The doctor said I could shower 48 hours after surgery. It couldn’t have been too soon. Between the fever sweats and the oxycodone sweats and the nausea sweats, I was one disgusting mass of needing a shower.
Andrew is a master of reading instructions. Me, not so much. Usually, I jump into something get mired and overwhelmed and work my way through it. Andrew was having none of that for the shower. He read the instructions as I undressed my knee. I will spare you the details, but it was not pretty – the dressing, not the knee, the knee was a little swollen with some discoloration; but, it was way better than I had expected. The instructions said to go ahead and shower but to not soak the knee in water. I was not quite sure that whoever wrote those instructions had ever taken a shower.
Our plans were for me to take a shower than Andrew would make me bacon because I finally had an appetite and a non-sore throat.
I crutched over to the bathroom and tried to figure out how to get into the tub. Along with my ACL surgery I had a meniscal tear repair (which sounds like Eric Ripert to me – because I am hungry and my knee is French), so I cannot bend my knee. I think we’d have done better if we’d had a Twister™ mat out. I got in the shower and Andrew joined me so that I could balance while I washed 48 hours of mucky sweat away.
I did my hair and body and was all the while trying to keep my knee out of too much water. It was a lot to balance. After about 5 minutes, I said I was done. Andrew said are you sure? I fell into his arms and held on tight and told him I felt woozy. He grabbed my towel and tried to dry me off but instead I clung onto him and said “Really woozy.” I woke up laying down in the tub with Andrew leaning over me. “I am going to die” (at least I wasn’t melodramatic). “You are not going to die.” “How did I get down here?” ”You blacked out.”
The next ten minutes was a combination of trying to make sure Andrew wasn’t freaking out, while trying to figure out how to get me out of the tub, while trying to limit the amount of times I declared pending death to under 20 (I may have been doing the freaking out). Andrew in a stroke of genius grabbed my leg brace from the bedroom and haphazardly put it on so I could keep my leg straight and maneuver myself back to the bed. He gently re-wrapped my knee and we did the best we could to get me painlessly back onto the couch. I took a pain pill. There may have been some sobbing.
And I finally got my bacon.