A Mr. and a Mom

When I arrived at my doctor appointment a couple weeks ago, I checked the board behind the admissions desk to make sure I was in the right place. Youngman, Youngman ... yep, this is right. But I did a double take. It said Mr. Youngman. In fact, almost everyone listed was a Mr. 

Mr. Liddle. 

Mr. McDermott. 

Mr. Patel. 

Mr. Youngman. 

Mr? 

Were these even doctors? And why am I not booked with one of the three Dr. Doctors on the board? I did a quick Chat GPT query. Do people in England call doctors, 'Mr?' 

In too many words, it told me yes. And in fact it's the really good doctors who are called Mr. 

Phew. And further validated by word of mouth, word on the St. John's Wood High Street, and the Doctify reviews, I convinced myself he was the right doctor, or rather Mister, for me. Onward. 

He welcomed me into his office asked to have a look, and felt around my knee. He chuckled, 'yep, that's an ACL rupture. Okay, come on over here, lets have a look at the MRI, shall we?' 

'What? Wait, really? ACL?' 

'Yes, plus I think there might be a slight tare of the meniscus, see here. Also looks like you chipped the bone a bit. Some bruising. What exactly happened again?'

'I was skiing.' 

He chuckled again. 'This time of year everyone has broken bones and knee injuries. In fact, every time I go skiing I come home with a couple broken bones.' 

Why was he laughing when I was almost crying? 

I interjected to set the record straight. 'Well, I don't fall. I was a ski instructor. I'm a really good, but also careful skier. This was an awful fluke.' 

'Right,' he said, in the most British way possible. 'So reconstruction or repair? I think we can repair it. Best to do it straight away. Can you do Wednesday?' 

'Um, I need to be in America on Monday, so not possible' 

'Right. What is it that you do?' 

'I have a big job.' 

'Fine, how about the Wednesday after you return? That should still work.'

'Should?' 

'Yes, that should be fine.' 

'Fine?'

'Not ideal, but we can do it.'

He started dictated. A 40 something woman came in with a ruptured ACL. She fell while skiing. 

I wanted to interject - MY FIVE YEAR OLD TOOK ME DOWN! 

But he carried on: she is going to America next week, so we will do the repair after she returns and she is aware of all the risks: arthritis, infection, sepsis, blood clots, and the chance that this repair will ultimately lead to a reconstruction. 

Okay, now I'm aware of the risks. You have to love the passive aggressive efficiency. 

He escorted me out, smile on his face still while mine had disappeared - still at the top of the mountain in Chamonix, moments before I lost my knee.  

***

Over the past couple weeks, er, almost a month now, I've been in self preservation mode. Or perhaps self questioning mode. I have a certain definition of myself that is being challenged. 

I am fast. 

I am a runner. 

And field hockey coach. 

And tennis player. 

And skier. 

I am a kneeler and genuflector at church. 

I'm a mom who climbs up on the counter to reach the heights of our cabinets. 

I'm someone who sleeps on my belly.

I'm someone who can't sit for more than 15 minutes at a time. 

I didn't have any scars and I'd been told that I have good legs. In fact, I was rated best legs in 8th grade. A pride point that made me feel like the Elle Macpherson of St. Edmund's Academy. 

And I'm a doer. When no one else is getting things done, I'll jump in and do them.

Right now, I'm none of those things. I'm a slow, vertically challenged, walker at best, back sleeper, couch inhabitant, with a right leg that looks totally deformed, and a dependant on everyone else doing things for me. And it's incredibly frustrating.  

A little over a week ago, I had my surgery, and it was more painful, more debilitating, and more life style changing than I expected. I have three wounds. Two on my knee and one on my thigh, where they acquired hamstring tissue to stitch together my knee. I have a brace on my right leg running from ankle to thigh. And I can only take it off for washing. I need crutches, as much as it pains me to admit it. I have to keep my leg straight, elevated, and iced as much as possible. And I have to slow down. 

And that's the hardest part. There is no multitasking, running up and down the stairs, rushing over to stop a fight from happening, running to the next meeting because I'm running late, jumping in my car and going. There is almost no going at all for that matter. Which all just means, I've needed to be patient. And when my physio told me on Wednesday that it would take 9-12 months for me to be back to normal and doing all that I wanted to do again, I realized just how patient I would need to be. 

There are lessons in all of this. And people have told me that something great will come of it. For now, as time passes a little slower than I'm used to, I'm thinking that's the first lesson. That slowing down, reassessing the pace I'm moving through life, might not be a bad thing. 

Mary turned 13 last week. In a blink of an eye, the little baby that made me a mom, is a little lady, embracing her more mature stride, style, and self confidence. She has her moody moments, but she makes me so proud every day. She's an incredible student and opening her mind to all that this international city has to offer, she is beautiful piano player, has bravely taken on field hockey and squash in a new city, continues to navigate middle school girl politics with poise, helps out around the house, nicely navigates playing down with her siblings while asserting she wants to be part of more adult conversations, loves to bake and cook and make herself fresh squeezed lemonade, loves doing hair and makeup and has clients every morning in her room at 6:30 AM expecting to get their dos done, and she has been so resilient in the face of another big family move. Slowing down helps me appreciate all the steps my kids are taking a little more. All that they are becoming. It helps me sit with Bobby and explain the story, practice Margaret's words for her spelling test, play flower store with the twins in the park, and listen a little better when Peter explains the challenges of his day. 

The other lesson. Clearly. Put the twins in ski school next time. 

Lo.