if only because nothing dislocates when I use them. I'm getting stronger on them, but I still need the wheelchair for long distances, like anything longer than the walk from the front door to the elevator. I had no idea that crutches would be such a workout for my abdominal muscles. Get abs of steel FREE with pelvis breakage.

The meeting with my surgeon went well. The team was happy to see me on crutches after all my trouble with them before surgery. I seem to be healing on schedule and sans complications. I finished my daily injections of blood thinner (30 days, baby) and switched to low-dose aspirin. I stopped the heavy pain medication and went back to lighter meds to control the EDS pain. The physical therapist gave me some exercises to do at home to get the strength back in my leg. Aside from the butt pain while sitting, which comes from the break in the ischium (the "sit bone") and will take a while to heal, I am much improved.

I'm still tired and sleeping a lot. I keep reminding myself that it's a long recovery, and when I get frustrated, I look at the bone breaks in my x-ray. No one heals overnight, but it would be nice.

Having conquered the stairs made me brave, and when the Bruins held a couple of open training camp sessions last weekend, we decided to go. We'd never driven to the Garden before; it was strange not to take the subway. The crowd was small and we had our choice of seats. I tried sitting down by the glass, but the seats were uncomfortable and the cold made my muscles cramp. I crutched back up the stairs (!) and spent the rest of the time in my wheelchair with my comfortable butt-coddling cushion.

I crashed out hard when I got home and again the next day, but it felt good to get out of the apartment for a non-medical reason, and I loved watching the team and hopefuls run through their drills and horse around and laugh. One month to opening night.

Aaand I have to lie down and get off my butt now.

I didn't need to worry about having time to donate blood, because it turns out that I can't. My iron is too low even with a daily iron supplement. NO BLOOD FOR YOU.

The nurse, who was warm and funny and sympathetic, also looked doubtfully at my veins. It's a big needle, she said. She kept saying she wouldn't make the decision for me, but that she could only get one unit out of me because my iron would drop and I'd become anemic and then I'd be tired and run-down for surgery. And she was right, and that was that.

I emailed my surgeon and primary doctor when I got home and confessed my hemoglobin fail. The two of them chatted, then my primary got back to me: new iron supplements, three per day, and add vitamin C, B12, and a multi to my daily pharmaceutical cocktail. I have officially outgrown my weekly pill container.

I tried a pair of platform crutches at physical therapy yesterday. The best word to describe them is awkward. Cumbersome works too. "You're not getting a 10.0 for grace, here," my PT teased. But the muscles of my upper arms and shoulders are much stronger than the bones and ligaments in my hands and I crutched around more easily than I can with standard crutches. I was impressed.

This is not to say that crutching is easy. It's crazy hard work. I'm sure it gets easier with practice, but right now, I can't imagine crutching beyond my lobby.

Quick dental update: I'm healing! Yesterday, I woke up not thinking about my mouth for the first time since the teeth were pulled, and I'm starting to venture beyond soup for meals. I stopped by the dentist for a check-up and he says everything looks fine. I have two more dental appointments before hip surgery, but nothing more traumatic than Novocaine on the schedule.

Next week is my big pre-op appointments day, when I get to meet people like my anesthesiologist. We're bringing a tape recorder (remember those?) so we don't have to take notes, and I'm preparing a list of questions and concerns for everyone.

But first, the weekend.

Wow. I haven't updated in a week. Kinda over a week, actually. Time flies when you're having fun preparing for surgery.

I was busier last week than I've been in a long time. I slept better than I have in months, dropping off around midnight and sleeping through the night. I gave in to a nap on Friday afternoon and insomnia returned that night. It's easy to say NO NAPS but hard to stick to it when I'm nodding off. NO NAPS.

My physical therapist has gotten me started on crutches and sent a pair home with me for practice. He wants me to be competent with them before surgery. This is what I've learned so far: I hate them. My hands and wrists hate them. My thumbs partially dislocate in protest. I have an appointment with a hand therapist about that. I have a mental image of someone counseling my thumbs to be strong.

We took the cat for her first visit with our vet last weekend. She wasn't happy, but she wasn't hostile. She let out a few mournful yowls as the doctor probed her belly, the loudest sounds we'd ever heard her make, but the vet didn't feel anything out of the ordinary, so I think it was just a general objection.

She weighed in at eight pounds and change. She couldn't have been over seven when we brought her home. We cut her food back to half a cup per day. She isn't happy with that either. We stupidly left a four-pound bag of food on the floor in the kitchen. She dragged it five feet from the wall and chewed her way in. I found it tipped over in a scatter of kibble. No shrinking violet, our cat.

We're feeding her in a Brake-Fast bowl to make her eat more slowly. She uses a paw to fish out the food. The bowl is so light that every tug pulls it closer to her. Then she backs up a step to compensate. We keep finding the bowl across the room. It makes us laugh. We're really not bad people.

She also moves her water bowl. It's a heavy PetMate recycling water fountain, and I don't know how she does it, or why. We put it in the open near the table. She pushes and pulls it under the table, often wedging it between the chair legs. I don't even have a guess for that one.

What else? The Sox lost tonight. They also lost another player to injury. I think they're up to ten players on the disabled list. Watching the roster filled with bench players every night is like watching a spring training game, only not as amusing. Stop getting hurt.

And NO NAPS. But bedtime soon.