The week prior to my knee replacement surgery, my knee stopped hurting. Completely. What was going on? Apparently, all the pre-PT I’d done was working. My legs were strong, my muscles toned. And now, no pain?
The question hung heavily in the air. Am I doing the right thing? Why am I having surgery?
Fortunately, I’d experienced this questioning before with more minor surgeries. My body was bargaining with my mind.
“See, Robbin, I can be just fine for you. You don’t need to do anything to get this fixed.”
The only way I can think to describe this is to compare it to putting down a loving pet. You make all the hard decisions – you set up the appointment with the vet. And that morning, the pet rallies. Deep inside, you know that ending your pet’s pain is the best thing, but it’s so hard to keep that appointment. Vets say they see this all the time.
I thought about putting my beloved dog down a few years ago. I realized that I needed a little private goodbye ceremony, just for me and my knee, the way I had done with my dog, to let it go.
I intentionally worked up until the day before my surgery. I know better than to give myself too much time to think. I spent several days stroking my knee gently from time to time and thanking it, getting ready for just what I wanted to say and do.
It was a beautiful fall evening. I went out on the back porch and lit a candle. I cradled my knee lovingly in my hands, sent it Reiki like a thousand times before, and began.
The question hung heavily in the air. Am I doing the right thing? Why am I having surgery?
Fortunately, I’d experienced this questioning before with more minor surgeries. My body was bargaining with my mind.
“See, Robbin, I can be just fine for you. You don’t need to do anything to get this fixed.”
The only way I can think to describe this is to compare it to putting down a loving pet. You make all the hard decisions – you set up the appointment with the vet. And that morning, the pet rallies. Deep inside, you know that ending your pet’s pain is the best thing, but it’s so hard to keep that appointment. Vets say they see this all the time.
I thought about putting my beloved dog down a few years ago. I realized that I needed a little private goodbye ceremony, just for me and my knee, the way I had done with my dog, to let it go.
I intentionally worked up until the day before my surgery. I know better than to give myself too much time to think. I spent several days stroking my knee gently from time to time and thanking it, getting ready for just what I wanted to say and do.
It was a beautiful fall evening. I went out on the back porch and lit a candle. I cradled my knee lovingly in my hands, sent it Reiki like a thousand times before, and began.
“Knee, thank you. Thank you for 63 good years together. We’ve seen and done a lot. Do you remember when we kneeled on the potholder loom? There’s your scar! But you got better. And over the years, no matter what has happened, you’ve been there for me. I’m going to miss you, terribly.”
“Robbin, I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too.”
“I can try, really, I can.”
“Knee, it’s time. It’s time to let you go before we can’t walk at all. I have a lot of life to live, and we can’t do it together anymore.”
“Oh… I’ve failed you.”
There it was.
“NO, no you haven’t. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, and more.”
“But what will become of me? Can you bring me home and bury me?”
(Serious question – we inquired.) “No, I’m afraid you’ll be headed to a bucket of medical waste. They won’t let me have you. So, this is really goodbye, now.”
“Oh. I see. But kneecap is coming back, right?”
“Yes, she’s getting a new surface and coming right back where she belongs.”
Long silence.
“… Robbin, I love you. I hope I’ve served you well.”
“Knee, you’ve gone over and above what knees are asked to do. I love you too, very much.”
We sat quietly then and watched the candle burn low.
The morning would soon be here. I was ready.
“Robbin, I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”
“I’m scared too.”
“I can try, really, I can.”
“Knee, it’s time. It’s time to let you go before we can’t walk at all. I have a lot of life to live, and we can’t do it together anymore.”
“Oh… I’ve failed you.”
There it was.
“NO, no you haven’t. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, and more.”
“But what will become of me? Can you bring me home and bury me?”
(Serious question – we inquired.) “No, I’m afraid you’ll be headed to a bucket of medical waste. They won’t let me have you. So, this is really goodbye, now.”
“Oh. I see. But kneecap is coming back, right?”
“Yes, she’s getting a new surface and coming right back where she belongs.”
Long silence.
“… Robbin, I love you. I hope I’ve served you well.”
“Knee, you’ve gone over and above what knees are asked to do. I love you too, very much.”
We sat quietly then and watched the candle burn low.
The morning would soon be here. I was ready.
RSS Feed