We're Back!

Good Monday morning everyone. Today's entry is brought to you from the discomfort of my hospital bed at Christus Santa Rosa in New Braunfels. This 4-foot wide mattress has been my bedroom, living room, dining room, game room, reading room, den, and believe it or not, bathroom (don't make me explain that one, but I've done more than just sponge bathe myself and brush my teeth while lying here.) I'm going on the 53 hour of being at this hospital since the time my wife and I went to the Emergency room shortly after writing the last blog entry on Friday.

Last Friday evening, while my family went to dinner without me, I took some pain medicine and found a comfortable spot on the couch where I could elevate my increasingly swollen knee while grading a tall mound of students' quizzes and tests. With the end of the six-weeks happening, I knew that it was imperative that I take care of all my grades that evening, should any further course of action need be taken with my knee. After 2 hours, the grading was all done, and all grades were entered into the online gradebook. I felt a trememdous burden lifted off my shoulders . . . . . . . only to be set down . . . . . . . on my knee.

The whole time I was grading, my knee felt OK in the sense that I didn't think the pain or the swelling were getting worse. As I repositioned myself to eat the leftovers my family brought back from the Olive Garden (mmmmmmmmm Lasagna!), the movement sent shooting pains to the center of my knee. As I poked my fork into the red, pasty lasagna, it simultaneously felt like there was one sticking in my knee. As I finished up the meal, I knew that surgeons don't like to adminsiter general anesthesia unless the patient has been fasting for at least 8 hours. Perhaps I felt like this was my last, desparate attempt to stave off the infection that I already suspected was multiplying exponentially in my knee.

With my exhausted wife getting ready for bed, only after asking me 100 times if I was SURE I didn't want her to call Medical Exchange and getting the same short, negative reply from me, I decided I would get cleaned up and hit the sack as well, where I'd pray for a miracle in my sleep. As I slowly and painfully got out of the shower, no longer able to even bend my knee enough to step over the side of the tub, I felt something oozing down my leg. I looked down to see a steady flow of slick, yellow fluid escaping from my lateral incision. Before I even reached for anything to wipe it up, knowing that it meant I DID in fact have ANOTHER infection, I broke out in big, old, wet, man tears. Not only was it unfair, especially with my history, but it was soooo unlikely with a surgery like this one.

An infection meant so so many things that were going to disrupt my life for the next 6 to 8 weeks, including surgeries, pain, strong antibiotics, pain, medical bills, more pain, missing work, major inconveniences, more bills, more pain, more scars, more bills, and a continual, steady dose of melancholy. These things and more flashed into my head as I stood there in the bathroom. Most of all, I didn't want my wife to have to go through this again, as the last two four years ago took such an emotional toll on her as she worked full-time, job two small kids, and one helpless husband who needed every bit of her Nursing training in keeping my surgical site and PIICC line site clean, sterile, healthy, and infection free. It also meant the the new tile floors would have to take a back set yet again to my unfortunate medical bills.

After several paper towels, Shealynn and I finally got all the puss wiped up. It looked even more yellow in the white towels. I was able to pull myself together and even began to feel a little better as some of the pressure in my knee was alleviated from the escaping fluid. We soon go a hold of the ortheopeadic surgeon who was on call for my own doctor. He told us to go to the emergency room so they could verify it was in fact infected. There was no trying to convice him either through my past experiences or the most air-tight of mathematically logical arguments that I KNEW it was infected. I was hoping he'd meet me at the hospital at take care of it right away. I also knew that "taking care of it" meant an emergency "Irrigation and Debrisment" surgery in which the doctor washes out the area repeatedly, trying to rid it of the stuff that shouldn't be there. He then posts tiny"KEEP OUT" and "NO TRESPASSING" signs inside my knee for the bacteria who might think about retruning.

We left immediately for the hospital, knowing that the quicker we got there, the quicker we'd get to wait, and wait, and wait . . . . Once we arrived, I could feel my knee already returning to the pre-puss-profusion size and pain level. We found a spot in a relative clean chair away from the coughing kid next to the dirty spot on the floor. After what only seemed like an hour my name was called!!!!!! Wow . . . . . it was just to meet with the Triage nurse, who was finally going to assess my pain and put me somewhere on the list in order of how urgent it was for me to be seen. Meanwhile, the on-call surgeon sat a home waiting for a phone call. The triage nurse was very nice, and opted to put my name on the "non urgent" list! Really! She said I would get back faster and still see a real doctor, but because the "urgent" list was soooooo long, I would have to wait hours more. That seemed very oxymoronic to me, but perhaps it's a strategy they use when they have really nice guys like me in there with undeserving, painful infections in their knees.

Finding differernt seats in the corner under the television (our previous ones were quickly snatched up while we were back) we waited patiently while everyone in the waiting room was seemingly staring at us as they watched "Amazing Animals" on Animal Planet Network. Soon my parents came, and Mr. Wenzel. We talked and waited together. The pain was getting intolerable. I couldn't get comfortable. I decided to crutch it to the bathroom with my wife to try to "milk" out some of the puss again to alleviate the pressure and assuage the intense pain. The "milking" itself was excrutiating, but it as worth it. After 20 minutes or so, we returned, with my pain now at a 9.5 instead of 10 on a 10 point scale.

"Kevin Ku--ore---pee?" came a voice from a head that poked through the double doors. I said my goodbyes to my parents in the waiting room and my wife and I proceeded through the double doors ready to face this new infection once again, head on, together.

Oh no. . .

With yesterday's blog about the mundane act of checking the daily mail, I thought I had written my last blog entry regarding my arthroscopic surgery almost a week and a half ago. Unfortunately I was wrong.

I am quickly becoming the poster child for people who should NOT have surgery.

All this week, I have been back at school on my feet, movin' and groovin' and letting the math fly as I spryly and adeptly moved to and fro along the dry-erase board that spans the front of my classroom. In fact, many students wondered if I even had surgery, as I was showing no pain and moving without any noticable hitch or limp. Doing my physical therapy on my own each day, I'd faithfully do my leg lifts and quad clenches throughout the day as I typed on the computer or watched TV. I felt like I was ahead of schedule, and that having to move my follow-up visit with my surgeon from today (It was right in the middle of my BC calculus class) to NEXT Friday would only give me more time to heal and strengthen on my own. I was suspecting that when he next saw me, he wouldn't belive I was the same guy he operated on because of my amazing progress.

That feeling lasted until the middle of the aforementioned BC calculus class: today around 11:00. It was then, when as quickly as students moan when assigned 30 homework problems, a sharp, enduring pain overcame my knee. It instantly became difficult and painful to walk. My mind immediately went back to 4 years ago when on 2 different occasions, litterally overnight, I went from comfortable to intolerable pain because of a bacterial infection in the knee. I quickly found the closest thing to real wood I could find to knock on. I didn't even want to let my mind wander there, but it did. Instead, I tried to rationalize that it was just because I had spent all week on it without crutches or canes, and that my knee just new the weekend was coming and was ready to take a few days off. Even now at 5:22pm, I'm trying to stay optimistic, thinking that the ice and elevation will alleviate my pain and discomfort.

As my next class came in, I knew I couldn't stand and teach for anther 90 minutes, only to follow it up again for last period. Walking was now very difficult. My students quickly noticed my grimacing, so I confessed to them my situation. They very quickly volunteered to skip the lesson for the day, saying that I should sit and take it easy. I admire there extreme unselfishness on a Friday afternoon. They talked me into it.

As students worked on an assignment from their textbook, I sat at my desk with foot elevated grading papers, occasionally answer questions from the class from the comfort of my chair. Comfort is a lie. My knee was really hurting. With a phone call from my wife, in no time, she came by and brought me my ice pack. She's so wonderful. I felt horrible for her to have to hear the news about my knee. Her mind immediately went to the possiblity of another infection too. I decided that because my knee didn't appear to be getting too swollen and the pain had not continued to progress, that I would hold off on calling my doctor and just monitor it closely. In my mind, I HAD to act as if this was just soarness from overuse and nothing else. I'd call medical exchange on Saturday if things got worse overnight.

By the time school got out, after all that sitting, walking was almost impossible without a cane or crutches. With arms full, I lumbered gingerly to my vechicle and drove home, singing constantly to take my mind off the situation. When I got home, the pain was no worse, but I thought I was going to have to crawl in. It felt like 10 minutes to get from my car to the inside of my house, each step feeling like pins sticking in my knee. I tried to forget that's what the infections felt like.

So here I sit with swollen knee committed to relaxing it for the entire weekend hoping and praying it's not what I fear. There's no doubt it is inflmamed and swollen, more so that it has been, but the pain is tolerable, and the infection pains were not. That's something to cling to. Only tomorrow will tell.

Going through the mail.

Today as I got home, I checked the mail as usual. Always eager to see if there is a bonus check from work in there or an anonymous delivery of an envelope full of $100 bills, I'm usually content to have only one or two bills, a new "Sports Illustrated" magazine, and as little junk mail as possible. By the way, Kohl's is having another sale today. Anyway, today, aside from finding money in the mailbox, I hit the jackpot.

Not only did I get a new "Sports Illustrated," but I got the newest edition of my "Runner's World" magazine as well. Although I cannot play sports now or run anymore (read my previous blogs regarding my recent knee surgery), at least I can read about people who do. At least I can still drive. Hey speaking of driving, my new vehicle registration sticker came from the county tax assesor/collector (yeah, that seems like a job for him.) I can hardly wait to scrape off the old one and put the new one on. I sure hope I get it on the windshield straight, lest everyone who drives passed me will know that I'm hasty, inept, apathetic, or all three!

Then there's the brochure from the local "Arts Council," a group who believes that the plural non-possessive form of their name is more "beautiful" than singular or plural possessive. With the fancy colored calligraphy on the front, I can't say I don't agree. I guess that's what they would call "poetic license." Of course, it doesn't take long to realize that the brochure is less of an update on all the artistic goings-on in the organization and more of a solicitation for donations, donations that are needed to further send out unsolicited mailings to Art and Grammar enthusiasts and non-enthusiasts alike. They DO include a very compelling argument of "enrichment" and a few clever puns like "impART" and "become a pARTner. I WOULD like to support them with a donation, but I have too many magazine subscription bills to pay. I wish them the best.

The next brochure I came across was for a professional nursing seminar for my wife's continuing education contact hours. We get them practically every other day for issues ranging from "coping with club foot" to "helping people to quit smoking . . . again" to "cleaning and disinfecting paper cuts caused by opening junk mail." Today's 6 hour credit opportunity was not only "open to ALL professionals," limited to "one per person," but was to cover "Hormones & Health." Participants had the option of attending a real-live seminar, or an imaginary-word "Webinar" to receive real credit. I guess ALL professionals are expected to pick up on the cutesy, self-explanitory, eponymous new word to mean "learn about 'Health and Hormones' at home on the internet, where you don't have to actually talk to sickly, cranky people." The brochure goes on to list the course objectives, a very popular trend in education, such as "List the effects of Vitamin D deficiency in the body and current treatment options." HELLO! Hasn't the "CE International" company ever heard of "google?" That's MY definition of "Webposium," err . . . I mean "Webinar." Because my wife is currently up to date in her hours, this interesting piece of mail gets filed under "used coffee grinds."

Then there's the savory, colorful, almost scented mailing from our very own "New Braunfels Smokehouse," a local vendor that makes the most outstanding smoked meats and cheeses you'll ever pay too much for. You should visit them at http://www.nbsmokehouse.com/ Please tell them I sent you. They'll have no idea who I am, but I'd like for you to see the look on their faces. Actually, I went to school with the company president's son. I assure you, that you've got to taste their jerky, turkey legs, and sauerkraut, which reminds me, I'm supposed to be cooking dinner tonight. Text written in cyberspace on a blog is not very filling or nourishing . . . in the physical sense. I'd like to think that me typing this and you reading this is as mentally nourishing as a turkey leg from "New Braunfels Smokehouse" is physically noursihing.

The last piece, or pieces actually, of paper that someone thought was worth their pretty penny to send me was, a double dose of salvation, or at least an invitation to one. Normally, I feel pretty blessed to receive one flyer a week from the newest non-denominational church. Some offer rock music instead of traditional hymns. Some offer a casual atmoshphere instead of suit and tie. Some offer sermons that are hip, funny, and relevant to today's pressing issues as opposed to traditonal dry dogma. Today I was miraculously blessed with two, count them two invitations to two different churches. One's glossy, colorful flyer offered a taste of the Snow-capped Rocky Mountains as only Brother Theo can thoroughly sell here in the Hill Country. The other promised the prospect of skydiving, eating dessert, travelling, scuba diving, quitting my job, spending more time with my family, telling my kids I love them, climbing Everest, sailing, blowing all my money, giving more hugs, and making art. Whew! That must be some giant, well-established church. No. In fact, they were advertising all of this as their "Grand Opening" special!!!

This upstart church that is currently meeting at the local Y.M.C.A. is making big promises. Their entire theme is "One Month to LIVE!" Ironically, they offer 6 week sermon series showing you have to spend your 4 weeks to its fullest. At least the other flyer kept it mathematically feasible (barring a miracle) in its advertisement.

Before I tossed each of them into the recycle bin on top of the used coffee grinds, I made a conscious point to choose betwixt the two. I went with Pastor Theo and his Rocky Mountain imagery. I think it was the totally random picture of a Cheetah, yes, a CHEETAH, behind him that assured me that he had a sense of humor.

With that, I concluded the sorting of the daily mail, and I said a prayer that tomorrow would bring more anonymous envelopes stuffed full of $100 bills.

How much matter matters?

This weekend, I did a lot of sitting around, very reluctantly. After a few minutes of that nonsense, I started moving around, call it "physical therapy." Now, anyone who has a horizontal surface in their house knows how quickly it will become occupied with something. In fact, I think it has something to do with materialistic entropy: man will expand to the surroundings he can afford. Well, I have many horizontal surfaces in MY house, or "planes" as I force my students to call them. This means I have lots of stuff.

Married only 11 years ago, it's amazing how much my wife, kids, and I have accumulated throughout the years. I wouldn't even consider myself a pack rat, opting instead to get rid of things when their utility and/or novelty have expired. We've made quite a bit of dough through the years both through the tradition of making homemade bread on Sunday mornings, through our selling stuff at my Mom's garage sales, or in tax "write-offs" as my wife and I "donate" things to charity (call it the . . . . Sanitation Engineer's Union.) It seems, though, that for every one thing I get rid of, two or more things take it's place. When I look around, I'm beginning to thoroughly understand the late, great George Carlin's quip that "Life is nothing more than finding a place to keep your stuff."

I'm proud to be in the American minority of those that do not pay monthly rent on storage rental of any kind. Instead, I prefer to get rid of stuff the less expensive way. For instance, last year's Christmas presents quickly become this year's garbage or charitable donations (you know the Sanitation Engineer's Union is ALWAYS looking for donations.) That "thing" we bought "x" years ago that everyone "had" to have ("Tickle-Me-Elmo," "Furby," ANY toy or exercise equipment) is now decomposing in the bottom of some landfill, or collecting dust in someone else's garage. With this mindset, you would think that my house would be vacuous, but that's where you are mistaken. In fact, I have a very difficult time finding a place to set down my coffee in order to scratch my head as I wonder where to set down my coffee and ponder where all this stuff came from.

So I'm wondering: how much of this "matter" really matters?

For those of you who have long since forgotten your elementary science class, and who can remember elementary science when there was elementary MATH??, matter is something that has mass and takes up space. No, I'm not talking about the droolin, incoherent, senile priest from my parochial school days, but rather, all the material things you see as you look around you, even if its your mirror's reflection. As a society of capitalism, we equate matter with what matters, that is, we equate "success" by how much "stuff" we have. Depending on where we live, we are "successful" if we have more stuff than our neighbors. Since I live in a quiet community filled with many retirees, I'm definitely richer, since I have children in my home and something called a job.

But seriously, how do we accumulate all this stuff? and where does it all go? When I was young, I had a tough time thinking about infinity . . . . when I get to heaven, I'll live forever, until . . . . . a million years? . . . . a billion years after that? . . . . . . twice that long? . . . . . . times two? . . . . . Then I turned three and I learned about the auto industry: so many cars on the road and so, so many new ones for sale each year. I never saw a car older than 3 years old on the road, mainly because I was only 3, but also because everyone had a new one. The same is true today (although I'm well beyond 3.) Back then I struggled MUCH longer with the question, "Where do all the used cars go every year?" than I ever did with the question of infinity. I'm still puzzled by it, but I think they go where all the puzzles with a missing piece, the used-up coloring books, and the Ataris go. . . to that "other person's" garage, or stuck between the cushions of my couch (that would explain why mine are so uncomfortable----OUCH! Oh look, there's an AMC '77 Gremlin stuck inthe cushions! And look, the T.V. remotes in its glove compartment!)

The point is, even though prices still keep going up and it's costing more and more just to get by these days, we Americans still must have our "stuff." Shopping to us is recreation. If we don't have the money to go shopping, we typically go shopping to make ourselves feel better about not being able to. We overextend ourselves. We live hand-to-mouth. It's not surprise that Wall Street is panicking, that Lehman Bros. folded, that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had to be saved, or that the Federal Government is proposing a $700 billion bailout! Life has GOT to be more than just accumulating "stuff" then stressing over how to pay for it and where to put it.

Luckily, each time I look at my kids, I KNOW that it IS . . . if only THEY didn't want that new "Buy Me Elmo" doll that's all the rage.