Violated

This week, I crossed the four week mark. My range of motion is excellent and I’m getting around pretty easily. Driving has opened up my world, although, getting in and out of the car still tends to be a bit of an issue. I feel like a Yogi trying to squeeze myself into a small box. My movements are slow and calculated and I am careful not to bump the steering wheel or emergency brake because my incision is still fairly tender. However, once I’m in, I’m on the road, and it’s quite liberating. I have been fairly excited about my progress and I am now back on the path of my life, running kids to school, doing the grocery shopping, managing a little house cleaning and even making my bed, which I don’t regularly do. However, since I’ve been spending so much time in it, I figured it looked better made because that meant that I wasn’t actually in it and had no plans to return to it until my regular bedtime. My attire has also changed. I am actually wearing pants on a daily basis instead of scrubs, pajamas or sweats. Because of the soreness of the skin near my incision, it was more comfortable to keep things loose. However, it exemplified the reality that I had no intention of actually getting out of my car when I drove the kids to school and had an empty reality that I was truly independent. Wearing pajamas and sweats also reduced the number of times I had to struggle with putting pants and socks on which up to this point, has been quite a challenge. Unable to bend my hip past 120 degrees, I was unable to reach my foot and therefore had very creative ways of hooking a pant leg or wiggling my sock on with my toes. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it…..it was that I couldn’t do it “gracefully” and each morning was a lesson in creative biomechanics. Currently, my hip doesn’t like to flex but it’s getting closer and the wiggling and squirming isn’t quite so prevalent. God forbid my husband should walk in and find me contorting myself into strange body formations just to get my socks on. The litany of remarks regarding sexual positioning would abound….”Hold that pose!” is one that comes to mind. I am glad it is getting easier and it opens up my wardrobe possibilities nicely.

The other great milestone in this process is I had my last Lovenox injection last night. No more evening stick. I noticed I was starting to assimilate this experience into my routine by feeling anxious right around the 8:00 hour. When my 8 year-old daughter was trying to be helpful by reminding me to “take my shot”, I got more irritated than I was grateful for her helpful reminder (as evidenced by my low volume growl). It wasn’t the needle that bothered me as much as the fact that I don’t have enough fat on my abdomen. I know, it’s a terrible problem…..(sigh). It hurt because I kept injecting into muscle tissue. I am so glad to have that over with. Now, I take Aspirin twice a day. It’s a little easier.

I am down to one crutch and feeling like the world is opening up. My stamina is still not quite up to par though, and I tire easily. A three-hour session at the soccer field (two practices, one for each daughter) pretty much lays me out. My muscles get sore and my body does a nosedive. I spend more time in my carefully made bed the day after one of those. Despite this, the fact that I can do it is a small victory and those are to be celebrated as I have mentioned.

Dr. Schmalzried’s office called to schedule my follow up at the six-week mark. In two weeks, I will fly down and hopefully get the “all-clear” sign and start my new physical therapy program, a program that includes something other than stretching and watching movies. I can't help but wonder what the security screening will be like. First, I am still using a crutch. Do they take your crutch away? Second, I have an entire leg full of metal, so will they make me drop my pants? I'm thinking T-string underwear will not be a good choice of undergarments for flying. Maybe Marek has some boxer shorts I can borrow....

My reason for contemplating this goes back to an experience I had after flying home from Utah the week before Christmas this year. I came upon the security screening with plenty of time prior to my flight and was not anticipating any problems. I always get a little anxious that maybe I forgot to pull out my 4oz bottle of hand lotion, and an overzealous TSA agent might to tackle me and send me up the river for such a serious infraction. Upon arriving at the security screening zone, I had gotten all of my little gray bins, as usual and filled them with my many questionable items like my belt, my shoes, my jacket, my laptop (in a separate bin of course), and my purse. I was also carrying my ski boots because having been a World Cup Ski Racer, this is an old habit to break. I have always carried my boots on planes due to the fact that they are highly personal items that are specially fit to my foot and to lose them to the black hole of lost baggage was simply too exasperating to allow. Hours of molding footbeds, grinding plastic, adjusting buckles and redistributing liner foam would be lost because instead of my boots going on the plane, they would end up in some tropical climate while people tried to figure out what they were for. No, I never take that risk of losing my skiing slippers and this particular trip was no exception. Off they went on the conveyor belt in bin number 5.

On this particular trip, I noticed they had just installed the new body scanners. These scanners were causing a huge ruckus because no one wanted to be viewed in their underwear by TSA agents who had little or no higher education and might be seen giggling like elementary school children at somebody's "non-traditional" brand of skivvies. I didn't care one bit if it got people through security faster without compromising safety and if my Victoria's Secret cheetah undies elicited a giggle, so be it. So, when I was summoned to stand in the scanner, it seemed like no big deal. However, after exiting the scanner, you walk out into a glass enclosure that has a door. It's kind of like a man-trap, and looks like something out of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, without the buttons. The TSA agent closes the door and announces on his walkie-talkie that he needs a "female" body check. Now, if I just went through a scanner that can see through everything, why do I need a body check? I am not carrying anything internally except a 4 year-old IUD which, last I checked, was still considered legal. However, I WAS in Utah and birth control is a hot topic in this particular "culture." I use this term loosely. I can see it now. "Woman arrested for smuggling an intrauterine device." Hmmm, note to self. Put phone number of the ACLU in my contacts list.

TSA guy asked me to identify my items from the conveyor belt. I pointed to all 5 and had a chuckle that a small army was going to be required to follow me as I was not allowed to touch my items or so I was instructed. I waited in the glass enclosure for awhile. I thought, good thing I am not in a hurry. Meanwhile, I saw a female agent with red, curly hair standing and talking to another agent right next to her. She was medium frame, slightly busty, wore her pants a little tight, and her makeup a little heavy. She made no gesture that she was coming over and appeared to be simply having a regular conversation (if not flirting) with her male TSA colleague, while making me wait in Homeland Security's version of a fish bowl. I assumed that perhaps she was not trained in the art of "patting down" and they were waiting for the real agent to arrive. Nope. After about 5 agonizing minutes of wondering what the hell they were doing, she finally walked over and told me she would be taking me to a room with my belongings. Now, I was starting to get a little nervous. This was a scene right out of the Midnight Express and red-headed Barbie was going to make an example out of me. They took me to a closet sized room with one of those bomb residue detectors that was barely big enough for the 3 of us (including the homely female agent assigned to carrying my belongings....with difficulty I might add). Barbie announced that she was going to pat me down with her hands, that I was to hold my hands straight out, and "part" my legs. I thought I was now the victim of some soft porn internet scam. The red-headed agent patted me down. As she patted down my stomach, she commented, "Ooooh, I wish I had a six-pack!" Really? I had just been objectified by a TSA agent. Wow. I was appalled. I wonder what she would have said if I had a "spare tire" or breast implants. "I see someone's been enjoying the holidays...." or "I wish I had a D-cup!" Seriously? Small talk during a body search. This was new and I found it totally inappropriate. Meanwhile, homely girl was now handing me my belongings quickly....I figured she was probably the senior agent assigned to monitoring Barbie and realized that Barbie was screwing this up every way possible. Barbie put the pat down glove in the bomb residue detector and thankfully, I was found to be clear of anything suspicious. Then, little Miss Bouncy-pants smiled and said, "See? That wasn't so bad was it?" There is nothing like being patronized by a child's toy. Is this the woman keeping me and my country safe from terrorism? I can just see her making disparaging remarks to the person who comes up positive on the bomb residue detector....."Uh-oh, somebody's been a very bad boy/girl....!" I swear this was right out of an Adam Sandler movie. If this is the best TSA has to offer, then we are in serious trouble. As I put on my shoes, my belt, and my jacket, I felt grossly violated. I got out of that room as quickly as possible and headed straight for the airport bar. I wondered about taking action. Who do you complain to? And if you complain, are you considered suspicious? Are American citizens truly free to speak out against an inappropriate TSA agent? My hops and barley were just the antidote to my patriotic temper tantrum. I decided that if the opportunity presented itself, I would say something, but so far it hasn't.

Now that I have a leg full of metal.....I wonder what my trip to LA will bring. I better bring Ken along, just in case.