Wake UP!

Day 9

September 10, 2024

Today marks one week from my emergency surgery. 8 days since my first symptoms. It’s insane how life can change in an instant. Just over a week ago I was carrying Kennedy on my shoulders, smiling and laughing, not realizing that this in and of itself was a gift. The ability to walk. To lift. To balance. To feel my feet. I’m sure over a week ago I was worried about something insignificant—-the baby’s nap schedule, food prep, the laundry, the inevitable mess of toys after the kids played all morning…It seemed trivial now that walking was a massive challenge. The prospect of sitting there and placing the Little People toys in the specific locations—the girl with the bathing suit on the cruise ship, the construction worker inside the bulldozer, the boy with the binoculars next to the camper…was so SILLY.

I prided myself on having a clean home. One that was decluttered. One that almost looked like nobody lived there. And with kids, this was HARD. Depending on the day and time you visited my home, you would either be sure I was a clean freak or a hoarder…that’s life with kids. Well maybe not a hoarder, but it was insane how a meticulous kitchen can look like the scene of a bombing just seconds after arriving home each day. Backpacks, diaper bags, work bags, lunch boxes, water bottles, sippy cups, unfinished breakfast from the ride to drop-off that morning, mail, food prep, sweatshirts, school papers, and the massive bag of miscellaneous items my mom and I sent back and forth of whatever items were left behind with whoever had the kiddos last. The best feeling was shipping the massive bag of stuff out of the home—it felt a lot less satisfying when it was coming your way.

The daily “dump” in the kitchen took forever to pick up especially when interrupted by cooking dinner, potty, playing, and bath time. Sometimes this would be so frustrating and take until 9:00 or 10:00 pm to return the home to its immaculate state, just to start all over the next day.

Jay was very clean too, but he wasn’t the “keeper of all things.” He was excellent at cleaning, but not so much at finding homes for the miscellaneous items. I remember him telling me one day, “I cleaned everything, but I don’t know where anything goes, so I just neatened it up.”

I laughed and told him, “Finding homes for the miscellaneous items is the hard part of cleaning…not wiping down the counter.”

We went through the dreaded “miscellaneous items” pile. A stack of school papers, a pair of Beck’s sunglasses, a few picture frames that my mom no longer wanted, a couple of Amazon returns needing to be dropped at Staples, a broken toy that needed some love, a couple of Ken’s books she left behind in the car, a card from his mom, a few receipts, and Tupperware that had to make it back to my mom.

Some of the items had an obvious home, others did not. I said, “You don’t know where these go because they don’t have a home. When you pick up something like these picture frames you need to ask yourself: Does this belong in a drawer? The closet? Under the bed? On a shelf? The attic? The basement? The trash?That’s the hard part—finding the home!”

About a week later I decided that he was fired from this job. I came home to a massive ceramic bowl and pitcher on top of our fridge. It wasn’t in the miscellaneous pile, so this is where he identified it should live.

“What is that Jay?” I asked in horror.

“It’s an antique. It was my grandmother’s. My mother asked me about it and I told her I wanted it.”

I pulled it off the top of the fridge for closer inspection. “It’s broken!”

“Yeah, but it was my gram’s and it’s an antique.”

“Wait a minute, your mom drove this up from VIRGINIA? A broken pitcher?” I was throughly confused but I decided to drop it. Later that afternoon I relocated it to a better home—the attic. It is still sitting there now. Guess it was better if I handle the miscellaneous pile from now on.

I hadn’t been home in 7 days. I thought about the “miscellaneous pile” and how many things there would be to sort out.

It didn’t seem as important anymore. Now, I just wanted to walk. To feel my feet and my body. That’s all.

I needed my nerves to WAKE UP!

I read that if your nerves are bruised or traumatized but not cut, they should recover over a period of 6-12 weeks. The results varying based on the extent of compression, which nerves were impacted, and the age and health of the patient.

I knew the facts, but was still waking up each day expecting to feel differently than the day before. Marginally different, but different. Certainly not the same amount of dead leg each day. From my right knee cap to my right foot it felt like I was in an inflexible steel splint. I had to look at my leg while walking to determine if my knee even moved. It did. But it felt awful. The numbness hadn’t improved but my ability to balance had. I was able to walk better after getting increasingly more comfortable walking with one good leg. The numbness frequently impacted my other foot as well, but this was positional and temporary.

I often had to lift my right leg up with my arms. Especially to move while lying down or to get dressed. It was incredibly frustrating. I kept waiting for the blood to flow back into my foot as it does when it falls asleep. It just never did. The doctors discuss a recovery period of months, but never specify what the incremental gains should look like. Whether it should be a little each day or whether your nerves will suddenly turn on one day like a lightbulb. It was so hard not knowing, and absolutely discouraging, but I tried to be patient, trust in the process, and have faith.