Abe was right

It has now been a month since my surgery. It's astounding to me how completely that event has taken over my life. Every day is punctuated by medications, exercises, struggles, accomplishments and, hovering over it all, a general malaise, a fearful daydream that this is not going to change, that this is my new life.

I know better, but it's hard to shake.

Abraham Maslow (1908-1970) was the founder of humanistic psychology; he created the well-known Hierarchy of Needs (above). Simply put, he argued that humans must take care of their most basic needs, food and water, before they can grow to experience any other, higher level needs, i.e. feelings of friendship or achievement or creative expression.

I am proof of his argument.

For a month I have been able to do little other than meet my most basic needs. Friends have asked what I'm reading – nothing. They've wondered if I've seen a lot of movies. No. Have I written anything new? Again, no. I've managed exactly three blog posts in these thirty days – hardly a great outpouring of wit and insight.

I've mostly met my physiological needs, the first step in Maslow's pyramid: breathing, food, water, excretion. Not always doing so well with the last of those, or with sleep or sex. Climbing to step two has had equally mixed results: my safety needs are being met, though “health” obviously merits a footnote. Moving up to level three, love and belonging, I certainly feel loved by Ransom but my being a contributing part of the family has obviously taken a hit, as has sexual intimacy.

The top two levels, esteem and self-actualization are currently only goals. I often feel lousy and useless. My creative juices are flowing slower than January sap and spontaneity has been shoved to the back seat in a world where I have to carefully plan each footfall or brace myself against each gust of wind or canine advance.

This is not a pity party. I am not looking for encouragement from without; I am digging deep to find it within. Every day that I navigate the house and the stairs without falling is a day I feel safer. Likewise, every day that I sleep two hours in a row is a better day than when I woke every hour.

I will scale this pyramid. I will toss away this cane and realize the potential within. Like many before me I am learning the value of all the things I take for granted.

Never again will I take a pain-free day for granted.

More tears

The recovery continues, if not exactly apace then at least with deliberate forward motion and continuous acceleration. My progress is measured by the things I can do for myself and by the aides mécaniques I have discarded. Number one in the latter category is my walker. When I got home I could not move two feet without it; now it sits ignored most of the day, called into service only when I need to schlep something. Of great importance in the former category is that I can now put on my own socks! Imagine! Even more wonderful is that I can take a shower. Really! I've done it – twice. Fabulous.

The exercises are still tough, especially when Mistress Wendy is here to crack the whip. But my range of motion continues to increase and every day I am able to lift my leg higher or swing it in a wider arc or hold a stretch another 15 seconds.

All progress. All good.

So why the tears?

Because Ransom has been so incredible through this that tears of joy have washed away some of the pain. He cooks all our meals, he helps me whenever I ask, he takes the dogs out half a dozen times a day, he does the laundry; he, in short, does it all, with very little assistance from me. And he's maintaining a full teaching schedule, as well as working on upcoming projects. Most remarkable of all, he's done all this with no complaints but with love and support and a willingness to do whatever it takes to get me through this.

Yesterday, for Valentine's Day, he brought me flowers and baked a cake.

Words fail as I try to express my appreciation. Through the pain he has been here and through him the pain has lessened. These tears are welcome.

This might hurt

I've had little on my mind these last two weeks other than pain. My pain. My pain from receiving a new knee. It's been an eye-opening experiencing; one could even say an eye-flooding experience, as it has brought tears to my eyes more than once.

I had a torn Meniscus repaired in this knee back in 1998. I had been in a great deal of pain and the surgery eliminated it completely. I don't remember too much about the recovery period which no doubt means it wasn't terribly difficult. The repair held for over ten years but eventually the pain returned and I asked for a knee replacement. My surgeon wanted to try another remedy first; he put me in a quite substantial brace that kept the bones from grinding against each other. It worked, mostly, but was damn uncomfortable. By early this year the discomfort was as bad as the pain and so we agreed it was time for a new knee.

As I write that I am struck by the fact that such a thing is even possible. That we can, within limits, replace bad organs and bad joints is absolutely amazing. But there's a price to pay.

And that price is pain.

OK, let's have it out right now: I am a weenie. When it comes to physical suffering, I fail. I'm a man after all; we're not built for this; women are much better at handling pain. My knee starts to throb and I'm holding my breath, grinding my teeth; it gets worse and I am tossing and turning, trying desperately to find a comfort spot; when it's at its worst I am literally crying out loud.

The three days in the hospital were not so bad, largely because I had a pain-killing catheter inserted directly in my femoral nerve. When I moved to rehab the needle came out and I relied on pills only. That gets dicey, but at least I had smiling nurses bringing me drugs around the clock. Now I'm home and it's up to me; not always easy to judge when best to take the next dose. Last night I simply forgot and spent 45 minutes in agony waiting for the meds (Oxycontin and Oxycodone) to kick in.

Some of the worst pain though is actually self-produced: it comes from doing the exercises prescribed by Dominatrix Wendy, my physical therapist. They are all absurdly simple – walk in place, lift your leg from a prone position, lift your heel toward your back while standing – things I could by the hundreds two weeks ago. But today? Ay yi bleeping yi! It hurts! It REALLY hurts.

When I'm in pain, nothing works right. Even my writing skills take a hit, as evidenced by this lackluster performance. Let me at least end that pain.