Upgrade disappointment, no whole wheat bread for you, step aside ma'am, and the joys of Sky Mall

This morning I embark on a short but sweet journey to visit my eldest daughter in Boston, where she attends prep school. I awoke before my alarm at 3:45am and eagerly dressed, took Coco (our adorable new puppy) out to “go potty”, and climbed into the sedan at 4:15am under the cover of darkness. I have a carry-on roller bag with me and a small Longchamps tote containing TSA flight approved liquids and gels in a medium sized zip lock bag, my Kindle and laptop. I am flight ready with my small messenger style Coach purse slung diagonally across my person containing boarding pass, wallet, lip balm and Cinnamon breath strips. I prefer this small purse to the proletariat look of the blue plastic I.D. and boarding pass holders often seen hanging from the necks of orthopedic soled senior citizens in airports around the country. At the airport I check to see if an upgrade to First Class is possible but alas the superior cabin has checked in full according to the friendly and somewhat apologetic Japanese-American ground agent.

At least I have an aisle seat in Economy Plus, one of the sadly valuable perks of my Premier Executive status with United Airlines. Undeterred from enjoying the anticipation of my reunion with my daughter, I make for the Max’s Greek Deli stand, one of the only food stalls open at 5:15am, and patiently wait my turn in line to order a sandwich to eat on the airplane. The rubinesque Philippina woman in hairnet finally turns to me and humorlessly asks for my order. I request a roasted vegetable sandwich. She grunts her agreement and grabs two slices of deli sized rye bread containing cumin seeds. I ask if I might have the sandwich on the whole wheat bread sitting on the shelf above her netted hairline.

“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now.” She replies gruffly.
I am confused. Is she truly only prepared to make me a roasted veg sandwich on the rye bread. I assure myself this cannot be and so I repeat more slowly and clearly, “I would like the roasted vegetable sandwich but instead of putting it on the bread” (I point for emphasis) “I would like it on that other bread instead (pointing again).”
“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now,” she repeats annoyed at my apparent dullness.
“But the whole wheat bread is right above your head, can you please just make it on that?” I try to remain friendly and avoid condescension.
“No mem, we no hab.”
“Yes, you do have it, it’s right there.”
“No mem. No hab.”
I am stumped, perhaps this poor woman is afraid to bend the breakfast bread rule due to strict management instructions to not make any special requests. I try a different tactic, “Would you have a supervisor who might be able to approve the use of the whole wheat bread?” I admit my tone may have become somewhat Kindergarten teacher-esque at this point but not intentionally.
“I em Supervisor. We no hab.” She states emphatically.
“Oh, well if you are the Supervisor,” I try to emphasize the importance of her status, “then I think you must have the authority to make my sandwich on whatever bread you like.”

“No mem. No hab. On-elly brake-fass menu.”
The gentleman behind me rolls his eyes in credulous at the sandwich making bureaucracy and gives me a supportive smile.
I see bagels on the breakfast menu and quickly fire back, “Well then can you please make me the sandwich on a bagel?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz.”
I see the bagels still uncut in a bin on the counter. “But the bagels are still uncut, can’t you cut it in half and then put the vegetables on it plain?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz, no plain.” She gestures to the menu where indeed it does specify “Bagel with Cream Cheese $3.09”.
“Yes, but I would like the bagel without the cream cheese and the roasted vegetables on it. You can charge me for both but just make it without the cream cheese.”
“No mem, no hab.”

I turn to my kind neighbor in line and his support has morphed into obvious displeasure at the length of this futile exchange.
Although I should be furious, oddly I am not. Rather I feel sorry for this woman, so disempowered that she cannot even contemplate swapping bread. I look at her reassuringly, “I think you have the power to do this Nita,” I say reading her name tag. She shakes her head emphatically and gives me one final “No mem, no hab.”

And so I leave the line at Max’s Greek empty handed and somewhat broken hearted at the death of common sense in America, one deli sandwich at a time. I make my way to the gate and queue up for the pre-boarding. After the all important Global Services, 1K, and First Class passengers are boarding from the red carpeted left lane, the gate agent calls the lesser but still somewhat important Premier Executive and Star Alliance Gold passengers through the right lane. I advance roller bag and tote in hand, and hold out my boarding pass to the gate agent, a 40 something African American woman with a high pile of hair so shellacked and ironed that I wonder how close to a candle she can come without serious peril. She looks down at my boarding pass and without eye contact points to the wall and orders me to wait on the side as she says angrily, “I haven’t called Group 1 yet.”
The sting of the reprimand smarts. I hold my ground. “No, but you called Premier Executive,” and resubmit my boarding pass for inspection.
Our glossy haired agent is unphased and again without eye contact commands me to, “Step aside ma’am. You need to combine your items into no more than 2 before you can board the plane.”

She is good. Too good. Indeed my hands-free small messenger style purse technically could be categorized as an item even though it is obviously not offending to the intent of the TSA regulation and a matter of discretion for the airline. How ironic I think, that Nita would not use any discretion to swap my bread yet Ms. Gloss Head is employing the full force of her discretion in order to show me who is boss. I step aside and quickly tuck my mini-purse into my tote and return for a third time to the humorless gate agent. She scans my ticket and I give her the most sweet, light and airy, “Thank you so much dear.”

She did not flinch, not a millimeter, but I like to think that somewhere deep inside her noxious and befumed head, she hurled an unspoken profanity at me.
I boarded the plane and took my aisle seat in Row 6 immediately behind the last row of First Class. I was relieved to see that the aircraft seats in First did not have foot rests nor did they have individual video monitors for personal media entertainment. Although I must admit that when the flight attendant handed out the pre-flight orange juice I did feel just the smallest pang of envy.

My neighbors on the flight would turn out to be a bizarrely tall senior couple traveling to visit their grandchildren. The husband sported a fabulously bushy grey toupee cut abruptly above his ears and that lifted off a good half an inch from the back of his neck. His wife immediately began fishing in the pocket in front of her in search of the Sky Mall magazine. When she could not find it, her husband relinquished his, albeit reluctantly. The next 30 minutes were filled with the joyful cries of the Mrs. followed by a careful explanation of the many wonders of the Perfect Lasagna Pan with inner walls to distribute heat evenly unlike conventional lasagna pans, as well as shout outs for the Star Wars toaster which emblazons your bread with a toasty image of Darth Vader and the Warming Cat Bed with Detachable Hood. Mr. mumbled with feigned interest in response to each of his wife’s delighted supplications but secretly rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his USA Today.

While air travel may not be what it used to, in my experience it does provide plenty of entertainment.

The Long Road Home, San Juan Surprise, American Airlines Strikes Again

After a few blissful weeks in the Virgin Islands we bade farewell to our luxurious rental villa and our ever-smiling Spanish speaking staff, and headed to the marina. Captain Bennu arrived promptly at 9:30am to ferry us safely across the Caribbean Sea to the island of Tortola, from which we would be flying home to San Francisco after having been away since June. We checked in at the American Airlines ticket counter and soon discovered there was a slight problem. The decidedly unsmiling woman at the counter informed me that although David was scheduled to fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico and then home via Miami that day, the kids and I were only scheduled as far as San Juan with an overnight stay, and then the flights home the following morning. I felt the blood instantly rush to my head in a panic. “There must be a mistake,” I said calmly, “can you please see how you can get us home all together today?”

The agent looked to her right and spoke wordlessly through some secret island eye contact language with her fellow female agent, who in turned eyed her back in a clear show of solidarity that did not bode well for me. Of course the peacock blue eye shadow abundantly piled atop the neighboring agent’s eyelids made this wordless conversation far more intimidating than it might otherwise have been. The flashes of iridescent blue were downright menacing, like male peacocks in a battle for mating rights, and I wondered whether and how I might respond. The be-shadowed agent sauntered over to address me, she was obviously the heavy, and informed me that, “You will haft-eh cawl Ah-mehr-ee-cahn Ai-er-lines, and see whod dey ken do ‘bout it. Dehr’s nohtin’ she ken do fahr you.”

I blinked confusedly, and double checked that I was indeed standing at the American Airlines counter. “But this is American Airlines, you are American Airlines, can you please help me place the call?” I asked, compelling my voice to sound sweet, somewhere between helpless and hopeful. In my experience gate agents must first be made to feel totally superior to you before they are allowed to engage in even the smallest effort to assist a passenger in distress. I put on my best and most pathetic “distressed traveler” look and waited with pleading eyes, lowering my head slightly in deference to the mighty peacock. Some more secret eye contact conversation occurred and then the peacock lidded woman reached for a telephone, dialed some numbers and handed the received to the original agent. She then spoke some words at remarkably low volume to obscure my ability to understand and sauntered back to her counter.

The agent spoke almost inaudibly into the phone and then looked up to tell me. “Der iz nohtin’ I ken do, you ahf to fly ‘ome tomarrah.” I asked if I might speak to the person on the phone myself, and after she checked with the woman on the phone if it might be acceptable for me to speak with her, I was handed the receiver with only a mild look of disgust.

Soon the American Airlines agent on the phone had my full story, I was in a wheelchair and traveling with my three children and terribly sorry for the inconvenience but could she possibly get some or all of us home today? My submissive tone was found so agreeable that the woman managed to find a flight home almost instantaneously for my eldest daughter, at an albeit exorbitant increased fare. As for myself and my two other children, she could get us home first thing in the morning via Houston but we would have to overnight in San Juan. After thanking her for her assistance and handing the phone back to the agent, I explained the change in flights for us all and she began to input information into her keyboard with the tips of her impossibly long acrylic nails, which had some rather ornate rhinestone inlays.

Peacock lady sauntered back over and asked what had happened and when told of the change in flights, looked directly at me and asked, “Well how much dey gonna charge you fahr de change?” Her partner in crime offered up the figure jubilantly and Peacock lady looked at me with genuine amusement, “Well dats Am-her-eec-an Ai-er-lines farh you, dey don ker nohn fahr dey-er passen-geers sit-too-ehtion. But good you getting’ ohm tomarraw.” She chuckled, closing her phosphorescent eyelids for a long moment, before wandering back to the abandoned passenger at her counter.

I remain non-plussed as I sit here typing into my laptop at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in San Juan. Clearly Peacock lady is employed by American Airlines. She wears the AA uniform and nametag and works behind a counter labeled American Airlines, and yet she has somehow separated herself from this reality and carries on as though she were merely a by-stander to the travel atrocities being committed by said Airline. I cannot explain it, nor understand it, although I suspect it may be a suspended reality survival condition afflicting commercial airline flight crews and ground crews across the world. Clearly this sort of schizophrenia is a coping mechanism so that the airline employees themselves can carry out their duties shoddily (in accordance with union regs) yet bear no remorse or feeling about it whatsoever. I suppose this is the same type of desensitization military interrogators adopt in order to be able to carry out their duties. I do intend to write to American Airlines after my long awaited return to see if perhaps they can address it, although I am as doubtful as ever. Should I receive a reply, I will of course share it with you dear reader.

But for now, I will descend to the pool and join Livvy and Justin who are no doubt ordering virgin daiquiris in their lounge chairs and making the best of our unexpected return to San Juan.

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.