It’s 3:30 a.m.

My knee – well, what’s left of it – is throbbing.

The house is dark and I’m lying here wondering how I got myself into this situation.

Genetics is both a curse and a blessing. I don’t look my age, thanks to my mom’s genes. I also got her bad knees which, at this moment, are the curse.

A few years ago, I noticed pain down the front of my leg whenever I’d pick up something heavy. That slight pain increased so I finally made a medical appointment.

The orthopedic doctor diagnosed arthritis, one of the most common ailments for women over the age of 50. I got a cortisone shot in both knees and instantly felt relief.

I could finally walk without limping, and believed I was cured.

Or so I thought.

For almost two years, the injections were a Band-Aid over an underlying problem of bone-on-bone on both knees plus the arthritis.

When the shots stopped working, I knew it was time to do what my mom and my sister both had done – total knee replacement.

I remember watching my mom walk down the hall at the rehabilitation center, cheered on by all of us as she took those first steps. She told the physical therapist she would do whatever it took to get out of there, and she did.

A few years later, my sister had both of her knees replaced at the same time. I thought she was brave. Now I know she was battlefield, front-of-the-light-brigade brave. She urged me to get the surgery, and when all other options were gone, I went for it.

The surgeon, Dr. Brady Rogers, was reassuring and professional. His friendly demeanor went right along with his honest conversations with me. I chose a time after the winter holidays and family birthdays, and in I went.

I tried not to think about the fact that Dr. Rogers would slice open my knee, take part of the knee out, shave away the arthritis and then put in a titanium knee that will forever stop me at airport security.

The pain the first and second day was mild. The meds from the hospital were still working their magic, and I stupidly thought the rest of the recovery was going to be that easy.

I did the exercises, rode the stationary bike, walked, and even unloaded the dishwasher and ran a load of clothes. I took the least amount of painkillers, patting myself on the back for having a high threshold of pain.

When the meds wore off, life was a lot different.

It hurt, and the pain was real.

I tried to be brave but had a meltdown on the third day. My husband fixed the machine that caused the problem, and I thought I was done with the worst part.

I was wrong again.

I didn’t want to take the higher potency pain killers, but when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone in the dark, that bottle looked like a life saver.

I admitted I needed the stronger meds, and I took them.

A couple of days ago, my sons and their families came to visit. Seeing their loving faces and watching our grandchildren play and laugh was all the medicine I needed. That night, I turned a corner on the pain and saw improvement from that moment on.

What’s really made the recuperation easier is the love and support of family and friends. Meals, flowers and best wishes have been flooding in.

The people I love and who love me might not realize how important their support is, but their love has made recovery faster and easier to bear.

Maybe it’s a trite saying, but having family and friends are not only important but also lifesavers, especially when times are tough.

I don’t know what I’ve done – or if the universe is simply extending kindness — to deserve this much mercy and love, but I’m not going to question these blessings. I simply know I am one lucky and extremely grateful gal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.