Pain and Torture.

     The post turned out to be waaaaayyyy too long so I split them in half, I think it's better this way anyways. I didn't want to bore you.

       Now it is time for the worst. Physical Therapy. I am used to my physical therapist, Peter, already, so there is no anxiety about meeting and liking the person who is probably going to cause much pain, as well as an equal amount of relief. Even so, horror stories start in the Schuett house. My first day of PT, before I go in, my sister tells me that getting through the scarred tissue is the hardest and most painful thing that will happen to me during my physical therapy, she goes on to tell a story about an athlete who had a surgery on his knee, and during his therapy you could hear him screaming in pain from down the hall, "But don't worry," she said, "Knee surgeries are the hardest." oh yea, sure, no problem, thanks SHAYLA. So, with that reassuring bit of lovely information I get out of the car, stick my crutches under my armpits and hobble to the door, and then struggle a little bit until I finally have to give in and let my mom open it for me.

       I want to explain, that for a long time before my surgery, I had been going into to see this PT for my ankles, before we knew exactly what was wrong, so everyone who worked there (or most everyone) knew me, and when I walked in on my crutches they all stopped to ask me how I was doing and how the surgery went, and even though its not an ideal place, it felt like another part of my family and I felt right at home. I crutched over to the table where my PT was and he stood up and gave me a hug, we discussed everything that went on since I had seen him last, how the surgery went, and the fact that I had to take out my own sutures, and my PT, knowing my personality quite well, laughed for a good 10 minutes before he composed himself, and said very seriously, "Well that's no fun." and then laughed some more… This did NOT make me feel right at home and I wanted to hit him over the head with my crutch, but it is hard not to laugh with him.

       So, he gets to work on my ankle. It hurts like no ones business, but I try not to show any pain on my face, not only because my mom is sitting right there, but because if I make any indication that it hurts, he stops and moves on to another tactic that either hurts worse, or doesn't do anything at all, and I want this to get better as quickly as possible. Then, he says we need to break up some scarred tissue. Oh joy. He also says that there are some stitches still coming out. "Oh really? Hmm, I wonder why." I think to myself. Those need to be taken care of as well, he gets up… stares at me for a moment, (when this happens I never know what to do. Do I hold his gaze? Do I look away? Naturally, my instinct would be to make some hideous face, just because that's what I do in uncomfortable situations.). Then he says he knows what I need, he leaves for a couple minutes and I look over at my mom, who is reading her book, I think about telling her I am done and we need to leave as quickly as possible because I am "hungry"… But then I decide better of it. He comes back with a little yellow box and I can only think is that he is going to tell me that I need to hammer my ankle, myself.

       He sits down on his swivel stool and takes a weird looking tube that looks like a tire pump, out of the box. "Do you know what they use this for?" he asks me. "Oh yea, of course I do Peter, helloooo. No." I say, he laughs, "This is what they use to extract the venom from snake bites." he smiles. I stare at him. I can't help but think that I have the meanest PT on the entire planet. "Congratulations on your snake venom extractor," I think to myself, "but may we get on with my pain and torture?". He raises his eyebrows at me, and I raise my eyebrows right back, "Ok then." he says, then he proceeds to place the suction on the end of the tube onto my scar, and starts pumping. I stare in shock as the pump tugs at my scar. I am so very unprepared for this pain, because it's not the sort of bruised pain you feel when rubbing an injury, it is indescribable. He twists, jiggles and shakes the pump around until the suction pops off. My skin is left puffy and red, he continues this down the scar, and onto my other ankle. When he finishes, he rubs my scars a bit with some lotion, puts my socks on, get an ice pack, and says, "Have a good day! See you on Thursday." Speechless, I manage to stammer a shaky, "Uhmm, yea. Uh huh, ok." he laughs, and leaves.

       This kind of PT (Pain and Torture) continues on for a few months. Of course, there is strengthening and other things, and a good amount of progress is made. I begin walking without my crutches, start driving again, got my license. Went on a trip to Florida, which was probably the highlight of my year, seeing dolphins, basking in the sun, all that good stuff, even though I came back a sun dried tomato, from head to… ankle. (Apparently when a body part is swollen it neither tans, nor burns, this gave my PT more reason to laugh at my expense). I think one of the scariest things that I happened to me early on in my rehab was, one day I was walking to my room and all of the sudden I got the worst cramp in my calf, since it was maybe only a couple days after I was allowed to walk around without crutches, I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to stretch my calf out because of my scar, (I could barely bend my ankle anyways) so I just stood there, then sat there. Then laid there, until it went away.

        Physical Therapy started getting more challenging with the level of exercises given. I will never forget the day when my PT instructed me to balance on one foot standing on a pillow… The exercises were long, and tedious and I couldn't help but think that they were too simple for me, but I soon learned how wrong I was. There would be some days where, after doing my exercises, I could barely move my foot. Being who I am, I hate icing, and taking pain killers, even though those are supposed to be a dancers best friend. I cannot stand sitting around with ice on some injury, for some reason it just makes me annoyed. Of course, this is not ok with my mom, my sister, and especially my PT, but even I never told him that I didn't ice as much as I should, he knew anyways. My very first ballet class back, I took with a very beginner level, and I felt like I was embarrassing myself even then. The teacher was one of my first teachers, and she was so kind to me, but I couldn't help but feel like I had let her down. I could barely stand at the barre without falling over. I left the class halfway through, thanking the teacher and the pianist, walked out to my car, got in, and just sat there staring into space, trying to hold back my tears. Eventually, I couldn't hold them in any longer, and they came streaming down my face. "What am I doing?" I thought to myself, "I can't do this, I'm not strong enough to get myself back. I don't have the patience.". I called my parents to tell them I was on my way home.

       The next day I went into PT and told my therapist that I should probably just quit because I didn't have the patience and I would just make a fool of myself. He asked me if that is really what I wanted to do, and said "Before getting your surgery, had you known you would just quit, would you have gotten the surgery? And if you hadn't gotten the surgery, would you have said 'I quit'? What was the point of getting the surgery if you were just going to quit, I thought this is what you got it for, so you could continue dancing." he left me speechless, I hadn't thought about it like that. I started crying, much like our many other "Physical/mental therapy sessions" he left and came back with a box of tissues, and laughed, "You're a mess Stacey Schuett, what am I going to do with you.", "Cut off my feet and then tell me to continue" I said, frustrated that he beat me again.

       I owe a lot to a lot of people, my PT is one of them. Physical Therapy, as painful as it is, helped me regain my strength and I was back to full ballet classes, with some exceptions, by the end of may. :)

     

I hope that concludes my surgery story. 


BB over and out.

The Recovery.

OK, so this post, and the one before it, are just a continuation and a wrap up of my surgery, since I didn't write them when I intended, I was hoping that i could place them right after "Waking Up" but that's not going to happen, so please, bear with me.

       Now, the recovery. There is nothing easy about any recovery. There are always setbacks, ups and downs, and moments where you think its not worth it. There is never a scenario where recovering will be easy. (Unless you get a paper cut… And well, if that's not easy for you then… I don't know what to tell ya). Recovering from surgeries can be extremely difficult, or they can progress faster than expected. I have no clue which category mine fits in, only that it sucked. No way around it, getting that out there. It was torture.

       Looking back at this step of the process, I laugh a little at some of the things I remember, but of course, at the time I was terrified. One of the things I laugh about, among others, is the very first instruction my doctors assistant gave my mother in our last meeting before the surgery, which was "Because of the morphine, for 24 hours after your surgery, eat as though you just had the stomach flu, so that's, rice, cereal, oatmeal, things that won't upset your stomach. Every one's body reacts differently to the medication", and what do my parents feed me that same day?? PANCAKES! Yayyyyy. Haha, who eats pancakes and bacon after having the stomach flu? I do apparently. It's ok though, I don't hold it against them because my body accepted the food even with the medicine and it was a very yummy breakfast, they're very lucky I don't have a weak stomach. So, that's one thing I laugh at. Another thing that will never cease to terrify me, is the fact that I had to take out my own stitches…

       So, here's how this went. My follow up appointment with my doctor went well and he was pleased with what he saw, his assistant, who I now appreciate very much, was out of town due to a family emergency, so my doctor had an Attending with him.  He looked over my incisions and said it was time to take the sutures out he gave instructions to the Attending, wished me luck with the rest of my recovery and left the room. The Attending left, and came back with a little plastic package, "Ok," she said "here's the suture removal kit, take the scissors and cut the knots, and then you should be able to pull out the threads with the tweezers. You can do this at home, it usually works best if the area is wet." and with that she left the room. Uhhhh what? So, here I am, sitting on the sanitary paper covered table, mouth gaping eyes wide. I turn to my parents… "I…. Have to take them out myself?" I say, I pretend to laugh it off, but in my head I am screaming. I can barely look at my ankles, let alone take out sutures. On the ride home I tell myself to suck it up, because there is no way I'd let anyone else do it, so if I don't it will never get done.

       We get home, and i head straight for the bathroom. I fill the bathtub up about ankle deep, with lukewarm water. Sticking my feet in, I realize, it's is the first time in 2 1/2 weeks that my feet have felt water. It's weird to think that something like that could make some one happy, but believe me. When you are a dancer, and your feet have been constricted for 2 weeks… Everyone is happy. Trust me. So, after I decide my feet have soaked long enough, I dab them with a towel so that they aren't soaking wet. I gather up my courage and take a few deep breaths. I rest on ankle on my knee "Lucky for that Attending I'm flexible. Good thing I don't have to see her again, I'd like to take out HER sutures…" I don't know why. I just really didn't like her, maybe its because she came in right before the surgery and asked me what ankle we were operating on… How about both? But anyways! While I thought angry thoughts and examined my ankles, determining where to start, my mom walks in. Startled, I just about stab myself with the scissors. She apologizes and asks "How are you doing? Do you need help?" trying to hide the look on her face that says she really does not want to help, she is just being kind. I tell her I'll be alright, but I need to concentrate so I don't cut my foot off. Besides, I would never ask my family to help me with something like this in a million years, it seems like way to much to ask.

       Here it goes, I start snipping away at the threads, hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible, now that all the threads are gone, I pick up the tweezers… "Ew" I think to myself, "I can't believe I am doing this.", I start, lightly tugging on the first knot, I stop when I see and feel, my skin bob up and down with the thread, "Uhmm, Mommmm?", she comes in, "Do you think that doctor was right about these being ready to come out?", she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, "I don't know, try another knot and see what happens, if it doesn't work maybe just leave it?" helpful. I don't blame her though, if it was me, not only would I want to get out of that bathroom as soon as possible, but I seriously would have no clue whether or not they were ready to come out… So I continue tugging. Finally one makes its way out from my skin. "Okkkkiiiiiiii, I think that's enough for today!" I say out loud, but in my head, "There is no way I am doing that again, they can just come out when they feel ready."

       During my immobile days, when my dad would spend evenings in my room with me, we would schedule and reschedule my road test, and he also helped me pick out and order, an entirely new outfit for Easter. I began regularly attending church again. One thing I forgot to mention, is that on my first outing, while still on crutches and still in boots, was to the mall with my best friend Renee, probably one of the dumber things I did during this time. We got to the mall, and everybody stared, which I hated, but I don't know what I thought was going to happen. My ankles started hurting and then I felt like I was going to throw up, so my sister picked me up and I went home. Easter Sunday came along, and I had asked my PT if I was ready to wear heels and I actually don't remember what he said but I am pretty sure he said no. So I obeyed. But then, it came time for me to see my friends from ballet in their spring showcase, Snow White. Some of my best friends were graduating that year and I had to see them. I picked out my outfit, including a new pair of heels that I had not been given permission to wear, and my sister and I left for the show. 

       At the theatre I saw all of my friends and we talked and blah blah blah, and then one of my friends who was graduating asked the school director if I could hand out the graduates flowers at the end of the show. He said yes and I rushed back to tell my sister. She had some interesting things to tell me. Apparently, while I was talking to my friends, the ballet mistress had walked past, and knowing about my surgery was very very angry that I was wearing heels, and told this to my sister, so I borrowed some shoes from one of my friends, so I wouldn't get yelled at after handing out the flowers. When I went back stage, the ballet mistress told my sisters "I am glad Stacey took those GD heels off." Allrrightttttt. But she wasn't my main reason for taking off my heels. One of the girls in my class goes to the same PT as I do, and she told me he was in the audience, I had not gotten permission to wear heels, I was scared of his wrath, but the next day I confessed and he said it would probably be really good for my calves, because it would give them a rest. Wish I had known that before.

After Affects.

       It's funny how much we take walking for granted. Just a few days without being able to walk and you will see what I mean.

        If anyone were to say to me now,  how nice it must have been to have a whole week in bed with everyone waiting on you… Well, if looks could kill. Try lying in bed for a week, shouting your fathers name every time you had to go to the bathroom, calling your little brother every time you dropped something on the floor. Asking your mother to bring you a cup of water whenever you got thirsty. Lying in bed at 3 in the morning, thinking about how badly you have to pee but you can't because your dad is asleep and won't hear you. Not being able to shower and then receiving the nickname "Stinky Stacey" from your older brother. THEN say how nice it must have been. HA! (Unless you are a very very odd person and all of this makes you happy…But being waited on, hand and foot is not my cup of tea.)

       For 7 days I was forced to have my dad carry me from my bed to the bathroom… I couldn't walk into the kitchen to join my family for meals, I was cut off from my life… Showering, anyone who knows me well, knows that I take personal hygiene very seriously… A week without a shower basically killed me, and when I was finally allowed to take a shower, it was not a very ideal shower. Crutches were difficult because I had 2 boots instead of one, so I had to learn to balance my weight just enough to get from one foot to another without causing any pain. Sitting on my bed all day, not able to do school because of my medication, I had a lottttttt of extra time on my hands. I finished the first season of Friends in 2 days, it really puts time into perspective when I say it now… One good thing did come of this bed ridden-ness. My parents brought the TV into my room :)

        I am not sure when I started, but after a while of being on my feet I attempted walking without crutches, and the reaction I got was not what I had hoped for. Setting the crutches down I took, 1, 2, 3 steps and caught the railing of the stairs for balance. "Oh, I guess I have to make it BACK to my crutches… Whoops." I thought. Soooo, I kinda stood there for a while, waiting for someone to come see me looking helpless and grab my crutches for me. I was slightly embarrassed, and in a fair amount of pain. I think my mom was the first one to come around the corner and see me, and she was not very pleased with me, but I was so happy to walk again that she couldn't scold me. She handed me my crutches and helped me back to my room, and then I started to realize how much I missed my friends, of course I couldn't have them over when I hadn't showered. That would be unacceptable.

       It was my sister's spring break, so during that time she spent her days sitting in my room, talking to me, watching movies with me and all that good stuff. When she first showed up after my surgery, she burst into my room with balloons and a potted Orchid, it was the prettiest flower I had ever seen. I still have it, sitting on my window sill. My oldest and best friend, Maddy, was the first to visit me, and I couldn't help but be the happiest person alive, at that point. we talked watched a movie, played card games, and video games. She helped me forget that I hadn't been outside in nearly 2 weeks. Then when she left all I wanted to do was cry, but instead I went to sleep, because that was pretty much the only thing that occupied my time. Evenings that were usually spent at my ballet studio in class, were now spent watching movies with my parents, eating popcorn, or reading. Although I don't remember anything that I read… at all. I missed my ballet friends, the people I used to see everyday. I missed going to church, and seeing all the little kids run around laughing and playing with each other.

      One Sunday, my sister told me she was bringing some MBII's (dancers in Milwaukee Ballet's second company) over for a visit. I was so excited because I had gotten very close to them in just a few months, and hearing stories about how they were doing, from my sister, wasn't enough. So, that morning, when my family left for church and to pick the dancers up, I decided I was going to be very productive, but I regretted taking a shower 2 days before instead of one, (I was told not to shower often because it would effect my bandages). I set myself to work, no one was there to stop me, no one had to know… Now, I had cleaned and rearranged my room the day before my surgery so that i wouldn't get claustrophobic, and i wouldn't get bored staring at things that hadn't changed for a while. But during my time immobile, with my family coming and going from my room, and the fact that I couldn't get up to fold my clothes, my room got a little messy, nothing, of course, compared to what it looks like right now… So I began cleaning. folding clothes, putting dirty clothes in the laundry, remaking my bed to make sure I got all the creases out of the sheets, not that anyone was going to judge the folds in my blanket...  -_- …. but it was something for me to do, to get my mind off the fact that I was home by myself. It made me so happy to clean.

       Now, with my room all tidy, I got in to bed, and then it hit me. Exhaustion. I had done way too much, and my ankles were now beginning to feel as though I had ripped the incisions open. I think to myself "Whoops, probably not so smart. Well, it was worth it," I tell myself, "I had to go to the bathroom anyways so why not kill 2 birds with one stone." ha ha, yea Stacey, sure. So anyways, I got myself ready to see my visitors and fell into a very light sleep, due to my anticipation. I heard the door from our garage slam and heard friendly familiar voices. But I COULD NOT open my eyes. I kept telling myself "Wake up! Your friends are here! Get out of bed and say hello!", then I heard my mom tell them she would go check on me, she came in and I sat up, looked around, and then I saw them, standing in the doorway, all smiley. I was so happy to see them. I got out of bed, my mom handed me my crutches, unaware of the fact that I hadn't used them all morning, and hobbled over to give them all hugs. We spent the day, playing games, watching movies, and eating really good food. Then it was time for them to go, and I really didn't want to let them. I wanted to run around and lock all the doors in the house, (not that that would have done anything. They all lock from the inside anyways.). So they left, I was glad to have spent time with them, and I was so grateful that they took time out of their weekend to come visit me :) But it hurt my heart to see them leave.

     Those are pretty much the only exciting social interactions I had during that time, but they meant the world to me.

     So, this is my post for the day, slightly boring, but I had so much to catch up on that, what started as one post turned into three, they will be posted on a daily basis now. I apologize if I bore you with my amazing stories :)

It Sucks to be a Number.

       I never really believed what I heard dancers say when they talked about how hard it is to find a job. I always thought it would be handed to me on some beautiful china plate "Miss Schuett we'd be delighted if you would join our company as a principal dancer". This is what I dreamed of as a child. Haha, nope.

       Probably the most trying time in a dancers life, aside from injuries, is audition season. No one said it was easy, and everyone was right. Stress, sweat, tears, pain, it all adds up. You walk into a building, register, and from that point on you are no longer called by your name, just your number. Mine was number 22. Now, this isn't meant, in any way, shape or form, to be demeaning. Unfortunately, this just happens to be the name of the game (no pun intended). You walk into the studio, find a spot at the barre, (if you have been fortunate enough to get there early enough) and from that point on, you are no longer a person, you are a piece of meat. Prodded, tested, pushed to the limit, and judged, by every single person in the room, including your fellow numbers. Picked apart on every level. Analyzed, until there is no more to analyze. Still, just a number.

       Class begins, the audition panel introduce themselves, one by one you forget who they are, and what they do, it's all you can do to keep from falling over. Adrenaline rushes through your veins for maybe the first 20 minutes… Then, nothing. Exhausted from all the effort and energy you have exerted and the measly portion of barre that you just skimmed the surface of, hoping it was enough to impress. The first cut is made, there is not a breath drawn as you, or should I say your number, is being called. Luckily, this was an easier audition. No cuts are made during barre. You pray that, either you were able to impress them during barre and they want to see more, or you just didn't get noticed during barre, but they want to give you a chance so they let you stay. The numbers are called. The people leave with what dignity they have left.

       Now that the first cut is made, you breathe a little easier. Trying to maintain control of your stability, keep your nerves down. You hope things get easier, that you will be able to carry out the combinations with more ease. The first combination at center is given, and your heart drops to your stomach. Not only does it seem completely impossible to keep your cool, you highly doubt you will get any further without breaking something or someone. The combinations are long and gruesome… and very, VERY random, but you force yourself to do the best you can, after all, you career is in the hands of the butchers. You get through the class thinking that you could do worse… knocking someone over isn't that big of a deal, right?

       Class ends. You wait for numbers to be called, this time, the numbers called will not be the ones leaving. You wait for your number, not fully knowing whether you want to hear it or not. The numbers were called twice… (No #22)… When you realize your number isn't called, you either leave the room in shock, or just happy to have your name back, and turn in the sweaty piece of paper that contained your identity for 2 1/2 hours. Now what… the whole point was to get a job right… What are they saying to the numbers they called? Did they all get jobs? Or just "Well done, we are considering you for… something…" dunno. You take in all the reactions around you, some people crying, others cursing the auditioners, saying that they are missing out on an amazing dancer, (but if you think that way… they aren't missing out much.). Seriously though, what now? You gather your things, use the restroom to freshen up, take out your hair (all of this in silence), and leave? That doesn't seem right, but that's how it is. You have your name back, you still don't have a job, and you still feel like crap.

       3 weeks later, you finally realize what happened… you take in a deep breath, and you make a choice. Cry about the failure, or take pride in the fact that you made it through.