Black Belt Mama

Miscellaneous

The bills are rolling in from my ACL reconstruction surgery.  I've learned a couple things from my itemized hospital bill that I thought I'd share with you.

First, if you're going to be in the hospital and will require constipation-inducing medications, do yourself a favor and pick up a bottle of your own Senokot to take with you to the hospital.  If you don't, you will be charged $3.24 per tablet.  Considering you can get them for about 20 cents a piece, I consider this to be a serious rip off.  I did not know that hospital Senokot is the equivalent of tablet-shaped gold.  Who knew?  I would have hoarded those little suckers and sold them on the black market had I known.

You also might want to bring your own ace bandages, should you require them post surgery.  You can find them online for about $1.  I was given a 4 inch ace bandage that cost $22.00 and a 6 inch ace bandage that cost $24.50.  I must have been really out of it from the morphine because I did not think that I had ordered the diamond studded ace bandages. 

Normal $1 per ace bandages would have been just fine with me.  When you haven't washed your hair for three days, and you have indentations on your butt from nurses forgetting that you're still sitting on a bedpan, you're not really concerned with having flashy and expensive bandages.

When I had those bandages removed by my PT, I told him he could get rid of them.  I should have kept them and auctioned them on ebay or something.  I had no idea they were so valuable.

I've also decided that I'm going to become my own insurance company, as in, I'm going to tell people what I'm willing to pay and what I'm not.  I think I'm going to call the hospital and tell them they charged me over the allowable limit for ace bandages and Senokot.  I'm also going to tell them that they're going to need to do a better job itemizing out this:

O.R. Misc Supplies:  $735.00
O.R. Misc Supplies:  $154.50
O.R. Misc Supplies:  $126.70

You're not seeing double or triple.  These are actual charges.  If they detail out Senokot tablets, then why can't I know what constitutes these miscellaneous charges?  With those amounts, what could they possibly be? 

Piece of gauze: $534.00?
Air in the O.R:  $420.00?
Mojito in I.V: $212.00?

O.k., actually forget that last one.  I did ask for a mojito in my IV and according to my itemized bill, I certainly got one.  Several actually. 

Train the Brain

I don't own a dog and I never have; but I do know what it's like to walk one that doesn't want to cooperate.  Every dog owner has probably had those moments when you want the dog to walk and it just won't. Today, I was that dog. 

After 90 weighted leg lifts, 15 minutes of needing-to-go-to-my-special-place flexion torture, 15 tension filled minutes on the bike, 4 sets on the leg press, 90 band exercises, and 10 minutes of walking backwards on an inclined treadmill, my PT gave me a new exercise.

Instead of doing wall squats with the safety and the comfort of a wall behind me to catch me, my PT handed me a stick resembling a jo. 

Standing in the middle of the PT room, he showed me how he wanted me to do a proper squat, stick on my shoulders like a bar-bell with my knees bending evenly and my butt sticking out.  He demonstrated and then told me to try it. 

I stood there.

I stood there some more.

I simply could not do it.  Wall squats have been going fine, but I know there's a wall there to catch me.  What if I bent and fell?  What if I bent and couldn't get back up and fell?  I tried to make my knees bend but they didn't want to cooperate. 

I laughed a nervous laugh and said, "This is so mental and I don't know if I can."

After another minute, I gave it a try, bending my good leg first and following with the bad leg.  I totally cheated and my PT called me on it, but told me to try again.  I did and this time I got a little bit better at it.  I had to completely shut my mind off, because it was screaming at me "KNOCK IT OFF!  WHAT ARE YOU, NUTS?  YOU JUST HAD SURGERY AND NOW YOU'RE STANDING HERE TRYING TO SQUAT?  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

My inner self isn't usually that irate, but she was today.  I appeased her with a beach scene the way I do when she wants to curse during flexion exercises and kept at it. 

Each squat was a little better and my PT told me to just work on it at home. I have spent so much time guarding that knee since the injury that I'm going to need to completely retrain my brain to trust it again.  It's like I have an overprotective mother in there just screaming out rules and regulations.  She needs to chill out so I can work on getting better.

While my brain was chilling out out on the beach, I made it to 137 degrees flexion.  That's a 5 degree improvement from last week.  I'd like to hit 140 on Friday.  My PT told me that this last bit comes very slowly and gradually so that I shouldn't push too hard or get too disappointed with myself.  I'm a perfectionist and I'm obviously now hearing voices, so what else could he possibly expect from me? This, by the way, comes from the man who tells me that on Friday, I am doing all of my exercises without my brace on. 

That should be a fun day for my inner demon.  She's already starting to freak out because she doesn't want to learn any "new tricks."   

Put me Down for $0

My kids have started "answering" the phone.  This is quite disturbing for someone who considers herself the ultimate professional in phone call screening.  I wouldn't mind so much if the kids just handed me the phone without answering it; but their little thumbs hit "talk" almost every time and I'm left to wonder exactly who the person is waiting for me.  The person waiting for me is probably wondering why they've been dropped 10 times and why a certain member of our household likes to heavy breathe into the phone too, but I'm more worried about me.

Over the weekend, Big I picked up the phone and hit "talk."  She handed me the phone and I assumed it was Mr. BBM or my parents.  It wasn't.

"Good afternoon M'am.  I'm Joe Annoying and I'm calling today to represent. . . ."

He continued on for a good four minutes leaving me no opportunity to even begin to cut him off.  Plus, I was totally off my game since the phone had been answered for me.  Sigh.

Finally I had my opening as he said, "So M'am, I'll put you down for a donation of $35 and send you a thank you decal.  I just need to get your information."

"I'm sorry, but I really can't right now" I said.

"That's o.k." he said cheerfully, "we have different levels.  Let me put you down for $25."

"Even that right now is going to be. . . "

"Then let me put you down for a measley donation of just $15. . ."

"I really can't," I said.  "I just had major surgery and I have to pay for a bunch of it.  Plus I have to pay for physical therapy.  I really just can't right now in any amount, unless of course, you'd like to go ask my health insurance company to pay more or call my doctor up and ask him to lower the amount that I owe him.  I haven't even gotten the hospital bill yet, so you can imagine. . ."

"What kind of surgery did you have M'am?"

He was totally trying to call my bluff. 

"ACL reconstruction," I said.

"Oh MAN!" he said, "That is THE worst.  That is SO painful and awful and it takes so long to come back from it.  When was your surgery?"

"December," I said, "right before Christmas."

"Oh Man!  I should let you go.  You probably need your rest and stuff.  I'm SO sorry for bothering you today M'am.  You take it easy and have a good recovery.  Best of luck to you.  I'm really sorry for bothering you."

And with that he was gone.  He hung up.  I kid you not. 

Blink.

Blink.

After he hung up, I summoned Big I and asked her to PLEASE not answer the phone unless we know exactly who is on the other end of that phone line.  She will thank me for this lesson when she hits her teenage years and doesn't want to go to the school dance with Harold.  Perhaps we'll fabricate an ACL injury for her at that point.  Feel free to fabricate your own considering that it can totally get you out of tele-marketing calls.

   

So Now You'll Know

The other day, I noticed I was getting a decent amount of traffic from Citizen of the Month.  I went to investigate (always worried people are saying mean things about me) to find out that he's a writer in LA and I just so happen to be a "current crush."  I don't need to tell you that he made my day. 

He had this fun post up about not winning blogging awards and feeling left out, and set out to change all of that with this interviewing idea.  Hoards of people commented and suddenly the Citizen of the Month had a part time job of assigning interviewers with interviewees.  To be honest, I sort of forgot about it until I got a nice email from Dave. 

Dave didn't know my blog even existed before coming here to research and think up some interesting questions.  His questions are as follows, and if you've been reading me for a while, I think you'll find you'll be getting some new information:

1. A quick perusal of your posts and background reveal your family life, adventures and challenges in martial arts, freelance and personal writing are the among many things that form the basis of your
enviable and rich life.  Do you ever feel insecure (like many men) that your professional pursuits haven't landed you a more conventional brand of success (like a CEO)?

What?  You mean I'm not the CEO???  I actually consider myself to be the Supreme Ruler of Black Belt Mama which is way better than CEO, but anyway. . . in all seriousness, I used to answer the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with one word: rich.  I'm not rich when it comes to money; but I am rich in other areas.  I have two perfect little girls (Yes, I'm extremely biased and I'm also correct).  I have a husband who loves me and this family, so much so that he's made sacrifices for all of us by working twice as hard as many others so that I don't have to work outside the home.  We made a ton of sacrifices to get where we are, selling our home to move in with my parents for a year when I had my first baby and my husband needed to switch career paths so that we'd be able to begin again on only one income. 

So no, I don't feel insecure.  Do I sometimes wish I had a bigger house, or that I was able to take more lavish vacations and buy whatever I want to buy?  Absolutely. Who doesn't wish that from time to time?  I've been very fortunate though, that I've been able to stay home with my girls, write for fun (and sometimes for some money), work from home with jobs that allow me the freedom to be a SAHM and also have some adult interaction, and do something that I love. . . write. I think I have a fairly enviable life and I'm pretty proud of it, CEO or not. 

2. You're a great writer (in my amateur opinion).  Are you obsessed over your site's traffic and do you make a significant amount of cash from your blog?

I hate to admit this, but some days I check my site traffic before I get my kids breakfast.  Obsessed doesn't even begin to describe it.  Sometimes I think I have a serious problem.  I get super happy when someone new links to me or mentions me (as long as they're not all like "I hate that BBM.  She's a . . . ".  Then it's not so great).  But yes, totally obsessed.  As far as the money issue goes, that depends on what you mean by significant?  Could I buy a bunch of bananas with my blog revenue?  Totally (Pretty cool, right?).  Could I buy a new dress?  Possibly, depending on the month and the designer.  So "significant"?  Not exactly, but I guess it all depends on what your definition of significant happens to be.   

3. You never use your name in any post I could find but you freely publish your picture.  Why the partial anonymity?

I guess I think of it this way.  I only publish pictures of me on my site that I think are exceptionally good pictures of me.  Do I look this way in real life on a regular basis?  Puh-lease!  Don't make me laugh.  So, I guess I figure no one will really recognize me.  I don't use my name on my site because I didn't want former students googling me, getting together at reunions and saying things like "Did you see that Ms. B on the internet?  Omigod, she's like a blogger, y'all."  I taught English people.  While I try to adhere as much as possible to the standards I gave my students, it just doesn't happen all the time. 

Also, crazy stalker serial killer people.  You know, general reasons.

4. You don't swear, even at the drive through of McD's when confronted with a bitchy worker.   Do your parents read your blog or are you just that virtuous?

Do my parents read my blog?  My parents have no understanding of my blog.  I mean, they've been on it every once in a while if I've told them to go read something specifically.  Maybe. When I tell them something cool about my blog like "I'm getting published" or "I got a paycheck from my blog" they sort of nod and look at each other in confusion.  Truth be told, they probably have that "I can't believe we paid X amount for college when all she's going to do is change diapers and 'blog'" conversation when I'm not around. You'll need to keep in mind that pretty much every time my Mom wants to check her email, she calls me and asks me what she's doing wrong when she can't get on, and usually, she doesn't have the computer on yet.  Ok, it's not that bad, but you get the idea. 

Virtuous?  No.  I take full responsibility for Lil C saying s%&t the other day and when she gets mad, she sometimes says "damn it" because I do too.  I also swear into a pillow at physical therapy when my PT is pushing my knee too far.  I'm horrible when I'm mad too.  Saying it is one thing though.  Putting it down in writing?  The big time swearing stuff?  I don't know.  I guess my opinion on that is sort of like my Grandmother's opinion on girls who drink out of beer bottles (which I do, but she doesn't have to know about it).  If you want to do so, that's fine.  I'll probably laugh and enjoy it.  It's just not me, not here anyway.
 
5.  I apologize for not being able to read your entire site, but is there a post where you've described using your martial arts skills to defend yourself?

No, actually there is not.  I haven't had the need to defend myself since I started taking karate.  That doesn't mean I didn't need to before I started taking karate.  I didn't write about it here before, but I was on a date that went very wrong a long time ago.  With no karate training what-so-ever, I beat the guy to a pulp.  He deserved every kick, every punch and every elbow I threw at him that day.  I got away completely unscathed; he wasn't so lucky.  Many people wonder whether or not they'll be able to defend themselves when faced with a scary situation.  I know I can. 

I train because I wanted to learn karate and be better able to defend myself.  I also truly believe that when you know your stuff, you carry yourself differently.  People just know not to mess with you, sort of like the Jedi mind tricks.  (Oh MY GOD!  Did I just say that?  Mr. BBM is getting to me.  He's seriously getting to me!)

6. I enjoyed one of your first posts, Butt Flinging "Ash Holes".  A hilarious tale, in retrospect only, that
makes a parent a parent.  I noticed your style and tone haven't changed much compared to your more recent posts.  Do you think your writing (style or content) has changed over the past couple years?

My style hasn't changed much at all.  At least I don't think it has.  I spent so many years writing that I think my style is what it is at this point.  I refined it in college and it seems to remain steady.  As far as content goes, things have changed around here a lot.  The focus of this blog was always getting to shodan and beyond; but with this acl injury, surgery and rehab, the focus has really changed.  It's not so much about getting to the black belt test anymore.  It's more about learning how to walk again the right way and getting stronger.  Overall, I think that the tone has changed and will continue to do so.  This injury is forcing me to think about things and look at things in very different ways.  I'm not quite sure where it's all going yet, but hopefully you'll all stick around for the ride.

7. We all love Neil, but after Citizen of the Month (and Dooce), what is your current favorite site on the web (doesn't have to be a blog)?

I absolutely adore Karl of Secondhand Tryptophan.  I "rented" a spot on his blog many months ago, which led to a coveted spot on his blog roll, a guest post, a video that no one can seem to forget, and a nice friendship as well.  He just cracks me up.  He has the ability to take the tiniest detail and make it so hilariously funny.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, but I also love MySpace.  I know, I know, but when you can search by graduation year and lurk back on all your former students and see how they turned out, and confirm that you were completely right about so-and-so. . . it's a guilty pleasure. What can I say?  No one is perfect.

Thanks to Citizen of the Month for setting this up, and to Dave for coming up with some very thought-provoking questions! 

***Don't forget to enter the contest give-away over at The BBM Review.  Check out the "My Fruit Roll-Ups" post and leave your comment before it's too late.  Make sure you check back often.  We have some cool martial-arts related give-aways coming up in February!

"Disgusting" and Liking It

I had my 6 week post-op appointment today with my surgeon.  I'll be 6 weeks officially on Monday.  He checked out my knee, grinned and told me how great I'm doing.  He did that pulling test that he did on me before surgery.  My leg barely budged.  Before it felt like he could just pull it right off.  I'm realizing that my knee is stable.  It is better; I just need to give it time to heal now.   My surgeon also reminded me that while the outside incision areas may be disappearing quickly, I need to remember that there was a whole lot happening on the inside and all of that trauma is going to take some serious time to heal. 

My knees at almost 6 weeks post-op (I think you can tell them apart).

He officially welcomed me to the boredom stage.  For the past two weeks, my body has been breaking down the graft and for the next six weeks, my body will work on building it back up.  I need to be very careful during this crucial don't-screw-it-up time period.  I've been given instructions to start walking around the house without the brace from time to time to see how it feels, with plans to get rid of the brace within the next week or two (minus excursions outside the house where they still want me to wear it so people don't bump into me, etc.). 

I didn't break any flexion records at PT today.  I pretty much stayed where I was on Wednesday.  Considering that I barely did any of my PT yesterday since I was busy dealing with a 24 hour virus, I wasn't too disappointed.  While I was on the table working on my leg lifts, another woman was laying on a table a few down from me.  She still had steri-strips on her knee.  I heard her tell my PT that I was "disgusting" because of how I was able to do leg lifts. 

My PT said to her, "Try to think of it as: that's the goal." 

When I was done with my table exercises, I Lance Armstronged it on the bike for 15 minutes (while visualizing kata), added another 5 lbs. to the leg press machine and then spent a couple minutes walking backwards on the treadmill.  I had to look straight ahead because looking down was so funny and disorienting.  I started imagining myself on one of those crazy treadmill commercials where the person goes flying off and into the wall. 

Walking on an incline, the goal is to use long backward strides which help with walking and extension. Thankfully, I kept it together and made it off there alive.   

The college rugby player who is seven weeks ahead of me has been my goal.  Now I'm somebody's goal.  It feels really nice to be a goal.  Go ahead and call me "disgusting."  It's the most flattering compliment I've heard in a while. 

***The BBM Review is giving away three boxes of customizable fruit roll-ups, just in time for Valentine's Day.  All you have to do is follow the directions and leave a comment there telling me the sweetest Valentine or message you've ever sent or received.  You can even cheat and just leave a nice Valentine's message for me.  The sweetest three will win!  Winners will be decided next week!  Hurry up and enter here.      

Don't Call it a Comeback

I fully expected to be tortured today at physical therapy.  I worked so hard on my bike yesterday that this morning, I was hurting.  The back of my knee was just killing me and when I tried to work on flexion this morning, it was a lost cause. 

I walked into PT with the weight of the world on my shoulders and it was obvious to my PT.  On the table beside me, sat the college rugby player who had ACL reconstruction seven weeks before me.  He was the one who warned me three days before my surgery that it was awful.  He gave me this huge smile and asked me how I've been.  We spent our table time discussing our recoveries.  He asked me where my flexion was and when I told him I was at 129 last week, his eyes got wide.

"Girl!  That's good," he said.  "I didn't hit 130 until nine weeks!" 

He went on to tell me that he had a lot of problems with swelling and that it wasn't until his 8th week that he got to ride the bike.  He was shocked that I was riding already, let alone two weeks ago.  That made me feel awesome.  All along, I've been feeling sorry for myself thinking that I'm not a world class athlete and I'm not young like a lot of people who have this surgery.  It's just going to take me longer.  According to him, I'm way ahead of the game. 

For your listening pleasure, some tunes to match my mood for the day with particular emphasis on the following lyrics.  Just substitute "knee" for "land" and "PT room" for "itty bitty world":

"I'm gonna rock this land
I'm gonna take this itty bitty world by storm
And I'm just gettin warm"

My ACL friend went on to walk backwards on the treadmill and work on some lateral movement exercises and I started working on my flexion.  My PT came over and started bending my leg a bit.   I told him I was going to have a lousy day, that my flexion had been horrible this morning. . . and then he measured me at 133 degrees and it didn't even really hurt all that much.  I was shocked.

He put me on the bike for 15 minutes with a tension level of three and I managed to ride over four and a half miles in that time.  I also broke a sweat and got a good work out. When I felt like I couldn't pedal any faster, I imagined my beach bod this summer. I truly will be in the best shape of my life by then.  Slacking off is not a choice with this recovery, so I'm hoping that I can continue the working out trend once I'm healed completely.

After the bike, it was on to the leg press machine, where we added another 10 pounds and another set (up to four now).  When I was finished with all my exercises, my PT told me how awesome I'm doing and gave me a high five.  He does not distribute high five's for just anyone or any accomplishment.  In fact, I've only ever seen him give them to me.  Uh-huh, that's right.

Then he watched me walk with the brace unlocked.  The grin spread across his face and he told me I can keep it unlocked.  "You're walking GREAT!" he told me.  He was genuinely excited and so was I.  It feels weird walking without it locked, but having the freedom to walk normally again feels AMAZING.  I'm guessing that in another week or two, this brace will be officially gone.

What was going to be my birthday party/black belt party may instead be my "crutches and brace are gone" party. (Did I happen to mention that the crutches are gone as of last week?) And yes, there will be music by LL Cool J at my party, and you better believe I'll be chair dancing my butt off.

***Make sure to check out The BBM Review today.  We're letting you know about exciting contests and have three prizes to give away next week!" 

How to Make a Head McExplode Part II

I dropped Big I off at a play date yesterday and there was no way I was getting Lil C out of that house quietly without some serious bribery.  When you are wearing a leg brace, it's just not worth it to cause a temper tantrum.  I'm wisely choosing my battles.  So, I promised her a happy meal from McDonald's and she was more than happy to leave with me like a little angel.

We went to the drive-thru.  I ordered a meal for me that cost $4.98 and a happy meal for Lil C.  There was a sign up that said, "Order any extra-value meal and get a happy meal for $.99".  Perfect.  So, my total before tax should have been $5.97.  I couldn't hear my total through the speaker, and their display monitor wasn't working properly.  I should have seen trouble coming right then and there.

When I pulled up to the window, the woman reached for my credit card and said my total was $9.54.  WHAT? 

I politely told her that the amount was incorrect.  She didn't even allow me to finish my statement before she started barking at me (as if I'd just called her a horrendous name or something) that "I don't punch in the orders; I just take the money.  If it says it's $9-something, then that's what it is."

Now I'm annoyed, and my head is about to mcexplode.  This happens at McDonald's a lot.

"Well actually, that's not what it is.  My meal costs $4.98 and the happy meal is $.99.  That equals $5.97, nowhere near $9 and I'm not paying $9."  I considered asking her to add it up in her head but realized that this was probably an unrealistic request considering my treatment thus far.  I did the work for her and still. . .

"Well, that's what it says," she barks back at me.

"Well, then you're going to need to go find someone who knows how to fix it and work the cash register because I'm not giving you my credit card until you do."  I contemplated driving away, but there was Lil C to consider and also the principle of the matter.

She then proceeds to bark at me that "I can't see the breakdown until I charge you and print out the receipt.

"Well, then you're going to need to find someone who can," I tell her, "because that's just going to make extra work for both of us-you over-charging me, and me having to get you to take the charge off when this is already proving difficult enough for you."

"Well I didn't do it!" she yells at me.

"I didn't say you did," I said back to her calmly.  "I just told you that the total is not correct and asked you politely to please fix it.  If you can't do that, then kindly find someone who can and will.  I'm not going to be overcharged $3."

Maybe money grows on trees (or by overcharging customers) for McDonald's, but I work hard for mine.  Meanwhile, the cars are lining up behind me. 

She slams the window and leaves the area in a huff.  My blood was boiling on the inside. I believe I started breathing as if trying to get through a bad labor contraction.  She comes back, punches a couple things into the cash register and amazingly enough, my charge is reduced by $3.  Amazing.  It turns out those cash registers can take charges off.  Who would have ever thought they could do such an incredible thing????  They seem to just need a willing human being to work them.

I hand her my credit card and she hands me back my receipt.  It's only as I'm driving away that I see that she actually charged me ten cents more than she should have for the happy meal.  I didn't go back.

It's just not worth it.  I think we're done at McDonald's.  My blood pressure will thank me, and so will our arteries.   

I Knew Him When. . .

I played the saxophone when I was in elementary, junior high, and most of high school.  I even won a solo award as part of our school jazz band one year.  I was one of those "One summer, at band camp" kids, although I balanced it out with large doses of sports participation and dance committee type things.  There was this one particular band guy. . .

You know the one.  He's the one that every girl drools over.  The guys the band girls drool over are always different from the ones the mainstream girls drool over.  This guy was a drummer, a really fabulous drummer.  During jazz band competitions, if he had a solo (which was always), no drummer ever had a chance over this particular guy.  If you were born within a three year span of Shane Rozum and were an aspiring drummer, well then, you were out of luck. He always took the trophies home.  I think it was a combination of his mad drumming skills and that perfectly wavy hair that made the girls go crazy over him.

He was a year older, and it was a sad day when he moved up to the high school and left us lowly 9th grade girls pining behind in the junior high school. 

Because we were silly girls, we made up songs about him, wrote poems about him, and were all comfortable sharing our stories and fantasies of dancing with him at a school dance because he was, what we concerned to be, unattainable.  He was completely inaccessible to us in the way that Brad Pitt is to the general population of non-big-lipped women.  At least that's what we all thought.

If you know me (either personally or through my writing), you know that I'm the one out of the group who gets up to karaoke when no one else will and without needing 14 margaritas to do so.  I'm the girl who goes to the interactive wax museum and thinks we are not getting our money's worth unless we do each and every interactive (and possibly embarrassing) activity.  Yes, I'll volunteer. 

I've never been accused of being shy.

So, when our all-important 9th grade dance was approaching and I didn't have a boyfriend or any worthy prospects in my own grade, I had an idea. I called Shane Rozum.

The phone call lasted all of two minutes.  I think he was as shocked at me calling him as I was at myself for choosing to call him.  When the two minutes were up, I had a date to the 9th grade dance and some extremely jealous friends.

Don't knock the scrunchie.  It totally matched my dress.    

The dance was fun.  He brought me the obligatory corsage and I wore the dress my Mom made me buy, which made me look like a 7-year old instead of a blossoming soon-to-be-high-school-woman (whose body was a little confused about when it was supposed to start the whole blossoming thing anyway).  You can't tell from the pictures, but I'm pretty sure he wore sneakers with his outfit.  Truth be told, we didn't do a whole lot of talking (Get your mind out of the gutter!).  For once I felt shy.  We hadn't really talked before.  Gawking at someone and going on a real live date are two entirely different things.

We arrived like rock stars (Man, I should have seen it coming. . . ): me with my 80's rock like 'do, and Shane with his killer shades. 

We did dance, and if looks could have killed. . . well, there were so many band girls who wanted me dead that I would have probably been six feet under half a million times which I think would put me safely through the Earth and out the other side.  They could glare all they wanted because even in my pale pink lacy dress, I felt like a rock star being at the dance with the drummer extraordinaire.

Which leads me to today.  I haven't seen Shane since he was a senior in high school and I was a junior.  Just this week, I reconnected with another old friend from high school on myspace who told me about the band that Shane is in, a band about to go on tour called "Jealousy Curve."  And you know what?  They totally rock!  I spent some time on their myspace page and listened to their tunes and truly wished that my knee brace wasn't holding me back from getting my groove on.  They have toured with The All American Rejects and are now going on their own tour.

I also stared at Shane's picture for a while because seriously, is that THE Shane Rozum, the one and the same that I went to the all important 9th grade dance with???  (You'll only be able to see this with a myspace account.  If you don't have one, take one part typical rock-n-roll drummer, combined with one part wavy shoulder length hair which can be thrown all over the place while wilding drumming, add what I think are some piercings, and you pretty much have the idea.)

Just another one to add to the "I knew him when" list. . .   

Whipped Cream on the Horizon

Nothing makes you forget your worries and stress like being around a newborn baby.  I spent most of the day with my cousin and her three-week old baby girl.  I held her for hours, helped my cousin figure out a more comfortable way to nurse (for which I'm now being told I should be a lactation consultant), gave her my EZ bather (to borrow, since I'm still super attached to all my baby stuff and can't officially close that door yet), and helped her give the baby a bath.  It felt good to be around a little baby, and it also felt good to help out my cousin.  It was nice to think about someone else's issues for a little while.

I don't know what Mr. BBM was thinking today.  Apparently, he spent part of the afternoon while I was gone, shooting Reddi-Whip into the ready and giggly mouths of my girls.  I'm thinking that leaving him alone with them on any type of regular basis would probably be a bad idea, especially considering that Lil C now grabs the whipped cream from the refrigerator with demands that she "vants more now, peeease."

Blissfully unaware that my kids were doing whipped cream shots at home, and after staring at a baby all day, it was time for torture PT.  Today, I was able to add tension to the bike and go around comfortably from the start.  Having my own bike at home is making a difference.  We added 5 lbs to the leg press exercises, and my PT also added wall squats to my already lengthy exercise list. He also watched me walk a bit with the brace unlocked.  It felt really weird.  Next week, we're unlocking the brace for walking.  I'm supposed to practice at home.  Something tells me I won't be walking the runway anytime soon though. 

I am now allowed to sleep without the brace on at all, provided my extension doesn't suffer for it.  I can't wait to go to bed tonight!  WOO HOO!  I hit 129 degrees flexion today too, which was a nice increase from 125 on Tuesday.  Slow and steady seems to be the name of the game here.  I'd like to hit the upper 130's by the end of next week. 

I've been down in the dumps about this recovery, realizing how ridiculously long it's going to take to get back to normal.  Today, while adding three more leg exercises to the mix, I realized that I'm going to have killer legs for the beach.  The leg lifts are also working my abs.  I'm going to try to be more positive about all of it.  It's going to be a roller coaster with ups and inevitable downs.  Truth be told, I'm not really fond of thrill rides.  This one isn't giving me the option to sit on a park bench with some ice cream though. 

One of my friends had ACL reconstruction done on both of his knees and he's doing great now.  He said the surgery forced him to get in the best shape of his life; and he does look fabulous.  That's what I'm going to focus on.

To go along with my peg-leg pirate walk, I'm also going to adopt the Pirates of the Caribbean saying, and continue to "keep a weathered eye on the horizon."  I'm also going to treat myself to a whipped cream shot from the fridge.  I think I deserve one.

***The latest review is up at The BBM Review.  If you're looking for a new work out system, make sure you check it out. 

So NOT Cool

This is "light mix turning into rain by rush hour":

The roads are covered with snow.  Roads are closed due to accidents.  It will probably take Mr. BBM three hours to get home.  I almost fell on my butt when I had to retrieve Big I from school because I can't fit boots over my stupid immobilizing brace and it was slippery out there.  It's rush hour and the snow is coming down like crazy.  So not COOL!

Oh, almost forgot to mention that when I got in the car to go get Big I, I attempted to clear off the windows without having to walk around with the scraper.  I lowered the windows, but the stupid automatic thing on my driver side window brought the window the entire way down which brought a big old pile of snow right into my lap.  Also NOT cool.  Actually quite cool as my heated seat quickly melted the snow onto my pants. GRR. 

Here's another thing that's not cool.  This is my leg:

 

I stood in front of the mirror the other day in my underwear and could not believe the difference in my legs.  The difference is just ridiculous.  It's not at all unlike that chicken leg.  I think it's a cruel joke for women who have ACL surgery.  As women, we always carry more weight on the upper thigh/butt area.  If ACL surgery is going to take away my muscle, at the VERY LEAST, it could also take away some of the upper thigh/butt area.  Just call me KFC BBM because that's what I look like.  It is so not fair, and SO NOT COOL!

Here's yet one more thing that's not cool.  Mr. BBM and I bought our new exercise bike primarily for me and my rehabilitation.  On the first night we had it, I was already hurting from PT so I didn't take a turn on the bike.  Mr. BBM spent the whole evening on the thing. 

The next day, I went to ride the bike before my shower.  The seat was so insanely high that I could barely get on the thing.  Once I did, it only took a second to realize I was NEVER going to be able to make this work.  I jumped off the bike onto my good leg and tried to adjust the seat.

SWEAT.

FRUSTRATION.

SCREAMING.

SWEARING.

And a phone call. . . Mr. BBM answers his work phone.

"What the hell are you trying to prove?  (Mr. BBM tries to inquire why I'm so upset but I continue. . .) No seriously, what are you trying to prove?  I just spent the past 10 minutes trying to adjust the seat that SOMEONE screwed on so ridiculously tight that I will NEVER be able to move it.  I can't ride the bike, and who did we buy this bike for?  Me, right?  ME!  It's just like when you screw the cap on the bottle of soda too tight that I can't open it.  Are you trying to prevent me from drinking soda?  Are you trying to prevent me from riding the bike?  Just as you show common courtesty in lowering the toilet seat, do a girl a favor and lower the bike seat when you're done, especially if you are going to be intent on proving you are Hercules."

So

NOT

COOL!   

Human Volcano Eruption

9:00 a.m.  "I vant milk mommy." (Mommy gets her milk.)

9:05 a.m.  "I vant 'ornange' juice mommy."

9:05:01 a.m.  "Lil C, I just gave you milk.  Drink your milk first.  Then you can have orange juice."

9:07 a.m. "I vant choc-it milk MOMMY."

9:07:01 a.m. (Mommy adds chocolate powder to milk.)

9:08 a.m. "I vant draw-bewwie milk MOMMY!"

9:08:01 a.m. "Lil C, please drink your chocolate milk first.  You can't have three drinks.  Mommy is TRYING to make your breakfast."

9:09 a.m. "I vant egg toast."

9:09:01 a.m.  "That's what I'm making you Lil C.  It will be ready in a minute."

9:10 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMMEEEEE!" (Repeat at 10 second intervals.)

9:11 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEEEEEEEEEE!" (Mommy tries to keep brain from erupting with frustration.  Mommy starts feeling like a chef at a 5-star restaurant, under extreme pressure to get things done right and get things done NOW!)

9:12 a.m.  (Eggs and toast are served to Lil C.)

9:12:01 a.m. "Don't vant egg toast MOMMEEEEE!"

9:12:02 a.m.  "Tough Lil C.  That's what we're having."

9:12:02-9:15 a.m.  (Lil C eats her toast and then climbs out of her chair telling me she is "all done."

9:20 a.m. (Lil C crawls back up in her chair.) "VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEE."  (Proceeds to eat ice cold eggs.  Yeech.)

This is pretty much how every meal goes lately with my downright pain in the heiney agreeable little two-year old.  I was on the phone with a friend while making breakfast and shuffling beverages; and I can honestly tell you that I started to feel like my head was going to explode.  Lil C is high maintenance and SO demanding right now.  She's also fickle, in case you couldn't tell.   

As a Mommy who is still walking around in an immobilizer brace and is still having some discomfort when I overwork my knee, I choose my battles wisely.  It's not uncommon for Lil C to have three drinks at a time.  Some would say I'm spoiling her; I say I'm insuring that I don't have to get her another drink five minutes from now.  Three should last her a while. 

The demands of a two-year old are bad enough when you're completely healthy and mobile.  When you're walking like a peg-like pirate and negotiating stairs 20,000 times a day, it's downright exhausting.

I am also completely stressed out today for another reason.  My aunt was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and is undergoing a mastectomy today.  Only four weeks out from much more minor surgery, I feel like I'm reliving all of those emotions again: the waiting for your name to be called, the changing into a drafty gown, the stick from the IV needle, being wheeled into the OR, the waking up in pain. . .

I can't get her out of my mind.  I feel physically sick just waiting for news, and dealing with a high maintenance little person is not distracting me.  It's only making it worse.  Is it just me or are children 10 times more demanding and impossible when they know you're already stressed out? 

Here's hoping Mount BBM can avoid blowing her top today.  My plan is to keep Lil C well hydrated with a different drink stationed at every table in five foot intervals.  I am hoping this plan of action will help us both avoid an "eruption" of catastrophic proportions today.     

 

Week 4 Torture Update

Pain wears you down and out. Physically you're spent; mentally, you're just completely gone.  I am exhausted from physical therapy today.

Here's the knee before surgery and four weeks and one day post-op.  Looking at this picture, I can actually see the beginning of some minimal muscle tone in the thigh.  It's about time! (No, it doesn't take much in the form of improvement to make an ACL reconstruction rehab patient feel happy.)

I don't expect it to feel good, but I never anticipated wanting a piece of wood to bite down on during such a big portion of it.  My flexion was at 121 degrees before my PT decided he was going to stretch me a bit.  With me on my stomach, he pushed down on the back of my knee (since I'm having posterior knee pain probably due to a knee capsule that needs some stretching) and pushed my heel towards my butt. 

It's excruciating.  He takes it to the point where you're going to go through the roof and then he pushes it a little more.  I feel like my knee is going to explode or snap completely off the rest of my body.  Today I found myself burying my head in the pillows trying not to scream.  It got worse when my PT sat down and put my foot over his shoulder and used his whole body to lean in towards my body, forcing my knee to close the distance to my butt. 

I realized I was holding my breath so I asked him to just give me a second to "go to my special place" and that's just where I went.  With Lil C, I got through bad contractions by going here:

I spent a good deal of time at the beach today.  It hurt too badly.  I just couldn't stay there in that PT room.  When all the stretching was done, my PT measured my flexion at 125 degrees.  Something tells me that I'm going to have to fight for every degree from here on out.  It's ridiculously hard and challenging.  I've been working on flexion at home, but I have been taking it to the point that it hurts, not beyond.  I need to push it further and it's a difficult thing to do to yourself when you know it kills.

While looking at my incision scars, I commented that it still feels like I have marbles under my skin, despite me torturing myself every night with cocoa butter pressure and massage.  "How hard are you rubbing the incisions?" he asked me, as he began to demonstrate the appropriate amount of pressure.  Judging from my subsequent squirming, it was quite clear that I am not pressing down hard enough.  I really am going to have a drink the next time I do this to myself.

This was all discouraging, annoying stuff.  There was some good news in the form of using the leg press for the first time with 30 lbs., riding the bike for 10 minutes, and getting about five more exercises including a prone stretch to aid with my extension, more quad building, and additional leg lifts.  I swear I'll be spending six hours a day doing my exercises now.  As the mother of an ornery two-year old, I have no idea when that's going to happen. 

This might help though.  I give you the official BBM torture device:

   

Tonight, we bought a brand new exercise bike to help with my rehabilitation.  Getting on that bike every day is going to make a big difference.  That's what I'm telling myself anyway, in the form of a new mantra: "This bike is going to help me. . . This bike is going to help me. . . This bike is going to help me. . ."

My goal is to torture myself enough at home this week that my PT doesn't have to do it for me any more. Something tells me this is wishful thinking.

***The latest reviews are up at The BBM Review and more will be appearing soon!  Check out my new favorite book and some karate training bags.    
 

Hockey, Sugar and Passenger Seat Drivers

The girls experienced their very first live ice hockey game this weekend.  When my parents said they had tickets, I had two choices: either suffer alone all night with the girls since Mr. BBM was in Las Vegas for business, or take the girls and brave the crowds in the arena hoping my flexion would be good enough to allow me to sit comfortably.  I chose the latter. 

When I told the girls where we were going, Big I protested immediately.  "No, I don't want to go!" and Lil C quickly jumped on the negativity train with her sister.  I started wondering how in the world I birthed these children, considering I've been a hockey fan pretty much since I took my first breath.  My Dad just wouldn't have it any other way.  I have evidence to prove it:

   

You may also remember this little gem, which was taken when I met Rick Tocchet, my favorite hockey player while I was growing up.  (Please don't mention the gambling stuff around me. I still wear my Tocchet jersey proudly; and don't even think about insulting my perm. Seriously, because I will totally cross check you, bum knee or not.)

 

Since going to a hockey game wasn't exciting them, I enticed them with this scenario: either spend the night alone with a grumpy invalid Mommy or get to spend some time with Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop.  They chose the game.  Smart girls.

The drive to the arena went the way any drive with my Dad in the passenger seat goes: 

"Why are you going this way? It will take twice as long!"
"You're driving too close to the car in front of you.  If I was that guy, I'd slam on my brakes."
"What are you listening to?  Where did you get your taste in music, if you can call it taste?" 
"No, park over THERE!"
"You should have let me drive."

I can usually tolerate my Dad's non-stop driving insults by going to my special place and ignoring him, and by reminding myself that it was HE who taught me how to drive.  I drive EXACTLY like he does.  You know, all that "I'm rubber, you're glue. Anything you say about me bounces back to you" stuff?  After the 10th comment though, I felt it necessary to give him a verbal reminder that he was being a real pain in the butt, and that he had been my exclusive driving teacher.  That quieted him a bit.  I also turned up the music he doesn't like.  That always helps too.

After managing to avoid strangling each other on the drive there, we made our way into the arena.  It was only when I reached the very last three stairs that a worker noticed me and told me I should have taken the elevator.  Great.  Thanks for telling me now buddy.  I had no clue there even was an elevator. 

We made our way to our seats and I grabbed the one on the end.  There's not an arena on the face of the Earth made with long legs and knee injuries in mind, so I was very thankful that the seats in front of me were empty.  They made a nice and very much needed leg rest for me.  The only problem with being on the end was that everyone else needed to get in and out past me.  Thankfully I had very patient people (who were also good at leaping to or from the row in front to avoid me altogether) when they got tired of me having to straighten and lock my brace before standing up to get out of their way.

   

The game started and Big I asked about a gazillion questions about what was going on.  Lil C looked like she was going to fall asleep.  During the first intermission, my parents took the girls out to the concession areas and came back with soft pretzels, ice cream, soda, and a beer for me.  (It's easy to forgive your Dad for his passenger seat driving antics when he brings you a Yuengling.)

Lil C decided she only wanted the pretzel, so I ended up eating her ice cream.  I don't allow the girls to have any soda at all, but there was nothing else to drink besides my beer.  Both of the girls were giggling and watching me in disbelief as I allowed them sips of the soda.  It only took about 10 minutes for the effects of the soda to kick in.  Big I was talking non-stop and Lil C started speaking in what can only be described as tongues.

As if this wasn't bad enough, my Dad disappeared and brought them back Cotton Candy.  I can't tell you how thankful I was, knowing that we were all spending the night at my parents house and that I wouldn't have to deal with two very spazzy children on my own.  By the time the game was over, the girls had consumed their body weight in sugar.  Because of this, I gave my Mom half of my beer.  She looked like she needed it considering Lil C sat on her lap almost exclusively the whole night.

 
"What is this sticky stuff anyway?  Yeah, I'm not liking it that much after all.  Yeech." FYI, it ended up being spit out in my Mom's hand.

During the game, a young guy came and sat down beside me with t-shirts.  I thought it was odd that some employee was coming to try to sell me a t-shirt during the game.  I quickly dropped my skepticism and defensive anti-buying shield, when he announced that we were the "rockin' row" and were all getting free t-shirts!  Not long after, the team mascot "Slapshot" came to visit the girls and that truly made their night.

    

Despite the sugar rush and mascot visit, by the time the game was nearing its end, Big I was proclaiming her unwavering boredom and dislike of hockey (Seriously, did I take the wrong baby home from the hospital???); and Lil C was shouting "Let's Go ROYALS!" like an old sugar-hyped pro. 

The drive home was pretty much the same as the ride there, except that my Dad's head almost exploded in the parking lot as we waited for my Mom to strap Lil C in her car seat the right way since my dad had, in his haste, messed the whole thing entirely up. What is it with Pop-Pop's and car seat confusion?

As each car exited the parking lot ahead of us, my dad upped his estimation on how ridiculously long it was going to take us to get home now. Apparently, for every car that leaves the parking lot prior to yourself, you can add another five infuriating minutes (in theory).  My Dad huffed, moaned and groaned and I practiced some deep breathing exercises and explained to him why there was no way I was leaving the parking lot until EVERYONE was safely buckled.

So, add to the list of driving insults and critiques from above, a hasty explanation for how and why someone should drive like a bat out of hell out of the parking lot and you pretty much have my drive home. Next time, I'm putting my Dad in the trunk or on the roof rack.   

 

Where Do You Come From?

My grandmother is 90 years old and full of stories.  I've heard them many times, but I'm always willing to listen one more time.  There is great knowledge to be learned from the elders in our families, even if that means I sometimes need to listen respectfully to tirades about dogs who lick themselves too much.  Yes, being opinionated (sometimes about very odd things) runs in the family. 

Likewise, there is great knowledge to be learned from those who have gone before us in our karate families. There are certain martial artists that you meet that have a special something about them.  You feel that just by being around them, you're gaining knowledge.  They seem to have a calming effect on those around them.  It is obvious that they possess great knowledge. 

This weekend, I was able to sit down with the 9th degree black belt who runs our karate school (He also heads up the entire style of Okinawan Kenpo and Kobudo in the US).  He's an excellent teacher, good with children and adults alike.  He's patient, knowledgeable and possesses that certain something that you can't quite put your finger on, but you just know is something important.  In his book "My Journey with the Grandmaster" Kyoshi Hayes calls this quality "hinkaku" which means "the dignity of a senior." 

I can't tell you how happy I am that I asked him how he got his start in the martial arts.  What followed that question was quite a story.  It's his story to tell, so I won't go into details, but finding out details about my instructor and his instructors, what it was like in Okinawa, and how the martial arts traveled to the states was fascinating. 

I know many people who take karate classes in all kinds of different styles.  What I find most interesting is that if you ask people what style they study, and where it came from, most people have very little information.  Maybe some feel that history lessons aren't necessarily important to their study of the martial arts.  Maybe some just never thought to ask. Personally, I see this knowledge as a piece of the puzzle.  Without it, your training just isn't quite complete.

Will I Ever Feel Ready?

Physical therapy brought flexion of 120 degrees yesterday.  That's a five degree improvement from just two days before.  I also rode the bike, going entirely forward, for five minutes without any issues besides a small twinge of protest from the knee every once in a while.  My PT added some new at home exercises to the regime; and next week, we're adding the leg press.  I'm getting somewhere. I'm really getting somewhere. 

After PT, I took Big I to karate class. I stayed after her class to watch the advanced class again.  Last night was so cool.  They were working on self defense and there were bodies flying all over the place.  When I went downstairs to check on Big I and the girls she was playing with, it sounded like a thunderstorm from bodies hitting the floor above.  It was interesting to watch because I noticed so many things I might not have if I had been out on the floor.  I paid special attention to distancing between people, and feel like I really learned something about off-balancing an attacker. 

Looking at the techniques from a seated point of view was one thing.  It wasn't until later in the class, when people started hitting the ground with some good force, that I started getting a little nervous inside.  How will I ever go back to doing those kinds of things again?  How long will it be before I can comfortably let someone throw me around on the training floor?  How long before I'll be comfortable being uke again? 

I guess I'm having a difficult time imagining myself at full strength.  I feel like I'm always going to want to protect my knee and not do anything that might aggravate it.  I'm going to need to really trust my partner and feel comfortable working with him/her in the future.  Most importantly, I know I can't rush back.  I need to listen to my body and take it slow.  When I do go back, I'm going to have to be very cautious and sit things out if I don't feel I'm ready yet. 

Tackling increased flexion and a bike each week is going to be a piece of cake compared to the mental readiness it's going to take to get me comfortably back on the training floor.   

Raising a Drama Queen (or two)

The other day, Lil C and I were having a leisurely morning watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when she announced that her name is no longer "Lil C." 

"My name. . . Drama," she said.  She paused for emphasis and then added, "My name drama QUEEN."  I laughed out loud.  She's obviously paying attention when Mr. BBM and I talk about her.  She realized she was being cute and funny and took it one step further.  "My name Princess Drama Queen," she said.  Apparently, she's been playing with Big I a lot too.

Lil C has always been very different from Big I.  Big I was, for the most part, always pretty quiet, calm and sweet.  She had her moments but they were few and far between.  Lil C has been an entirely different story.  With a big sister to aggravate her, plenty of toys that are off limits as per Big I, and a feisty attitude to begin with, calling herself "drama queen" is not all that far from the truth.

It got me to thinking about the rest of our family and how we operate.  Is "drama" a learned behavior or was she just born dramatic?  Here are a couple examples to help formulate an opinion:

• When a particular member of our family gets a splinter, there is screaming, sobbing, and frantic freaking out akin to what winning the lottery must be like, except of course, not a good freaking out, a bad one, a very very bad one.  When trying to get the offending piece of wood out, a certain somebody will pull their hand away when you get within two feet of it and this will continue for at least a good 10 minutes. 
• If a bee or wasp gets into the house, there is a total and complete "lock down" of the BBM household, as in "Everyone get to the safe room and NOW!"  Complete with towels to plug up the narrow air holes under the doors, and a case of water in case the stand off is a long one, the BBM family goes into hiding Y2K style until the offending "beast" is "offed" with hairspray, bug killer or a nearby shoe.
• When a certain someone in this house gets in trouble, this person will sometimes send themselves to their room before being told to go there.  This doesn't mean this person remains there quietly.  In fact, it's quite the opposite.  This certain someone has a mirror in their room.  Upon entering the room, one will find this person flailing about in front of the mirror, complete with crocodile tears, while screaming "Why?  Why?  Why?" at their image in the mirror.  Where are the "All My Children" casting people when you need them?
• A certain someone has recently decided that no meat will cross their tongue except for Chicken McNuggets.  This person has also gotten very picky about all types of food with the exception of Pop-Tarts.  This person will eat any type of Pop-Tart.  I swear they could contain pork chops, and if wrapped in that nice little pastry with a little icing, this person would still be all over it.  When it's time for dinner, if this person doesn't like the selection, it is not unusual for this person to wind up on the floor, moaning and whining her opposition to the offending entree.  Many times the moaning/whining/flailing combo happens underneath the table where it is greatly entertaining for "Princess Drama Queen" in training.

Do you think you can properly identify the Drama Queen "Sensei" in the family? 

If you guessed BBM as the main character behind all of these drama-filled scenarios, then you would be. . . . correct.  Actually, just kidding.  That was for added drama. We're all pretty good at drama in this household, each and every one of us.  Now if you'll excuse me. . .

"Mr. BBM, get out from under the table now; and for the LOVE of GOD, get away from the mirror!  We are NOT having Chicken McNuggets for dinner AGAIN!" 

"You won't get out from under the table?" (I know how to get you out from under there. . . )

"Oh no, what's that noise?  What's that. . . BUZZING?  I think there's a wasp in the house!  Take cover. TAKE COVER!!!  Get to the safe room NOOOOWWWWWW!!!"      

***The latest review is up at The BBM Review.  Have a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse fan in the house?  Don't miss it. 

High Five Inducing PROGRESS

Today was the most painful day yet at physical therapy.  It was also the best day so far.  I'm not afraid of a little pain.  I just need a healthy dose of "gain" to go along with it.  Today I got it all. 

Before we get to the details, here is my knee, three weeks and one day post-op:

   

We started with ice and stims.  My PT was much happier with the appearance of my knee today as compared to Friday.  He contemplated using heat, but played it safe.  My PT told me I can start using cocoa butter on three of the four incisions.  He showed me how to rub the scar tissue away and it hurt.  I told him I'm going to need to have a drink before I do that to myself each day.  It was all I could do not to physically make him remove his fingers from my incisions as he showed me how to torture myself.

After that bit of "fun," I completed my quad sets and leg lifts with weights.  I also used a strap to stretch out my very tight leg muscles. Because my PT was busy with a new patient, I got busy working on my flexion by myself.  While getting my stim and ice treatment, I was reading "My Journey with the Grandmaster" by Kyoshi William Hayes.  I was reading this chapter about the hidden techniques in Okinawan karate.  Much of the chapter talked about individuals and how to each person the martial arts, even within the same style, is a little different.  He compared serious students to those who just walk through kata, never seeing the true meaning or hidden techniques inside. 

I don't know if it was my "Karate: it comes from within" t-shirt I had on, the reading, or a combination of both; but for some reason, I began to think about the mental aspects of martial arts training.  During my flexion exercises, I stopped thinking of it as a physical hurdle and started thinking of it as a mental one instead.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and seisan style, breathed the air out as I forced my knee to bend further and further.  I took my time, willed my twitching muscles to relax, and continued to work at it for 20 minutes. 

At one point, my PT walked by me and smiled.  "We're going to have a good day," he said, referring to my flexion.  After several more minutes, he came back to take the measurement.  He told me I needed 110 degrees to try the bike.  Doing it entirely by myself, I was able to push it further than I ever have before.

115 degrees.

My PT was so elated that he got the bigg