My Knee and I Are Speaking Again, But Only in a Professional Setting

A few months ago, I was suddenly plagued by knee pain so sharp, it felt like someone jamming a lava-hot ice pick into the back of my kneecap. Not a metaphorical ice pick. A very real, very angry one.

Now, I do have 52 steps (yes, I’ve counted) to my classroom and no elevator, so maybe I should’ve seen it coming. But still, the betrayal! My knee and I had a longstanding agreement: I walk, it cooperates. Clearly, that contract had expired.

Excelsior Orthopedics gave me a knee brace that was... less than flattering. Let’s just say it gave off strong “stormtrooper on casual Friday” vibes. But it got me through the worst of it, hobbling and all, until I could talk myself into doing what I was absolutely dreading: getting a cortisone shot.

Now, let me make one thing clear—I hate needles. Hate. I don’t understand how drug addicts do it. I have to psych myself up for a flu shot, and those are practically mosquito bites. The idea of a big ol’ needle going directly into my knee joint? I needed some serious self-talk. Like, two solid months of “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.”

Everyone I know who’s had a cortisone shot told me the same thing: “It hurts like hell, but you’ll feel better.” And then, just to really seal the deal, they'd elaborate on exactly how it hurts like hell. So I walked into the appointment convinced that Dr. Zinno was about to stab me with a horse tranquilizer-sized needle while grinning like, “This won’t hurt a bit!” and laughing like Vincent Price in a black and white horror movie.

And since I drive a stick, I was also worried I’d be physically unable to drive myself home. Plan B: Uber.

But plot twist! The appointment was ridiculously fast. I walked in, barely sat down before they called me up to pay my co-pay. Then I sat for about three minutes (just enough time for a mild panic spiral) before I was called back.

The nurse asked some basic questions and left. I resumed chanting my “I can do this” mantra. Dr. Zinno came in and asked if I was ready. I told him flat-out that I was terrified. He smiled. (Of course he did.)

I refused to look at the needle. I squeezed my eyes shut so tight I probably looked like a toddler pretending to disappear. He said he was going to freeze the area first to minimize pain and sprayed this icy blast that made me jump a full six feet off the table. He and the nurse laughed like this was a sitcom, which, okay, let’s be honest, it kind of was.

And then... he gave me the shot.

No pain. Just pressure. A little weird squishy feeling in my joint. But not the medieval torture session I was promised by literally everyone I know. I was completely shocked. I even asked Dr. Zinno why people love to terrify others about this stuff. I mean, really! I was anxious enough.

I checked out, got my post-care sheet (ice and rest for 24 hours), and went home. The knee felt a little sore by the end of the day, and still does today, but it’s nothing compared to what it was. I haven’t tested it on stairs yet, but I no longer feel like I’m being stabbed by a vengeful kitchen utensil.

So if you’re considering a cortisone shot, here’s my advice:

Go straight to Dr. Zinno.

He says he’s done billions, that's billions with a B, and honestly, I believe him. He might laugh at you, but he won’t hurt you.

And if your knee suddenly turns on you like mine did? Don’t wait two months like I did. Your stairs (and your sanity) will thank you.

Six Months Ago, I Quit.

Today I hit six months without a cigarette. Half a year. A full two seasons of not standing outside in the freezing rain and snow pretending it’s relaxing.

I started smoking at 16, which felt rebellious and grown-up at the time. I was at college young, and I desperately wanted to fit in. Over the years, I quit and started again more times than I can count. But when I got pregnant at 35, I quit for real. Cold turkey. For the first time, it wasn’t just about me. And I truly believed that was the end of it.

But then... my son became a teenager.

Raising a teenager, as it turns out, is like trying to nail Jello to a tree. He found himself a terrible group of friends, the kind that come with red flags and bad decisions. At 14, I had to put him into rehab for drug abuse. That was, hands down, the hardest thing I’ve ever done—yes, even harder than labor and delivery, and that involved a watermelon and a space the size of a lemon.

I was heartbroken, scared, and overwhelmed—and I picked up a cigarette. Just one, at first. Then a pack. Then I was back in it.

He was in rehab for seven months. I told him if he ever used again, I’d have him back in there so fast his head would spin. And sure enough, shortly before he turned 16, he overdosed on heroin. The next week, he was back in rehab.

That could’ve been the end of the story—but it wasn’t. He got better. He changed his friends, changed his habits, changed his life. And slowly, I began to believe I could change too.

But quitting smoking felt impossible. Every time I tried, life would throw me a stress grenade—BOOM, and there I was, lighting up again.

Eventually, I called New York Quits. They sent me nicotine gum and patches, and I decided to really try. Not the “we’ll see how this goes” try—the this time I mean it try.

And here I am. Six months later. No smoke. No gum. No patches. Just me, breathing a little easier (and maybe feeling a little smug).

There’s still stress. Life hasn’t magically gotten easier. I still dream that I'm having a cigarette. I teach middle school. But the only thing smoking does is make me smell bad. It's still not easy. I still have cravings. 

So here’s to six months. Here’s to better health. And here’s to making this streak a full year—and beyond.

I don't like guns. Just sayin'.

I think it is important to be educated. My brother, in his infinite wisdom, suggested I look into classes for Ian to keep him busy, but I thought, hey, why not classes for me? 

I signed up for the Village of Kenmore Citizen Police Academy. For eleven weeks, I, with 12 other people, will learn about various aspects of the Kenmore Police Officer's duties and their service in the community. 

Last week, the detective in charge of the Juvenile Division gave a presentation. He brought in a couple boxes of paraphernalia the police have taken off of kids in the Village. I kid you not, I didn't know what better than half of the items even were. 

This week was our week for the gun range. We learned about gun safety, and then we were set up with short video scenarios where we, while using guns loaded with five paint bullets, had to decide to shoot or not shoot. I took three shots and told the police officer I was done. He looked surprised, then he laughed, and he took the gun away. 

Then came the real gun with the real bullets. Much louder, and much more nerve-wracking. Everyone was given five bullets to shoot at a paper target. I shot the gun once, gave it back to the police officer, told him I was done. "I don't like this. I really don't like this." He laughed again and said it's not for everybody. 

That was an understatement. I hated every minute of it. Hated. Every. Minute. The noise, the power, the recoil, and the thought of the immense, grave responsibility that comes with pulling that trigger. And did I mention the noise? I don't want it. Any of it. 

Wearing mandatory safety glasses and ear protection.

Do I 'hate' guns? No. I see and understand the need, and I am thankful there are people who serve that are not frightened by them, who think fast enough to be able to use one properly, and who keep me free and safe. 

I just know I should not own one, at least not now. I do not know enough, and I may never know enough, to be able to own one safely and without fear. I know that is not the kind of power that, in this moment in time, I feel I ever want to have. I also know that someday I may change my mind and decide to get more training and more education on gun use and safety. Not now, though. Not now.

Enabling Behavior

Alcoholism and addition are family diseases; they affect not only the user, but his family as well.  As part of Ian's recovery program, twice a month I have a joint counseling session with Ian and his counselor, Shannon. We had our second session this week. The purpose, in the long run, is to recognize and change our behaviors that may have resulted in Ian being able to use and abuse substances.

One of the behaviors she mentioned is "enabling". Our conversation was moving at a rapid pace, and I did not stop her to ask for specifics. I decided to do some internet research and, as luck would have it, my brother called me. 

I told Mike I don't really understand what Shannon meant by enabling. It has to be more than just having alcohol and prescription medication in my home. He pointed out something to me I had not thought of. In an effort to bring up my son differently than the way I was brought up, I can be very lenient. While I don't necessarily believe Ian always tells me the truth, I am very willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. When he came to me with those bloodshot eyes and told me they were red because he was tired, I should have asked a whole lot more questions. And been skeptical of the answers. 

The definition of 'enabling behaviors' is, in a nutshell, behaviors that enable an addict's ability to use.  For example, if I didn't let Ian suffer consequences for his actions, or if I always provided an 'out' instead of letting him clean up his own mess, I could have been enabling him. Neither of those applies to me, so I kept digging.

Psychology Today had an interesting blog post on the difference between empowering and enabling, and identifying enabling behavior. The article can be found here: https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-anatomy-addiction/201207/are-you-empowering-or-enabling. 

I have to admit I am a peacekeeper.  While I'm not 'fearful' that something I do or don't do may result in an adverse result, I will do everything in my power to try to keep everyone happy. While I don't assign blame to others for problems, I very often take blame on myself, whether or not I own it, ultimately to keep the peace. And I do consistently put the needs and wants of others over my own, also in an effort to keep peace. I think I learned these behaviors in childhood, they are such a part of who I am. 

As my Steven says, 'You're at a nine or a ten, Bunny. We need you to dial it back to ... about a six.' I am going to try to think before automatically trying to soothe. It's not going to be easy, and I might have to live with some conflict, but some conflict is necessary in life. If I can get control over the part of me that enables, both my son and I will be healthier for it.

Drugs, Alcohol, and Addiction: Good-bye, 2015. I will not miss you.

A lot has gone on with Ian since I last posted, most of it being somewhere between the Bad and the Ugly. This is the abridged version...we've had too many discussions and arguments to go into all of it here. 2015 did not end up being a good year for us.

During the summer of 2014, before his 14^th birthday, Ian discovered marijuana. Some people like it, some don’t. Ian loved it, to the point of abusing it daily. I didn’t recognize the signs.It was going on right under my nose, and I didn't see it.

I came home one day, during that summer when he was too old for day care and too young for a job, and his eyes were so bloodshot it was unbelievable. I asked him, “What on earth is wrong with your eyes?!” to which he replied, “Oh, Momma, I’m just so tired.” “Go take a nap for heaven’s sake!”  

The number of times I’ve kicked myself since that day cannot be counted.

About a month later, we were in the car. He turned off the radio and said, “Mom, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve been lying to you.” That began a dialogue describing his drug use. I got him into substance abuse counseling as soon as I could. He was tested weekly, and in June of 2015, he had been clean for three months. I was so proud of him. I thought we had put it behind us.

Unfortunately, while marijuana stays in the body for a while, alcohol doesn’t. He began drinking. And I was blissfully ignorant. Right under my nose, and I didn't see it.

I had been on wine tours and had about 2.5 cases of different bottles of wine in a cubby, out of sight. I never checked on it…where would it go? I went into my cubby to get a bottle of wine near the end of October, and I had 11 bottles there. I confronted him. What happened to my wine? He claimed he did not know. Perhaps one of the friends he had over had helped themselves. I took him to counseling that evening.

The next morning, I checked my cubby again. Ten bottles left. No one had been over, and we hadn’t gone anywhere. I flat out accused him of lying, and he continually denied it until I began to doubt myself. Finally, I laid down an ultimatum.

This is my home. MY home. You cannot do drugs and alcohol and live in MY home. If you continue to do drugs and alcohol, I will find somewhere else for you to live. Are we clear?

Yes. 

You will not live in this house. You will live somewhere else. You will NOT live in my home. Do you understand?

Yes.

You will stop your substance use, ALL your substance use, or you will lose your home. Do you understand?

Yes, Momma. I understand.

One week later, I went into his bedroom to get my charger, which is never where I leave it. It was caught on something under his bed. I looked under his bed, and there were five empty wine bottles and three empty beer bottles. I went back to my cubby, which in retrospect I should have emptied right away, and there were only 9 bottles of wine left. At his substance abuse counseling appointment that evening, he tested positive for THC again.

I made calls and on November 29^th, the day after Thanksgiving, I admitted him to the Renaissance Center, where he will be for at least six months.

I’m learning a lot, an education I neither expected nor wanted. I am receiving counseling as well, because I need to know what I need to change, both about myself and my home, so that I do not continue to enable his use. While I have attended Al-Anon meetings and have learned the three C's (I did not cause it; I cannot control it; I cannot cure it.) I know that I own a part of this. I have much to learn.