He also walks in his own poop

I want to say something, anything, about how I’m feeling, and not sound desperate and repetitive. Why does the leg saga continue? I leak synovial fluid, I get to the doctor’s office, it stops. “Call me if it leaks again.” I leak synovial fluid, I get to the doctor’s office, it stops. This weekend takes us to synovial siting the fourth, for those of you counting at home. And, yes, brilliantly my leg started leaking on a holiday weekend.

For some twisted Christine reason, I blame myself for leaking. “I shouldn’t have hula hoped so much.” “I shouldn’t have gone to the ocean.” “I shouldn’t have lifted those objects.” “I shouldn’t have actually stood up.” How are any of these sensible? I don’t know how many times both of my surgeons said there is no reason to hold back and to be active absolutely as soon as I feel like it. The sooner the better, within a couple of days of surgery. But, somehow, in Christine brain, this means, “Except the hula hoop. Except the ocean. Except lifting. Except standing.”

Wait. Standing? How is “standing” my fault? When did it become medically inadvisable to stand when given the direction “be active as soon as possible”?

There’s reality, and then there’s Christine reality. I know that we can argue the relativity of reality til the cows come home, but my nearest and dearest will eagerly agree that I’m a bit off the mark. Christine reality is a gift when I see something beautiful about the way pink, aqua and lime can be wrapped together to make art, but when it comes to interpreting the physically quantifiable (“By the way, your leg is leaking.”), Christine reality gets all fun-house mirrors. Suddenly, “Hm, your leg is a bit of a medical anomaly,” becomes “I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed for two weeks even though they said I could!” It’s paranoid, it’s delusional, it’s twisty and distorted. I have BDD-Brain Dysmorphic Disorder.

My cat is twirling around my legs as I type. He purrs. Do you know what he’s saying? “Yessss Mommy dear, yes. More surgery, Mommy. More surgery, and then bed rest in my room. Just you and me, Mommy, you and me. Sssssurgery.” My cat may be eerily right (and not for the first time), and maybe my leg hole needs to be surgically resealed. And then maybe extra bed rest this time. My cat may be more biased than my doctor, but he loves me more than any surgeon ever will. Maybe I need to take more medical cues from cats.