Is 2020 over yet? (Part 2)

Unless you are homeless or have a price on your head it isn't likely you'd want to stay in hospital any longer than you had to, but man, I wasn't ready to go.

My knee replacement surgery was shortly after two on a Friday afternoon and 24 hours later I'm calling my son to pick me up, but like I said, I wasn't ready. It was all a bit disorientating for one thing, and there's also something about having a bell beside your bed in case you needed your pillow fluffed or something.

I never used it of course, but it was there, just in case.

We only practiced stairs once and it didn't go well, so I was nervous about my eight banister-free steps down to my basement apartment, but otherwise I didn't have any excuses about going home.

Rehab, I guess, but I was full of bravado on how that would be a breeze, a decree I called Mistake #1.

It was a mostly uneventful hospital stay unless you count a brief vomiting spell in the morning when my body decided to reject most of the drugs they had pumped into me, but there was one incident worth mentioning, though it involves a torture medical procedure that has struck terror in the hearts (and orifices) of men everywhere for millennia, and my rather graphic description of that procedure.

Staples. Lots of staples. Better this
image than one of a catheter

It was several hours after waking up in the room I shared with my knee surgery amigo Mike when our night shift nurse (I think her name was Charise) came in and asked if I had peed.

"No," I said. "Is that a problem?"

"If you don't pee," she replied, "we'll have to use a catheter."

"Whoa, whoa, watch your language," I nearly shouted, alarmed that this seemingly nice young woman would use such profanity. "That's a horrible swear word," I said. "We don't need to go there."

"Then go pee," was all she said before walking away.

So I tried to empty my bladder, with no success, and when Charise returned shortly after I pleaded for more time.

"You have half an hour," she said before fluffing Mike's pillow to show me what she thought of my stalling tactics.

So I tried again to pee and got nothing. The odd thing was my bladder didn't feel full at all but Charise insisted it was full to bursting and right on schedule she walked back into our room with a gadget not that much different than the one created by Ben Franklin in 1752 and just as painful (I imagined) as devices used by the ancient ones to extract information from the enemy.

When she inserted said device into what I always considered strictly an exit hole, I admit I screamed just a little, and when she pushed it in farther I gasped but held my tongue as bravely as I could. I dunno if Mike was horrified for my sake or quietly giggling at my misfortune but in about a minute it was all over.

I felt drained. Quite literally.

That afternoon I was kicked out of my semi-comfortable hospital bed and sent home to begin my recovery and after a first night that had me getting up to pee every two hours I settled into a routine over the next few weeks of going to physio twice a week to be abused by Saloni (who was sweet, professional and cruel, all in one package) and moaning about my sad state of affairs.

But if I was complaining, it was mostly about being bored and that situation changed in a hurry a little over a week after coming home.

That's when I was robbed. While I slept.

Yeah, I know. Fuck my life, huh?

A thief broke into my apartment and stole my laptop, my wallet - containing my ID and about $60 - and my meds, which I suspected was the goal all along.

I tried to not be obsessed with this, but the fact I was likely targeted because of my situation hurt, as was the evidence (or lack thereof) from the security cameras that suggested an inside job.

I got little sympathy from my landlady and probably less from our local police, who made it pretty clear I wasn't a high priority, even after I made a veiled threat about having a few friends with different ideas on how to handle the investigation.

They thanked me for my feedback and as I would never have followed through on my big talk I was able to put the incident in my rearview mirror and move on.

But it was the start of a rough two-week patch for me as I had other challenges to face, and the physio became my priority, especially as Saloni started getting concerned my recovery wasn't coming as fast as she (and I) wanted.

Specifically, the bend in my knee, which was not even close to the desired number, even after she reefed on my leg hard enough to cause me to (once again) scream, which, in turn, caused me to question my long-held belief that my pain tolerance level was pretty good.

I called that Mistake #2.

My ability to straighten my leg was also an issue, as the target number was -5 and three weeks after the operation I was getting no better than -12. If I didn't reach my goal I would likely have a permanent limp, I was warned.

The planned move to Caledon was also stressing me out, as Brian was having difficulty finalizing the deal ("damn lawyers," he would always say) and only updating me when he had news to share. Which wasn't often.

I had to get my information from my Dad, which was where I learned there was a second property - also in Caledon - in the mix. Neither deal was showing any sign of getting done, and a move that was supposed to happen in November was still stalled three months later.

"There's always King City," Pops pointed out.

Turned out there was a third option (first I heard of it), and this deal apparently had legs. But I had, of course, heard that before.

The Kingston trip was looking doubtful too, as I hadn't received any EI money and had to borrow to extend my stay at my apartment because of all the delays. It wouldn't be right to spend that money on beer, right?

Some good news, or at least a fresh perspective was needed and the breakthrough came in mid-February.

I was already driving (several weeks ahead of schedule), so I didn't have to lean on friends and family so much - shout-out to Candice, Paula, Cam, Kass, Marie, Brandon, Josh, Steve, Cal, Adam and Christian-Ann for their driving skills and/or support - and when my first EI cheque arrived things started to come together.

The King City property became reality soon after when the contract was signed (closing date: February 28), and that bit of good news inspired me to get off my ass and turn my half-packed apartment into something closer to move-ready.

Kingston

The beer trip was not a lot closer to reality but I did have a plan, so there was at least hope.

Most importantly, I started seeing improvements in my rehab, no doubt helped by me spending more time doing my exercises at home. My bend rate topped the magic '100' mark and when Saloni dumped two truck tires and an anvil on my knee and then jumped on it, we achieved success in straightening my leg as well, sailing all the way to -4.

(Shout-out to some of the other staffers, such as David, Amanda, Sarah and Will, and to my fellow old farts patients for their encouragement.)

The beer was even starting to taste pretty good. I might just get through this ordeal after all.

With the moving truck booked and a few pals enlisted to help, that only left Kingston. My friends would be there and a few big hitters in the beer world might also be attending so I very much wanted this to happen.

And I had a plan ...