It's a post-op life for me... Two weeks out from ACL surgery (Week 1)

Slight preamble: in the next posts, I will be talking quite a bit about my recovery process from ACL surgery, but I will also try to reflect some about other aspects of life since, thank God, life does not revolve around our physical struggles.

As of two weeks ago, I can say I'm an official member of an elite club I never wished to join, the "Jock Joint Surgery Club", (yes I just made that up, which explains why the name's not particularly clever...).

Thankfully, week two has been nothing like week one... My friends who had been through the same operation and rehab warned me about the highs and the lows of the whole process. One moment you're flying high—not from the painkillers (an alternating combination of narcotics and ibuprofen)—and the next you hit rock bottom. I just hadn't expected to feel all those emotions during the first week of post-op.

Day 1, while I was conscious at least, I felt great, thankful to be out of surgery, thankful for a successful procedure, thankful for the amazing care I received from all the medical staff at the Texas Institute for Surgery. After returning from the hospital, I was still under the power of the anesthesia and spent most of the day sleeping. If it hadn't been for my mother waking me up every hour and a half or so to do the exercises which had been prescribed by the physical therapist at the clinic, I would have slept all day and probably all night.

Speaking of my parents, I cannot thank them enough for how they took care of me when I was unable to care for myself, bringing me food, water, and making sure I took my medications at the right times. They made sure I followed the doctor and the PT's instructions regarding the use of a couple interesting post-op machines, the ice-machine, which I had to use constantly, and the continuous passive motion (CPM) machine, which I had to have on for a total of 8 hours a day, though I had a love-hate relationship with each, but mainly love with the ice... My parents, however, didn't love the ice machine as much as I did since every four hours or so they had to change the ice in order to ensure that the water which flowed into my ice pack around my knee was cold enough to actually make a difference, which included waking up every night around 4 a.m. not only to add more ice but also to release me from the CPM machine and give me more meds. (Needless to say, both my parents and I were thrilled to return the machines to the clinic once the first week of post-op was over).

Day 2 and day 3 I was slightly more active. Though I still spent most of the day in bed with my leg elevated, I was able to do more exercises and also could notice progress in my quadricep strength, extension, and flexion—granted, I followed the PT's instructions "to a T" and tried to do as many sessions of my exercises as possible throughout the day, which included straight leg raises (SLRs, quad tightening to improve extension and activate my quadricep muscles, ankle pumps for increasing blood flow through my lower extremities to prevent clotting, and heel slides to work on flexion).

I was very blessed to have had very little post-op pain, only during the afternoon on day 2 did the pain become more than a dull throb and only lasted about a half hour. The downside to the pain management medications was the constant fight with grogginess and the desire to sleep in the moments I was not doing my exercises. That tendency to doze off was highly frustrating as I'm not a huge fan of napping and had been hoping to use the down-time in order to catch up on some reading. Let's just say that in the first 3 days post op I only made it 20 pages in to Tolstoi's War and Peace, which, if I hope to finish the great novel before I reach middle age, is not a reasonable pace. (I'm happy to report that after last week my reading speed increased significantly and am now about 300 pages through Tolstoi's masterpiece, though I'm still struggling to keep all the princesses, princes, captains, counts, countesses, and other characters straight...)

My first post-op week would not have been complete without a few mental breakdowns, which should be interpreted as depression accompanied by a river, or maybe more like a stream, of tears. After being so accustomed to independence and high activity levels, spending a week in bed completely reliant upon one's parents does not come without its frustrations. Walking around on crutches, verrryyyy slowlyyyy, transitioning to try to learn to walk normally again, the occasional twinge of extreme pain as one tries to move too quickly. At one point, I thought I had pulled my hamstring when I almost tripped on a chair, had to catch myself with my bad leg, and felt a nice little pop in the back side of my thigh. Looking back, it was probably more like the feeling the doctor had warned me about before surgery regarding a sharp pain in the hamstring which is nothing to be worried about as it is mainly the muscles trying to heal themselves around some of the post-op scarring, or something to that effect (since they used a hamstring graft).

My lowest moment actually came on the stationary bike around day 7, which, looking back, actually seems quite overdramatic and slightly comical. The frustration all started when I was trying to get on the bike, attempting to get the foot of my operating leg into the strap on the pedal, unable to control and bend my leg. Once I somehow managed to accommodate my foot, I began to try to pedal and was incapable of doing a complete revolution, something I never imagined I would go through. As I sat there, rocking the pedals back and forth, back and forth, reaching one extreme point of flexion and going back to the other, I began to cry, cursing everything that had happened, questioning why I had to get injured, why I had to be so far from my boyfriend for so long, why the dumb rehab process had to be so long... Luckily, no one walked in during my breakdown, and I was able to recover slightly before running into any family members (I say running figuratively, obviously, as I will not be allowed to run until 3 months after surgery). I am happy to report first that my feelings of uselessness and frustration have subsided since that moment and second that as of day 12, I have been able to do complete revolutions on the bike, both forwards and backwards.

I won't bore you with the details of the rest of week 1 as each day was fairly similar to the one preceding it, with only slight increases in activity and improvements in my knee's mobility. Week 2 was much better as I had my first follow-up with the doctor, who was very pleased with my progress as far as my extension and flexion were concerned (according to the PT, week 1 is essential for regaining complete extension, more important even than flexion which can be improved later on, but if the patient does not achieve complete extension in this period, it is very likely he will never be able to completely straighten his knee again and may even require a second surgery) and had my first two in-clinic physical therapy sessions.

Since this post is quickly becoming very long, I will leave details regarding week 2 for another post and end with some photos... Also, if you've been through ACL surgery and rehab, I'd love to hear about your experiences...

Right outside the clinic, not-so-bright but very early, I was the first patient of the day at 5:45 a.m.

Waiting to be anesthetized even though I'm so tired I already look drugged...

Post-op chillin' with the CPM and ice-machines

Not sure if I knew where I was when this photo was taken...

Hanging out with my buddy Charlie after surgery

Working on flexion with heel slides on day 3 (happy to report that I am already past 90 degrees)

CPMing, Mate-ing, and trying to read War and Peace

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IMAGES ARE SLIGHTLY GRAPHIC...

Changing my dressing for the first time after surgery, since then all the stitches have been removed, except the ones from the longer incision which will dissolve eventually. (got some nice swelling going on there...)

Day 5 post-op, even more swollen and got some nice bruising going on in the shin area.

"Mi Buenos Aires Querido", homesick in Dallas

Sometimes the blank page is scary. It sits there staring back at you, challenging you to fill it with your words and thoughts, but nothing comes. Maybe in this age of computers and smartphones and tablets the blank page has gotten stronger, brighter, more powerful, or maybe I'm just suffering from a mild case of writers' block and am trying to find something concrete to blame. It's not that I have nothing on my mind, quite to the contrary, I can't stop thinking, reflecting, brewing, stewing, pondering, wondering, thundering (wait, that doesn't quite work...) about life, love, family, friends, jobs, soccer, health, surgery, loneliness, purpose, lack of purpose, wealth, poverty, joy, sadness, but my problem is how the heck do I write it all down? Or should I even write it down?

Writing is scary. The best writing opens the door to one's very soul, but it's not easy leaving one's self so exposed. What if people reject you? What if your best isn't good enough? What if your struggles are insignificant and pathetic and your feelings impotent and shallow? What if your deepest worries are foolish and irrational? What if this whole becoming-an-adult thing is not at all as you had imagined it and at 24 years old you find yourself once again living with your parents? What if you have a constant, suffocating pain which starts in your chest and goes up to your throat when you think about your love, your best friend, who is thousands of miles away because you know you won't see him for more than two months and despite the amazing new technologies which allow you to communicate virtually, it's not the same?

I still haven't answered my initial problem: how does one write about such things? I'm at least going to try:

I'm back in the US, in Dallas, Texas to be more precise, and suffering from culture shock, slight depression, and 100 degree heat all at once. My family and I, along with the coaching and medical staff of River Plate women's soccer, all agreed that returning to the US for ACL surgery and the initial part of the 6-month rehab process would be best for me. Honestly, it took quite a bit of convincing to get me to agree to leave Buenos Aires, I had complete confidence in the club doctors who would have operated on me as they are the same ones who have performed the same surgery numerous times on first division and youth Argentine professional players. The post-op logistics, however, were what pushed me decisively toward heading back stateside for surgery.

In the month and a half between my injury and my trip to the US, time which was spent fighting against muscle atrophy in my injured leg and working to regain complete mobility in my knee, trying to get to and from rehab without a car was complicated. The team doctor, as well as my own mother, forbade me to take public transport, as an unstable knee and crazy bus drivers make for a bad combination and would put me at risk for further injury. I was forced to depend upon friends with cars who, for obvious reasons, were not always available to take me to and from physical therapy at the club, which is on the other side of the city from where I live in Buenos Aires, and in those cases I had to spend about 25 times the bus fare for the same trip to take a taxi.

Et voilà, here I am, in Texas once again, but this time not voluntarily. Although I'm thankful to be able to spend more time with my family and to see close friends after more than a year in some cases, it's impossible not to miss Buenos Aires in all its hectic glory. It's as though I have been torn out of the ground and planted in a parallel universe, but my roots were left behind; my body is in Dallas, but my heart and thoughts remain in Argentina with my team, my school, and my Cris.

Yesterday morning I met with the orthopedic surgeon who will operate on me. A tall, heavyset man with years and years of experience and hundreds of knee surgeries under his belt, he assured me I would be fine and come out of this as good as new—with the stipulation that I faithfully follow his instructions throughout my recovery. After he explained the details of the procedure, which kind of graft he recommended for the ligament replacement (for those interested he will be using a hamstring graft), what the recovery will look like over the course of 6 months, and other information I've already forgotten just a day later, the nurse came in and in what seemed like only 5 minutes gave me a million instructions of what I would need to do immediately before the procedure and in the weeks following. I tried to pay attention, but I felt my mind wandering and wondering why I had to go through all this in the first place. Why couldn't I just have tipped the ball all the way over the crossbar? Had I known that this was going to happen, maybe I should have just let it in. But I can't go back in time—though I wish I could.

Something I've been repeating to myself and to others who express their sympathy for my injury (but mainly for myself) is "everything happens for a reason" though I'm not sure yet what the reason is right now.

The surgery has been set for Monday, and I'm anxious to start the rehab process to get closer to being able to do what I love once again.

This weekend, though, my mind will not be on my surgery but on my team as we have to face our biggest rival, Boca Jrs., in the Superclásico of women's soccer. This year the stakes are as high as ever, with 2 former River players (who didn't leave on particularly friendly terms) featured in Boca's starting line-up and the league championship on the line. I wish I could be there to watch in person, even more so I wish I could be playing (this is the second Superclásico I'll miss due to injury), but I'll have to settle for cheering from a distance and through Whatsapp.

Dale River Carajoooooooo!!!!