Getting Back On The Road Again

Today is Day One of recovering from knee surgery. I’ve already had my first cup of life-affirming coffee along with breakfast (Alice at my side waiting for the scraps), two things I was denied yesterday along with a 20-hour stint with no water.

In general, this surgery on my “good” (right) knee was minor compared to the other two surgeries I had on my “bad” (left) leg. My recovery time is supposed to be much shorter, and the aftereffects of being under anesthesia have been so minimal that I’ll be writing a thank you letter to Dr. Greg, the anesthesiologist. I have him and a national shortage of propofol (the Michael Jackson drug) to thank for this windfall of uber-goodness.  

When I told Dr. Greg that getting me to wake up from anesthetic and maintain normal blood pressure is like waking Rumpelstiltskin, he asked me a few questions and then explained that he was going to go old school on me. The national shortage of propofol, caused by back to back recalls of the drug, has anesthesiologists across the country resorting to older methods. Dr. Greg opted for a cocktail of gas, anti-nauseau meds, and some other sedatives. Instead of using the now-common intravenous method, I practiced breathing through a mask and holding my breath. Once it was time for the big stuff, I took one breath with the magic mask and was knocked out in less than 10 seconds.

Normally, it takes me eons to wake up after surgery, my blood pressure plummets, and there’d better be a bucket next to the bed to catch the wretching. This time, I awoke so bright-eyed that Dave wasn’t sure they were putting the right person in the wheelchair. Dr. Greg came to check on me and I claimed he was brilliant, much to the chagrin of the nearby nurses who said they’d never be able to live with his ego now.

A big shout out to the staff at St. Thomas Hospital in Akron. They were super attentive and sweet. Two of the nurses were sporting fancy, trendy frames so we talked glasses and frame trends while I was waiting to be wheeled into surgery. I gave Barb my email address and agreed to take her shopping for her next pair of glasses because she wants something fun and artsy. Dave decided I need to go into the personal shopping business, which isn’t such a bad idea.

All of this is to say, it was the right time and day to have surgery. The staff was great, the surgeon (Dr. Pakan) was no-nonsense and superb, and Dave was there to care for me. I had put this surgery off as long as I could, since March to be exact. I opted for the cortisone shots and a significant reduction in exercise. The cortisone allowed me to put in some time on the elliptical machine (dreadfully boring) and the bike but nothing compares to running. Time might heal wounds of the heart but it doesn’t take away a meniscus tear and cartilege damage. As the months have passed, I realized how much I missed running. Really. Really. Missed. It.

I know there will come a day when I can’t run anymore and I’ll have to resort to cycling or a relaxing walk in the park but I’m not ready for that day just yet. Running is part of my daily and weekly routine. Without it, I have been sort of like an unmoored boat, thrashing around in choppy waters. My concentration has suffered (not a good thing since I have a hard enough time paying attention for more than thirty seconds), my muscles have gone soft, and my writing hasn’t dried up totally but I admitted to Dave that the ideas aren’t flowing as freely as they normally do. Sir Roger Bannister said: “We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves … The more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom.”

When I first started running, I used it as a means to an end of some extra poundage. That was years ago. Now, running is, like Bannister states, my freedom and my therapy.  It’s the only time of the day that I can be alone with my mind and my body — in tune with myself. No conference calls. No emergency deadlines that usually turn out to be non-emergencies. No laptop. No dogs manipulating their way into the treat jar (believe me, it’s hard to deny two smiling Aussies). People have asked me if I do a lot of thinking about my fiction writing or life in general when I run and the answer is, ”Hells no”. I think about nothing except putting one foot in front of the other. I thank the man upstairs for my health and remind myself how lucky I am to be able to run.  I focus on my breathing and, sometimes, the songs on my iPod. I rarely think about anything and that is the beauty of running. I can turn off and tune out everything going on around me (except oncoming cars and uneven sidewalks). It gives me the mental space I need to dump all of the trash and clutter so I can clear a path for new ideas. Since March, I’ve collected lots of trash that needs dumping and I’m looking forward to running in the wide open spaces soon.

In honor of getting back on the road again and in honor of my two Cincinnati running pals, Suzi and Teresa, I offer up Bruce Springsteen singing “Born to Run”. Teresa once belted out the lyrics during a long run, right around Mile 19 or 20. She was in the zone while the rest of us were ready to quit. Any time I hear this song, I think of her energy and motivating spirit. You can be sure this will be the very first song I play on my very first run after recovery.

Now, back to the vat of Garrett’s Popcorn (cheese and caramel mix – aka crack) that just arrived from our friends Kevin and Doug. Ah, the sweet taste of recovery!