In less than two days, my husband will have his right knee replaced. In a joint that is currently bone-on-bone, all cartilage missing or destroyed, Jim is now counting down the hours until his surgery Tuesday morning.
With temperatures spiking and plunging over the last few weeks, the barometric pressure all over the charts, Jim’s level of pain has coincided with the weather rollercoaster.
Jim spent the afternoon on Saturday with Jamie at the local skate park, and the family spent Saturday night with our closest friends for a casual dinner. Conversation was light and funny, watching Jordan and Jamie switch between playing hide-and-seek with (almost) four-year-old Naomi, and following the newest dance moves on Wii’s ‘Just Dance II.’
Jim asked multiple times throughout the evening to be shot and put out of his misery, as pain medication officially stopped working, as he explained it, somewhere between picking-up my rice pudding and walking to the bread aisle to pick up brat buns. The final salvo over the bow was getting back out of the car one more time to exchange the propane tank for the grill.
“Game over,” he announced as he walked through the door, plastic bags in tow. “Tuesday cannot be further away than it feels right now.” I pulled-up his pant leg to look at his knee cap, which now looked like it had fallen and slid over to one side. As I placed my hand over his knee as he bent it, it felt like gravel under my palm, and the crunching was quite audible.
Waking to pouring rain Sunday morning, just warm enough to not snow, I knew Jim’s day would be relatively immobile. The kids took turns hanging out with him, both voicing concerns about surgery, wheelchairs and death while various movies played in the background. They asked when Grandma Sandy would arrive on Monday, and how soon they could visit Jim on Tuesday.
Sadly, their fear of death is grounded in real-life experience, as Jamie’s classmate lost a parent during surgery less than two years before. Our discussions were open and honest, and they felt reassurance as much from our words as from what we didn’t say, allowing Jordan and Jamie to express their thoughts freely.
They asked who would visit Jim in the hospital and if he would get flowers or stuffed animals. They asked if he would still be in pain and would he have to eat bad hospital food. They asked how soon he would be home and when he would be better. They asked if they could visit him every day, and would he have a cast they could sign. They said they would sleep in the ‘big bed’ with me while he was gone, so they could keep me company.
The furry part of our family also knows something is afoot: Our dog Buck and elder cat Alle have spent all day in our bedroom near Jim, and kitten Sparky has slept draped over my pillows next to him.
As I write from my laptop, Jordan and Jamie are curled-up with Jim watching “Alien,” pushing way past their bedtime but pretending to not be sleepy. Soon they will drift off to sleep, between the two of us, and we will sleep hugging the far edges of the bed.
The grownups may not sleep well, but Jordan and Jamie will have a peaceful night, feeling safe, secure and loved.
I don't want to imagine being in so much pain you can't wait for surgery! At least once it's done you're all on the healing side of the pain mountain. Most especially the patient...
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