Three Months: As the Mind Fog Turns
A back and forth with
@Jajakio got me thinking about how I've focused a lot on physical recovery and not much at all on how this surgery did a number on my brain. Because it did. It really did. And though I think I've gotten all my brain cells back and properly reconnected... well, let's see how that goes.
In very early recovery, physical problems rule. TKR results in terrific pain at first, which most of us are blessed to have well-controlled. But it's really bad pain, and controlling it requires really strong drugs. These drugs pretty much fog the brain, and that's what we want. A foggy brain not feeling much pain is a reasonable trade-off in weeks 0-4. At a certain point, though, the pain has gotten less enough--or we've gotten fed up enough with living in a fog--that we want our brains back. We stop the painkillers. We move on with life. The brain fog clears a bit and we think we've cleared the hurdle.
I've probably mentioned somewhere along the line that I'm a writer. As such, I can work from home and don't have to commute. This is a good thing as far as going back to work goes. Because I do work. I have contracts to fulfill. Having had surgeries before, I knew I'd need some down time, so made sure I had no outstanding contracts for several months. Boy, am I glad I did that!
In week 0, I had conversations I can't remember. I fell asleep while talking to my mother. I thoughtlessly joked with the grandkids, oldest age 5, that I let some doctors cut off my legs. They believed me. I had to show them I still had legs. But I would never have said anything like that in my right mind. I mean, come on, what was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking very well. In fact, in weeks 1-4 my memory and judgment proved porous. I told Mr. Shoes to remind me, often, if there was something he needed me to do, like make out the bills. I've paid the bills for decades. But I was Mrs. Out of Sight, Out of Mind. Dad got his breakfast but missed getting his pills. Or he got his pills and I forgot to give him breakfast. In fact, Mr. Shoes didn't get his breakfast reliably until week 5. I didn't notice little things like if a bathroom needed that next roll of toilet paper or we were out of milk. I'd stopped narcotics in week 3, so it wasn't that. Maybe it was exhaustion. The energy drain knocked me for a loop.
One day around week 5-6 Mr. Shoes asked if I'd started writing again. I love writing and have been doing it since I was 7. There've been only three times in my life when I have stopped writing for longer than a few weeks: when I was 18 and my mother (having read a book entitled
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) feared for my sanity and also told me I would never find a husband if I kept writing (that proved false); when I went through the world's messiest divorce (legendary in the state in which it occurred); and, you got it, BTKR.
In week 6, I still was not able to write more than an occasional few lines of description or dialogue. I could edit. I could and did beta read other writers' work. What I could not do was plot. I could not shape characters or deep motivations. I could not do anything subtle or complex or... well, anything I really need to do to write a novel. I could analyze, but not create.
I grumbled a lot. My knees were doing great. I reported a lot on how that was going, because it was quite interesting (to me, anyway) and maybe would prove helpful to others. But what was happening to my creative powers and occupation was more difficult to express, and I talked about it only with a few close writer friends who would understand my frustration. And Mr. Shoes, of course, so he would understand why I was spending my laptop time browsing, shopping, writing about knees, and developing strong political opinions.
So... fast forward to 11 weeks. The brain clicked back on. One day a scene burst full-blown into my head with rounded characters doing pertinent and complex things, and speaking like real people--if real people speak about wizards and quasi-godlike entities--and it was GREAT! Hallelujah! I was back, baby. And I've been back ever since.
The brain fog is real, and it goes beyond using painkillers, and the pain of early recovery, and the preoccupation with PT, and figuring out ADLs again, and getting back to driving. I could drive safely well before I was able to get my wizards to behave.
The brain is affected in subtle ways by our recovery. It can take just as much time for our mental skills to get back up to full speed--I was functional early on and remembered all breakfasts, errands, and chores at week 6, but I was not doing complex work--as it does to get our knees to the point where we feel they're doing well. It took me 11 weeks to get back to what I call normal: writing the way I know I can write, on the kinds of things people pay me to write.
If you have a job to get back to, keep that in mind. You can physically get back to the job, sure. And that can be difficult enough. But be prepared in case your mind is not all there yet. It may be catching up. So be kind to yourself, because not having your full skill set could happen. It may not happen to you. Maybe I'm an exception. But if it does happen... know that this too shall pass.
United States
It can create...er...*interesting* romantic interludes! FWIW, I have an ottoman next to my bed, hahaha!
