Taking stock...

Armed with this new-found sense of entrepreneurialism, I began to devote more time to considering my future. I dreaded the idea of going back to work for someone else. I didn't know how I would manage any sort of 9 − 5 job in my poor health. Every day was a battle of wills - me against the pain. My treating physician had scheduled me for another series of epidurals to manage the sciatica pain - and added yet another prescription to my growing dossier. My quality of life was a daily downer and still fodder for my friends with the old lady jokes.

My hot red pumps go to Mom

I kept thinking that any day now, my knee surgeries would be approved by worker's comp, I'd have 6 months of physical therapy, and then get on with my life like nothing had ever happened. Ha! Now I had to come to the realization that I might never be able to wear high heels again (which would be a travesty for me but Christmas for my girlfriend, Kathy and my mom who share my shoe size). I reluctantly put away my biking gear and eventually shipped it all to my mom in Michigan who wanted to get back into cycling again. I was on my third knee brace and second cane - who wears out a cane at 42?

@ Disneyland with Jay
(knee brace and cane)

Being considered disabled does have some advantages, like not having to feed the parking meters in LA, and being able to skip to the front of the line at Disney Land - guaranteeing me an invite whenever a friend wants to go. Total strangers open doors for me and I get to whiz (literally) through security at the airport. But I want my old life back. One where I can go hiking with a buddy, or pick up my nieces without wincing in pain. I want to have two free hands when I go to the store, and not have to think if one or both knees will need to be strapped into a brace that day. 

But I was tired of my pain and injuries dictating my life. How was I going to go back to work and keep a job in that kind of condition? I had many good days, but also some very bad days exacerbated by stress, or cold weather. Then, no amount of medication seemed to help. I'd spend the day trying not to think about how much it hurt to be touched, or lie down, or just BE. 

My weight didn't help either. The more sedentary I became, the higher the numbers on the scale climbed. I tried not to be too alarmed, but my clothes were getting tighter and tighter and I could hardly afford (nor did I want) a new wardrobe. Before my eyes, my weight climbed to an all-time high of 181.9 lbs. I'm only 5'3" on a good day. The extra 60 lbs started to feel like 600 lbs. I knew I wanted to do something...but what?

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