We Begin Another Family Travel Journey, Lorenzo Lamas, Lost Luggage, and Noisy Neighbors

We are off on another family adventure. After Livvy and Justin returned home from a month at sleep away camp in Canada, and Chloe came back from her month in China tending to pandas, we are now off on a 3 weeks journey to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands. Given my recent knee surgery, I am still in an immobilizing leg brace, and using a wheelchair for airport transit. Nonetheless, my spirits were high as I woke the children at the ungodly hour of 4am to ready for our 6am flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico via Miami. After being whisked through security by the unusually attentive TSA staff at SFO, Chloe raced me in my wheelchair toward the general direction of our gate with reckless abandon. Chloe has recently obtained her Learners Permit but has yet to actually get behind the wheel of a car, and this lack of experience did precious little to induce even the slightest bit of caution. Livvy insisted on having a turn pushing me as well, but after clear evidence of issues with depth perception surfaced, I suggested we stop for some chocolate milk which conveniently occupied Livvy’s hands, thereby returning me to Chloe Andretti who pushed me the rest of the way as we pre-boarded the flight.

The sight of me in my wheelchair at the entrance to the plane was met with what can only be fairly described as a scowl by the purser who was doing his best to channel a gay Lorenzo Lamas, and his pockmarked sidekick who had the wiggle of a South Beach Transvestite crossed with the demeanor and unfortunate skin of Tubbs from the original Miami Vice series. “Don’t you have anyone to help you with that?” asked Lorenzo, motioning to the wheelchair that needed to be folded and gate checked. The apparent absence of Sherpas to fold the wheelchair and deliver my carryon bag to my seat was somehow off putting to this colorful and wildly apathetic American Airlines dynamic duo. Chloe dutifully folded the chair and took care of the gate checking before walking down the aisle to find her seat next to her brother and sister. I was seated in Row 1 of First Class where I was hoping to prop my braced leg up with ease on the extended ledge of the garment closet handle that jutted out slightly into the aisle immediately in front of my seat. As I studied the various reclining positions on the dashboard control panel of my leather seat, I anticipated a relaxing 5-hour flight. I would be proven wrong.

After propping my leg up on the closet handle ledge, and pretending not to notice Tubbs eye roll at the inconvenience this would create for him as he walked up and down the aisle proffering miniature plastic wine glasses filled with orange juice and sparkling water, I met my seat neighbor. He was a very tall, quiet, 30-something year old Peruvian with a gentle manner. We exchanged brief pleasantries, mostly monosyllabic due to the language barrier, and then he wished me a comfortable flight. I could have kissed him, as the clear message was that I would not be expected to speak to him anymore until landing, an arrangement which suited me quite well. No sooner had we taken off than I reclined my chair into one of the 14 depicted positions and broke my pillow and quilt out of their thin plastic cocoon to attempt an early morning nap. After finding just the right pillow positioning, I decided my legs needed to be slightly less extended and pressed the button to pull the leg rest in. Nothing happened. I pressed the control button again. Still nothing happened. I looked over at my Peruvian friend and saw that he was aimlessly pressing every button on his control panel to precious little effect. I was overcome with panic, my seat was locked in this suboptimal position and there remained 4.5 hours until we were to land.

I had the presence of mind to summon Lorenzo to my chair side, and as he arrived heaving a sigh of annoyance; I told him flatly that my chair was stuck. He stared at me blankly. I explained that the seat had reclined but that now it would not budge and that I was somewhat uncomfortable. “Oh great,” he said dryly smoothing his blow-dried bangs with his middle and ring finger, “what else can possibly go wrong today?” He continued with an exasperated tone, “Honey,” he said leaning in closer, “I have been working the last 5 days straight and I am reh-deeee for some down time.” He chuckled at his drollness. His teeth were so white, possibly the whitest bleached teeth I had ever seen and I felt compelled to stare at them as he hissed with laughter. Lorenzo did not offer to fix the seat nor to inquire about how to fix it, rather he said to me, with only the slightest soupcon of caring, “Maybe if we leave it for a spell, it’ll start working again. I mean the video system in Coach isn’t working either and it’s not like I broke it.” He guffawed again at his irresistible wit. “I mean honestly, my supervisor is so upset with me because I had 6 complaint letters from passengers in the last month but I can’t control the aircraft. I told her that if the planes don’t work proper then what does she expect, but she’s so clueless. Anyhow honey, I gotta go heat up the nuts,” and with that he pranced back into the galley, leaving me in my tilted state.

I considered flagging down Tubbs, but seeing as he was incapable of even producing a slice of lime for my sparkling water, I decided to wait it out and see. My Peruvian friend was still feverishly pressing every control button to no avail, and so I covered my head with the quilt and tried to refresh myself with sleep. Soon I awoke to the unmistakable and mildly unpleasant aroma of warming airplane food. I emerged from my quilted shelter and saw people all around me with tray tables opened and covered in cheap white linen. Without thought I pressed the seat control panel for the upright seated position, but the chair gods were not kind, and I was forced to enjoy breakfast horizontally. Needless to say I opted for the continental breakfast to minimize spillage as I lay and ate with my napkin spread carefully across my throat, neck and upper abdomen.

It was only prior to landing in Miami that the dynamic duo expressed concern about my seat position. Tubbs in particular was in an absolute state for fear of running afoul of FAA Regulations require all seats to be in the upright position for landing. Tubbs insisted I climb out of the seat and allow him to attempt to manipulate the manual controls beneath the seat to return it to its original position. Climbing out of my seat required a back and forth rolling approach to gain sufficient momentum to propel me upright and onto my uninjured leg, from which I could then hop into the aisle. Neither Tubbs nor Lorenzo offered me so much as a hand for assistance, but the silent Peruvian helped steady me, narrowly escaping a face plant into the adjoining arm rests. Needless to say Tubbs's attempt to manually repair the seat failed miserably and we landed with me in full violation of FAA Regs with my chair in a fully reclined state. Lorenzo thanked me for my patience after landing and assured me that the pilot had been informed of the "seat issue". I smiled back, already dictating my letter to his supervisor in my mind. Chloe helped me back into my wheelchair and as we raced through the airport to the gate of our connecting flight to San Juan with Livvy and Justin scampering behind to keep up, I did my best to dig my fingernails into the wheelchair's padded arm rests in the hopes of remaining in the wheelchair as we flew over thresholds at breakneck speed.

After landing in San Juan and filing a report for my missing suitcase, the kids and I piled into the waiting SUV that took us to our hotel, The Ritz Carlton, San Juan. We checked into our rooms and ate dinner at Il Mulino, the Italian restaurant on the first floor, where our table Captain, Gabriel, scooped large pieces of Parmiggiano Reggiano from an enormous cheese wheel for our enjoyment. After tucking Justin and Livvy into bed, Chloe and I retired to our connecting room where we are sharing a King bed for the night. I read for a while and then switched off my lamp to go to sleep. A few moments later, Chloe switched off her lamp as well. It was at this precise moment that I began to hear thumping from the room next to ours. In fact the thumping was coming from the opposite side of the wall abutting our bed. Within seconds I could hear the unmistakable shrieking and groaning of a couple on their honeymoon in the room next to ours as their headboard slapped rhythmically against the adjoining wall. Sadly, the woman was also an audible full sentence screamer. I considered addressing the awkwardness of the moment directly with my teenage daughter but in the end decided it was best to simply pretend to be deaf to the sounds and thumps, and my brilliant daughter decided to do the same. 20 minutes past with me trying to sing pop songs in my head to drown out the sounds and screams, and finally, mercifully it was over.

In the morning when Livvy came into our room to start the day, she innocently asked how we’d slept, and without a word Chloe and I locked eyes and simultaneously burst into a fit of laughter. “What’s so funny?” Justin inquired walking in to join the fun. “Oh, nothing,” said Chloe. Nothing at all……

Famous athlete sighting, Bedside manners missing, southern charm and chocolate relief

I am relieved to report that I have had my first brush with professional athlete fame at the Steadman Clinic here in Vail. Yes sports fans, my newest friend is none other than legendary Tennessee Titans linebacker, David Thornton, who at 260 lbs
is rather svelte for such a role. Those of you who know me well will no doubt be asking, "Hey Lorna, you don't even watch NFL so how do you know who Thornton is?" Excellent question, well you see I saw a 6'4" African American man with a very expensive watch hobble into the Clinic, so naturally I asked Paul (he's sort of a junior wannabe therapist who helps swap pillow cases and put the Game Ready ice machine on your injury when required), whether the said gentleman was someone famous. Paul told me that indeed he was none other than Tennessee Titans own David Taylor. I immediately ceased my wall slides and reached for my iPhone to Google him but the only David Taylor I could find was a 60 year old retired white guy.

After much huffing and puffing into my browser, I finally found a photo of a linebacker named David Thornton, and made the match by comparing the photo to the gentleman sweating next to me, and thanks to my keen visual identification abilities was positive I had found my athlete. I would later tell Paul that his name is Thornton not Taylor, and that he does indeed play for the Titans.

My PT for the morning was Lindsay, and although she looked familiar, it wasn't until we were well into our PT session that I remembered meeting her 2 years ago and disliking her rough and to my mind uncaring style. Bedside manner is an important component in a successful PT-Patient relationship and once again Lindsay proved to have none. For example, Lindsay didn't even offer to help remove my shoes, which may seem like a little thing but my friends when you are wedged into a straight leg brace with no ability to bend, and wearing athletic shoes that require manipulation to be taken off, it is an act of aggression to not even offer. Similarly, she showed no empathy when massaging my wound to encourage the flow of blood and the sharp pains that shot up and down my leg were difficult to mask. I made it through the session, my poor knee none the better for it, and asked David to please change my schedule to avoid further Lindsay treatments.

I did manage to mount the rowing machine and complete 30 minutes of one legged rowing with braced foot in a pillow case sliding along the plexi-glass floor mat as I did so. My new friend Mr. Thornton took note although I pretended not to be aware of his impressed glance in this cripple's direction.

Lunch was enjoyed at Up The Creek, a delightful restaurant where we were seated near a table of chubby Texan blondes drinking wine spritzers ("Can ye'all put sum Spr-eye-it in et to sweetin' et up jest a tuch?"). The rubenesque women flirted as best they could with the two gentlemen at the table next to them and did an excellent job of convincing one another to order most of the available items on the appetizer menu, including the "calamaw-ree with that yemmy saw-ess, don't y'all jess lu-uv dippin' et in et?."

As David rolled me back to the hotel for some post-lunch rest, various kind strangers stopped me to share their knee stories. One woman said she had had 20 surgeries and was now wearing titanium replacements which she proudly pranced on for me to see. Another had 4 surgeries and was now happy, while a sour faced woman asked if anyone had bumped into me yet and when I said no, she almost seemed disappointed and warned me that it would happen because "folks are just so clueless sometimes." Finally, an elderly couple approached me, the husband wore an oxygen tank and plastic nostril tubes were affixed to his nose and secured behind his ears as they enjoyed their midday stroll. The wife stopped to pat my hand and ask me if anyone had told me that breaking legs was really only intended to be a winter time injury (ha ha) so I should just hurry up and get better quickly. Oh the comraderie is simply heart warming.

Dinner out at my suggestion took us to Nowzawa Sushi in the Holiday Inn Express on the Frontage Road. We had to wait a while for a table at the bustling and charmless restaurant because per our waitress, the bus boy "called in drunk" and they were backed up. The food was quite good though, surprisingly, and David enjoyed the Sake sampler as I sipped on my diet soda.

A short jaunt after dinner to Rocky Mountain Chocolate was very successful as my pecan and chocolate covered caramel apple was delicious. Pain killers may prohibit the ingestion of alcohol but there is nothing wrong with a bit of chocolate and caramel thank heavens!

One legged cycle mastery, purple toe scare, and the switch to Percoset

The real trouble with painkillers is that one can only take them every 4 hours. This unfortunate reality has me up from 2:30am-3:30am playing Scramble2 on my iPhone as a distraction technique until I can safely swallow my next dose of Vicodin. My average score has improved nicely as a result, and I am the apparent winner of multiple trophies awaiting me somewhere in cybergame space. I woke David up early with the ringing of my foot pump alarm. I had to free myself from their velcro clutches quickly in order to crutch my way to the bathroom to alleviate myself, but could not bend down to reach the OFF switch, which of course trips the alarm and alerts loved ones who can then hop to attention and help avoid the possible onset of gangrene in the patient by reattaching the booties. I accidentally placed a crutch onto the toes of my good foot while trying to make it to the bathroom, eliciting an expletive I had forgotten I even knew.

After a restorative cup of tea and slice of wheat toast with pb and raspberry j, courtesy of Nurse David/Juan, I watched the end of Stage 7 of the Tour de France and the sprint finish by Mark Cavendish was fabulous. Then it was time for my first PT appointment of the day and so garbed in my work out shorts and top, we headed for the hospital. After Allison, my PT for the next 2 days, finished a hellish quad strenghthening series of exercises on me, I made for the stationary bicycle for a 30 minute workout. In order to bike with my one good leg, I had to prop my injured leg in its brace up onto an enormous resista-ball that was wedged between my bike and the one next to it. This was hardly an elegant manoeuver. In fact, to any bystander it would have resembled the beginning of a solo sumo wrestling match sans diaper, as I settled my left butt cheek onto the saddle and then attempted to lever my braced leg with some body momentum onto the resista-ball in a wide swinging motion. My third attempt proved successful and iPhone music blaring in my ears, I began pedaling with my left leg as best I could in a strained effort to make the pedal work its way entirely around. This is easier said than done and so with some trial and error, I realized the way to make the full circle is to separate the movement into 3 distinct parts: 1) the downswing; 2) the raised calf rotation backward push; and 3) the thigh clenching flexed foot upward pull. Steps 2 and 3 are best when accompanied by a Monica Seles-esque grunt. While this may not be fluid or particularly pretty to watch, it is rather effective with only the occasional misstep, resulting in the need to brace oneself securely to avoid an unintentional face plant. 30 minutes of jerky one legged biking later and I felt refreshed. The thin veil of perspiration I wore was hard earned and I longed for a Gatorade. Yes, I thought triumphantly, even semi-crippled I can train with the best of them.

I enjoyed a celebratory lunch out at the Italian restaurant annexed to our hotel and when we reached the room fell into a deep afternoon nap. As a reward, I removed my compression hose and opted out of wearing the foot pumps for the remainder of the afternoon. This small act of defiance would cost me dearly for shortly after 8pm, I noticed that the toe next to my pinkie toe on my left foot was turning a distinctly purple color. I tried massaging my toe to encourage circulation but the pressure was painful and I feared the worst, gangrene that might result in the amputation of the toe if not taken care of stat. I called for Nurse David who whipped the toe pumps onto my feet in record time. By morning I felt ready to look at my gangrenous toe once again, and though it seemed much less purple than the night before, the tip did look quite a bruised color still. (see poorly lit photo attached)

After catching up on Stage 8 of the Tour and the three crashes that would mark the end of Lance's chances to win the race, we headed for the hospital. Allison asked how I was doing and I told her of my purple toe, as well as my suspicions about the potential amputation. Allison asked to examine the offending digit, and after a brief but painful manipulation of the toe, announced that it was not gangrene but that I had in fact broken my toe. This was both a relief and a complete mystery for how could I have broken my toe when I cannot even walk on it? Allison asked whether I had perhaps stubbed my toe in the dark at night. And then it all came flooding back to me like a bad dream, the need to pee, my desperate removal of the toe pumps, the alarm sounding and yes, yes dear god my crutching over my toe en route to the bathroom. Mystery solved, I would not lose a toe but could add a broken one to my injury list. Although my planned toe nail polish change would need to be delayed another week, the silver lining here is that the cure for a broken toe is simply rest of which I am getting plenty.

I also decided to switch from Vicodin to Percoset in an effort to improve the quality of my sleep. Please stay tuned for more on that important topic in future posts.

Recovery Room bonding, Juan the Greeter and Rehab pain

As I emerged slowly from my morphine induced haze, full leg brace securely in place, I began to notice that the recovery room I was in was actually quite lovely. I would later learn that I had the only single room on the surgical floor and the only room with a flat screen tv, albeit with a missing remote control which kept David quite busy switching channels and adjusting volume as the medical staff flowed in and out of my room to check on me. Dr. Brad came by for a visit with Dr. Steadman and congratulated me on how well the surgery went. As they suspected, the patellar tendon required a complete repair and with a little luck would be fully functional in 4 months time. Dr. Brad patted my good leg and inquired after my level of discomfort, I was stoic. He instructed me to call should I have any questions or needs whatsoever. My delightful nurse, Audra, encouraged me to eat something as at this point it had been 24 hours since I last tasted food, and I suspect Dr. McDreamy may have whispered his concerns about my apparent skinniness to the nursing staff, although admittedly I have no evidence to support this contention.

Nurse Audra helped me unwrap a packet of graham crackers which I devoured in seconds, oh my what delicious Keebler goodness. David was there with a change of clothes for me and with Audra's aid I changed out of my tent-sized hospital gown and swapped the makeshift gauze boyshort panties for my very own 100% cotton pair. I noticed a two inch long snakelike bruise on my hip from where the nerve block had been inserted that resembled a tattoo, and felt instantly cool. This lasted up until I caught a glimpse of the pasty faced, haggard and ponytailed reflection staring back at me in the harsh fluorescent hospital bathroom lighting.

On the way back to my hospital room with Nurse Audra, I could not help but notice the crowded double rooms along the hallway. Like refugees on Ellis Island the patients' families spilled into the hallway in search of ginger ale and clean towels. Once safely tucked into (or actually onto) my bed, I told Audra how fortunate I was to have scored the only single room. "Oh yes, you have the VIP room indeed," she said with a knowing smile. "Oh, really," I said innocently, "is that just luck of the draw?" Audra paused and shook her head slightly, "No, it isn't luck," she said and continued with a knowing smile, "your doctor made sure you'd be given the VIP room." How delicious! I felt like a guest star on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

My momentary high vanished though as I began to feel a not insignificant ache in my braced and bandaged knee. Audra administered pain medication, David went to the hotel to sleep and I spent the next 6 hours chatting with Audra, and dozing intermittently, even trying my yoga breathing when the pain spiked. As it turns out, Audra and I share a great deal in common, including a love of the film work of Robert Downey Jr. Before leaving the VIP room in the morning, I decided to take a bold step and offer to lend Audra the DVD of Chaplin I had in my overnight bag for her viewing pleasure. She was hesitant at first, afterall we were at a fairly early stage of our new nurse/patient friendship to be sharing movies, but after I assured her that I would be in town for another 2 full weeks, that I had already seen the film, and that I'd be at the hospital for physical therapy twice daily, she accepted with a warm smile.

A new nurse named Cindy, of Native American descent, with a bright smile and pock marked skin from severe acne in her teenage years appeared, and wheeled me down to the Physical Therapy Clinic for my 7am appointment. I was helped onto one of the 15 empty physio tables and soon met Megan, my adorable, befreckled PT. Megan quickly got down to business, first removing my leg brace and then undressing my dressing to reveal what I know to be my knee but which bore precious little resemblance to the actual body part I have grown to know and yes even love. Multiple sutures covered by surgical tape floated atop the swollen bloody lump and as I gazed around the room at the other patients who began to appear, I was relieved to confirm that mine was by far the most serious case.

Soon Dr. Brad and Dr. Steadman appeared and went over the protocol for my recovery with Megan, who took notes and nodded soberly. Dr. Brad was freshly showered and his hair was still somewhat damp giving him a "I've just returned from the beach" look that was not unpleasant. Of course it was at this point that I realized that I had now gone 26 hours without a shower myself. I raised my hands above my head in a mock stretch while tilting my head to one side in an attempt to whiff my armpits for any lingering remains of deoderant freshness. Fortunately, a feint floral scent was still readily apparent. Note to self, shower asap. Dr. Brad chatted for what seemed like ages about his impending move home next month to Athens, Georgia, before being beckoned over to the next patient by Dr. Steadman.

Megan then got down to business and started massaging my knee to encourage circulation and mobility. The word massage is not employed here to indicate anything pleasant whatsoever, in fact this "massage" was more like something out of a slow torture manual, assuming such manuals exist. With each touch I imagined swan diving onto the Clinic floor as I fainted, and landing in various attractive crash positions that Dr. Brad might find me in. But alas, I am tougher than I look and managed to remain conscious and cooperative throughout the excruciating session.

After an hour of therapy Megan iced me, re-attached my leg brace and dismissed me until my next PT appointment in 6 hours time. David went to fetch the car as a nurse wheeled me to the front of the hospital. I propped myself up on my crutches and shimmied over to the open rear passenger door with my back touching the back seat. This was as far as I had thought things through and it was at this precise moment that I realized I had no idea how to successfully alight the back seat without the assistance of a small team of weightlifters. David stood watching me, perplexed but offering no meaningful assistance.

I handed him my right crutch and placed my right hand on the backrest of the seat behind me. This did nothing and so I handed him my left crutch, and then with both hands behind me tried to haul my limp body up onto the back seat with little success. Suddenly a gentleman in a sharp suit and tie stepped forward, his name tag revealed him to be "Juan" the hospital "Greeter", and his carefully trimmed mustache revealed him to be a latino man of personal pride. Juan suggested I use my crutch for leverage to hoist myself on to the back seat as he carefully steadied me while lifting my injured leg. This produced the intended result and as I thanked Juan, he insisted it was his "pleh-zure."

Back at the hotel I decided it was time for a shower, and so David (who I have now taken to calling "Juan") helped me slip on the one legged rainslicker over my leg brace which I had been given at the hospital and told to use for 2 weeks to keep my wounds dry. Fortunately for me, even after 17 years of marriage, the sight of me standing naked in a yellow one legged rainslicker, did not cause David to burst into a fit of laughter nor demand a divorce. God bless that man!

With David's assistance I showered, dried and dressed, and after a brief nap returned to the hospital for my next PT session with Megan.

Sleep at night would not come easily, due in part to the pain and in part to the foot pumps I am forced to wear at nighttime. The foot pumps are slipperlike attachments that I wear on my feet to avoid blood clots. They are attached to a boom box sized air compressor which alternates compressing each foot in turn by shooting small bursts of air that sound like an erupting whoopie cushion. No matter how much Percoset I take, it is impossible to sleep soundly through the noise and squeezing. On a brighter note, being forced to sleep flat on my back due to the leg brace does have me waking up with absolutely perfect hair.

Good night dear reader...and good luck.

Dr. McDreamy, Oxygen Flattery, Vicodin and more Vicodin

I arrived for my pre-op appointment at the Steadman Clinic in Vail and waited patiently in the small but bright, window filled waiting room overlooking the mountains. Luckily there was a t.v. with Versus coverage of Stage 3 of the Tour de France, so I was able to catch the exciting finish when the peloton caught up with the breakaway. Of course, I came prepared with my laptop and a subscription to the Tour coverage on Versus.com just in case, and will no doubt make excellent use of it during my 3 week stay.

The waiting room was filled with patients but no one I recognized; although I am pretty sure the 260lb wide necked fellow with the crew cut across from me is a pro football player. Amidst all the fit looking patients I noted one rather incongruous trio enter caravan style; a Beyonce-esque 20-something year old woman on crutches with a serious long weave and violet colored contacts, trailed by her seemingly doting mother sporting LAMB tennis shoes and a Jones Woman suit with an unfortunate leopard print blouse, and finally the sweet yet absentminded husband in his matching royal blue PUMA singlet and basketball shorts. He sported small diamond chip earrings, high tops, and a big warm smile, I liked him immediately. There were only two vacant chairs and the young man let his wife and mother-in-law sit while he scouted the magazine rack. As soon as the patient occupying the adjacent chair stood to take a phone call, the mother beckoned her son-in-law with a commanding head jerk, he approached quickly and she spoke sweetly but firmly with a Texan drawl, "I thought ya'll might lie-eck to sit next ta yo'eh precious wife my dear." Tough to refuse.

When finally my name was called, I was reunited with Chris Watts, Dr. Steadman's jovial long time right hand man, who greeted me with a warm hug. The waiting room took note, wondering who I was no doubt. I re-introduced Chris to David who is my wing man/back and call boy for this surgical trip and followed Chris into an exam room near his office. A few moments later the door opened and in walked a very tall drink of Southern water, Dr. Brad Register, the latest of Dr. Steadman's Fellows providing excellent medical care and eye candy. Dr. Brad examined my knee with his piercing blue eyes and large yet soft hands. I flexed my quads as best I could in cellulite reduction mode as he did so.

Dr. Brad explained the surgery that he would be assisting Dr. Steadman with in the morning and after subtly letting me know he used to play football for University of Georgia, we were joined by Dr. Steadman. Steady (as he is known to the inner circle) examined my knee and explained that we'd tried the two less invasive approaches without success but this time around if I consented, the surgical procedure would be more serious as my injury was similar to that often sustained by professional soccer players (naturally) and required the full reparation of the patella tendon. He had me at "professional". Steady asked me to do a quick MRI and to return in the morning for the surgery. And with that Steady shook my hand, Dr. Brad patted my flexed leg and assured me they'd take great care of me.

The next morning after catching the thrilling sprint at the end of Stage 4 of the Tour, I was admitted to surgical pre-op and met my quick witted nurse Dawn. Dawn and I bonded quickly over the superiority of female architects (they put more stalls in public restrooms for women) and over the ridiculous design of the enormous hospital gown she handed me. Dawn highly recommended I wear the disposable mesh boyshort makeshift gauze panties she offered me under my hospital gown to ensure against any unwanted peekaboo, and I did. After hooking me up to an I.V. and various monitors, Dawn commented, "Wow, 100, can't remember the last time I saw anyone's oxygen that high, impressive." I restrained myself from an overwhelming urge to rip out the I.V. and hug her. Instead I nonchalantly asked, "Oh, is that good?"

"Yeah," she said, "I mean if you lived here at altitude and were in your 20's and in really great shape then I'd expect to see it around 97."

Must be all that pranayama yoga breathing. David said nothing but I know he was impressed.

Dr. Brad appeared and flashed his pearly whites, letting me know he'd be with me the whole time and not to worry. Dr. Brad said that he'd heard that I used to run Move.com and needed some advice. (Hmmmm, they'd been talking about me:-) He is moving back to Athens, Georgia, where he'll be the orthopedic surgeon for the University of Georgia sports teams, and needed a recommendation on an auto shipping company to ship his X5. Did I know anyone he could call? Clever conversation maker I thought. Of course I helped him best I could, and David graciously assisted in a show of manly gurneyside laptop maneuvering, we narrowed down a provider certified by eBay Motors. Dr. Brad was grateful. He confessed that he'd had arthroscopic surgery on his knees by Steady a few months ago but that my patellar tendon debridement surgery would be "the real deal." I asked how his recovery had gone and he said it went fine but that he was sure my recovery would be much quicker what with me being so "skinny" and all. I do believe I blushed.

David stepped out for a bite of breakfast and I saw Michael Dell walk right past me. Really. I know his brother Adam and thought about saying hello but in my current state of under dress I thought better of it and remained silent. Soon the anaesthesiologist paid me a visit and recommended a nerve block which would last up to 12 hours and completely numb my leg from the thigh down and facilitate a more comfortable awakening post surgery. I kissed David goodbye lest he faint as the doctor injected a lidocaine freeze to my inner thigh where the nerve block would be inserted.

I recall joking with the O.R. doctors in a seriously sedated state about my stellar oxygen numbers and perhaps something about the German dominatrix yoga studio owner in Aspen, and then the next thing I knew I was awake in my room with a brace on my leg, David at my bedside, and a remarkable sense of relief.

Flight Agent Security Measures, Not So Lost in Denver, and Anniversary heaven

After a week’s stay visiting family in my hometown of Montreal, I dropped Livvy (10) and Justin (13) off at the airport in Montreal for their flight to Toronto, from which they would be collected and bused up to summer camp for the month. It was an emotional farewell, but Livvy resolved that since I am going to be in Vail having knee surgery and recuperating from said surgery for the month, she would do her best to have fun at camp since she can’t be with me anyway. A highly practical approach that I feel bodes well for her future. I recovered my driver’s license from the friendly Air Canada ground agent who insisted I leave it with him, as I suppose a security measure against my bolting, whilst I wait for my “Unaccompanied Minor” children’s flight to take off, and return to him once they were airborne to collect it. In the US of A when dropping off “Unaccompanied Minors” for flights, one need only give the agent one’s word of honor; a fact that when shared with my new Canadian agent friend, left him not the least bit embarrassed.

I then proceeded to check in for my own flight which today would be to Denver to meet up with David, and then a drive up to Vail. It is our 17th anniversary today, and (yes that’s right 17) am looking forward to celebrating together. After a most successful stop at the duty free shop and the purchase of some Issey Miyake body lotion and Acqua di Gio perfume, thanks to the tenacity of Hezman, the lovely Fragrance Department manager who wore a most becoming Hermes scarf over her hair and neck, a far superior alternative to a burkah in my humble opinion, although understandably not for everyone. My shopping would not have been near as enjoyable had it not been for Hezman’s her red lipsticked assistant Padma, who shpritzed and sprayed herself with absolutely every scent I showed a potential interest in, for me to whiff.

When I arrived at baggage claim in Denver, there was David with a rotund and smiling gentleman who had the slightly harried air of a professor. This turned out to be Jonathan, the driver David had hired to drive us to Vail. I must confess that I found Jonathan’s presence a little odd because we were going to rent an American made SUV and drive ourselves, but David said that he thought it would be more relaxing with a driver after my long journey. Thoughtful n’est ce pas? Jonathan loaded up our luggage and we set off for Vail, only it became readily apparent to me that our portly driver was heading in a direction decidedly away from Vail. I glanced over at David, who seemed unworried, and reasoned that this must be some sort of traffic detour. After 10 more minutes had passed, I could see the I-70 disappearing ever further into the distance and could hold my tongue no longer. I turned to David and asked in a pseudo hushed tone hoping Jonathan would not hear my lack of confidence in him, “David, do you think we’re heading the wrong way?” David looked around and then I thought I glimpsed a teeny tiny smile out of the corner of his mouth as he answered, “No, probably a short cut.”

That smile dear reader is David’s tell, it is full proof for it always lets me know when he is hiding something. I decided it was time for a more direct approach, “Dave, we aren’t going to Vail. So where exactly are you taking me?” At the precise moment I saw that the car had arrived at the gates of the Denver FOB, the private airplane airport, and that the gates were opening for us. David smiled widely and said, “Aspen.”

I love Aspen!! The car pulled up in front of our small jet and we were greeted by our pilot Doug, a retired United Airlines pilot who bears a not altogether unattractive resemblance to Captain “Sully” Sullenberger himself. Doug shook my hand warmly and wished me a Happy Anniversary and then handed me two crystal champagne flutes, and David a chilled bottle of vintage Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot champagne. I felt like one of the lucky “dates” on Patty Stenger’s Millionaire Matchmaker show, only without breast implants.

We boarded the jet and 45 minutes later were in Aspen. An oversized American made SUV pulled up alongside the aircraft upon landing and the FOB valets (I prefer to think of them as magic fairies) loaded our luggage into it lickety split. We bade Doug farewell and set off in our rental car for our hotel, the thoroughly fabulous Little Nell.

The last time David and I were here in Aspen was 9 years ago and we loved it so I was sooooo excited. A short 10 minute drive and we were checking into our magnificent suite, filled with flowers and chocolate covered strawberries and more champagne. As I described this to my 15 year old daughter later that night on the phone, Daddy did an awesome job.

We went out for a romantic anniversary dinner before hitting the blissful Egyptian cotton sheets. Tomorrow would begin with a Bikram yoga class, followed by a leisurely lunch al fresco and then 90 minute massages, most acceptable.

I hope you are having fun this July 4th weekend.

Hot Yoga and the Perils of Sweating with Strangers

In preparation for my upcoming knee surgery, which will leave me in an immobilizer for about 6 weeks, I have committed to 30 days of Bikram Yoga in the hopes that it will cleanse my body and potentially shrink it a bit as well. The following is an accurate account of how this journey began.

Yoga mat, large bath towel, and Klean Kantine bottle of water in hand, I entered the yoga studio in my black Lululemon capri length spandex pants and matching top. I decided against the large Lulu headband for fear it would look like I was trying a little too hard, but immediately regretted this decision as I sized up the crowd.

I approached the desk and Carli (with an "i"), the helpful assistant, talked me into a 30 days for $40 unlimited package. Afterall, I reasoned, it should take me at least 4 weeks to become proficient in this style of yoga, and with the 30 day package you get a yoga studio key fob that I immediately attached to my key chain with a small thrill. Carli then motioned for me to walk to the left into the Bikram studio. I made my way through the first set of glass doors and could abruptly feel the humid heat. I removed my flip flops and placed them in one of the small wooden cubbies lining the walls of this Bikram anti-chamber. I then trepidatiously pushed open the second set of glass doors and stepped into the sticky jungle/rainforest-like atmoshphere of the dimly lit studio. The polished dark hardwood floor was lined with 3 rows of scantily clad people sitting on yoga mats in various stages of stretching; those nearest the front were the bendiest and had mats lined with special thin yoga towels. Those in the second row were decidedly less bendy and would have done well with a more modest clothing approach and the back row, well suffice it to say, I was underwhelmed. I did notice to my slight consternation that the mats in the back row were largely covered in fluffy bath towels similar to the incriminating red one in my arms. Note to self, buy cool thin yoga towel (preferably in earth tone) asap.

I found an empty spot in the middle row and rolled out my mat and towel, adjusting my position so that I could spy a sliver of myself in the front floor-to-ceiling mirror. Just above the mirrors I saw a large cylindrical vent pipe (maybe 18' in diameter) that ran the entire length of the studio ceiling, and seemed to be covered with some kind of hole-punched ballistic nylon fabric. I would soon figure out that this cylinder is the heating vent that ensures the room remains at 105 degrees Fahrenheit through out the class. When I figure this out, I will also realize that newbie yoginis (even the very fit kind) therefore would be well advised to place their mats as far away from said cylinder as possible. But alas, I jump too far ahead.

I did a few deep knee bends and breathed in as deeply as possible, secretly trying to see if a B.O. smell could be detected in the room. Fortunately all I could smell was the patchouli scent emanating from the female Asian yoga master in front of me with the unconventionally long braided pigs tails practicing full back bends. A clear attempt at yoga intimidation, but wasted on someone of my mental mettle. It would take more than a back bend from a 40-something Pipi Longstocking wannabe to rattle this gals cage. The instructor appeared, a woman of about 30 years of age with the kind of lithe toned body I pictured on myself by the end of the month.

Her voice was reminiscent of a female James Lipton, and she pronounced each word with an exaggerated pomp only achieved by years of dedicated practice, often lowering her tone and emphasizing the last syllable of certain words for added drama. "Thank you for giving yourselves the gift of today's practice. I'd like to encourage each and every one of you to focus your intention today on creativity,. I'd like to challenge you to consider how you can use your life force more creatively to add beauty and meaning to everything that you do and with everyone whom you interact. Ask yourself, how might this lifetime be different if you let your creativity flow unedited, unjudged. How might this lifetime be more meaningful? How might you feel more complete? We begin as always with the Pranayama Fire Breathing Posture, so please come to standing in tadassana (mountain pose) in the center of your mats.

"Are there any new students here today?" she asked. I reluctantly raised my hand, outing myself against my better judgment. "Welcome. Your goal today is to simply remain in the room for the full 90 minutes and try to explore the 26 postures to the best of your ability. It would be somewhat of an understatement to say that I was offended. My goal is to just stay in the room, paleeeeeeeeaaase.

Over the course of the next 90 minutes her voice went from mildly annoying to severely grating and I used my creativity to imagine what it would be like if she suddenly lost her voice.

The Fire Breathing is I believe so-named because of the burning sensation one feels in their nostrils and chest when deeply inhaling in the sweltering heat of the room. Things went from hot to hotter and by the third posture I reached for my water bottle in dire need of hydration. "Just 2 more postures before we stop for a water break, so try to hang on if that is available to you." At that point the only thing "available to me" was fainting, and so I gulped down my contraband liquid and quickly resumed my feeble attempt at the Half Moon Pose. Throughout the class I was intermittently overcome with dizziness and gave in to my thirst as well as the occasional need to rest in Child's Pose.

After 15 minutes, I glanced down at my towel and was amazed by the sweat that was dropping like rain off of my body onto it. I had a somewhat macho feeling about this phenomenon and used my creativity to imagine myself in a flashback of Flashdance as I struggled into triggenasana/Triangle Pose.

Pose after burning pose, I willed my way through the class, eyeing the door and my means of escape when I felt I could go on no longer. But Patchouli Pipi was bending and flexing in all her glory, and I would be damned if I was going to give up without a fight. About half way through the class, I heard the instructor walk past me and say aloud, "Nice adjustment in the black." I realized that she was speaking about me, that I was the adjuster in black, the nice adjuster in the black who had just been publicly praised. I very nearly blushed but given that I was already beet red from the heat, I highly doubt this was at all visible. I must be a natural I thought. And this realization gave me the energy to carry on until the very end of the class.

When finally lying in a pool of my own hot sweat in Final Chivassana (Corpse Pose) I relaxed, I had made it. The instructor congratulated me aloud for having remained in the room for the full 90 minutes and the class broke into applause, even Pipi was graciously clapping for me. I was moved. And so along with my fellow yoginis, and at the prompting of our instructore, I gave sincere thanks to the Universe and to myself in gratitude for all that is and in gratitude for all that can be, Namaste.