I wanna take you to China, I wanna kiss you in Rome
In case anyone's curious, I've still got bad knees. I just stopped writing about them because I was boring even myself ;)
On the plus side, there is good news. Over small distances - say, round the office - I can do something that more or less passes for normal walking. Except for those times like yesterday when I've been sitting for too long, get up, get a few steps away from my desk, and then realise that my knees are giving way.
In general, so long as I take things slowly, I can walk (with a crutch) quite considerable distances. About ten days ago I made it from Ealing to Richmond via a wander through Kew, which the slightly shonky GPS on my phone made 7.5 miles. Although the 7.5 miles did include a stop for brunch, a stop for ice cream, and a stop for a pint[*]. On bank holiday Monday, I did a bit of pottering about on Hampstead Heath - much less distance but lots more hills, slopes, unexpected tree roots, slithery patches of gravel, and diverse obstacles. So by many standards, that's pretty decent mobility.
On the other hand, I'm still very aware of how much unexpected things hurt. Sitting down. Standing up. Lifting a heavy bag, or opening a door with a strong spring. Doing stairs. I am doing stairs - I even occasionally walk up to my third-floor office - but it hurts. Hurts quite variably, too, which makes planning tricky. An apparently innocuous twist, done accidentally because I'm now walking less cautiously a lot of the time, can be hugely painful and throw the rest of the day out. But, y'know, stairs. That's still pretty decent mobility.
What has been nice has been the constant sense of achievement. First I could get about safely on crutches, then safely on one crutch. There was a day sometime in March when I staggered, unsupported and arms oustretched, a few steps from the sofa towards ChrisC. This is probably a familiar scene to many, except the principal character is usually about four feet shorter than I am. I've been ticking things off as I go: walking longer distances, walking up stairs, then walking downstairs. When I hop in a pool and kick with my legs, I now make measurable forward progress. I tried, very briefly, the motion of jogging through the flat the other day. That was a very bad idea and has resolutely not been ticked off yet.
What has not been nice has been the relentless tedium of physio. Yes, yes, I know, it's doing me lots of good. And I'm very lucky to have good physiotherapy, and I am grateful. But the grind of 45 minutes of exercises morning and night is really quite surprisingly draining. Come home from work, eat tea, do physio, go to bed. Get up and hurrah! More physio. I have been trying to keep the whinging to a minimum (not least because there is no let-up in the physio schedule for the forseeable) but bloody hell am I fed up with it.
The gym program designed by my physio has been slowly upped until I'm now cycling (on a static bike, obviously) for 20 minutes at a time, with the resistance level turned up such that it actually feels like exercise. Breaking news: turning abruptly sedentary for three months does nothing for your fitness. The little warning light flashed at me on the exercise bike the other day to tell me that my heart rate was entering "dangerous" :( A month ago I couldn't talk and walk up stairs because I was too busy concentrating on making all the various muscles do that which they should. Now I can't talk and walk up stairs because I'm out of breath.
On Thursday I'm off to the hospital to see the consultant, and discuss the possibility of ACL reconstruction. My physio's advice this morning was that I shouldn't think about having the surgery for at least another month, as my knees have only just recovered to the point of being able to do "serious strengthening".
[*] At a pub in Richmond. ChrisC tells me that if he'd been in charge of my physio[**] I would have been set a series of challenges to reach particular pubs on foot.
[**] He concedes it's probably for the best that he wasn't.
On the plus side, there is good news. Over small distances - say, round the office - I can do something that more or less passes for normal walking. Except for those times like yesterday when I've been sitting for too long, get up, get a few steps away from my desk, and then realise that my knees are giving way.
In general, so long as I take things slowly, I can walk (with a crutch) quite considerable distances. About ten days ago I made it from Ealing to Richmond via a wander through Kew, which the slightly shonky GPS on my phone made 7.5 miles. Although the 7.5 miles did include a stop for brunch, a stop for ice cream, and a stop for a pint[*]. On bank holiday Monday, I did a bit of pottering about on Hampstead Heath - much less distance but lots more hills, slopes, unexpected tree roots, slithery patches of gravel, and diverse obstacles. So by many standards, that's pretty decent mobility.
On the other hand, I'm still very aware of how much unexpected things hurt. Sitting down. Standing up. Lifting a heavy bag, or opening a door with a strong spring. Doing stairs. I am doing stairs - I even occasionally walk up to my third-floor office - but it hurts. Hurts quite variably, too, which makes planning tricky. An apparently innocuous twist, done accidentally because I'm now walking less cautiously a lot of the time, can be hugely painful and throw the rest of the day out. But, y'know, stairs. That's still pretty decent mobility.
What has been nice has been the constant sense of achievement. First I could get about safely on crutches, then safely on one crutch. There was a day sometime in March when I staggered, unsupported and arms oustretched, a few steps from the sofa towards ChrisC. This is probably a familiar scene to many, except the principal character is usually about four feet shorter than I am. I've been ticking things off as I go: walking longer distances, walking up stairs, then walking downstairs. When I hop in a pool and kick with my legs, I now make measurable forward progress. I tried, very briefly, the motion of jogging through the flat the other day. That was a very bad idea and has resolutely not been ticked off yet.
What has not been nice has been the relentless tedium of physio. Yes, yes, I know, it's doing me lots of good. And I'm very lucky to have good physiotherapy, and I am grateful. But the grind of 45 minutes of exercises morning and night is really quite surprisingly draining. Come home from work, eat tea, do physio, go to bed. Get up and hurrah! More physio. I have been trying to keep the whinging to a minimum (not least because there is no let-up in the physio schedule for the forseeable) but bloody hell am I fed up with it.
The gym program designed by my physio has been slowly upped until I'm now cycling (on a static bike, obviously) for 20 minutes at a time, with the resistance level turned up such that it actually feels like exercise. Breaking news: turning abruptly sedentary for three months does nothing for your fitness. The little warning light flashed at me on the exercise bike the other day to tell me that my heart rate was entering "dangerous" :( A month ago I couldn't talk and walk up stairs because I was too busy concentrating on making all the various muscles do that which they should. Now I can't talk and walk up stairs because I'm out of breath.
On Thursday I'm off to the hospital to see the consultant, and discuss the possibility of ACL reconstruction. My physio's advice this morning was that I shouldn't think about having the surgery for at least another month, as my knees have only just recovered to the point of being able to do "serious strengthening".
[*] At a pub in Richmond. ChrisC tells me that if he'd been in charge of my physio[**] I would have been set a series of challenges to reach particular pubs on foot.
[**] He concedes it's probably for the best that he wasn't.