I could say that B is getting better. Her knee is bending just a few degrees farther every day. Since the nerve block, you can touch her leg without having her recoil in horror. A light breeze on her skin doesn't make her wince. She laughs at the Simpsons, while playing a board game, at Chris—sometimes even while he's pushing her to do ever-harder physical therapy exercises. At these moments, Chris and I feel like daily life is easing back into its normal shape. We can imagine an end to the chaos that has overtaken our household since November 20.
But then, you could ask me an hour later and I'd be far less positive. That knee, the one that (ironically) appears so lithe and graceful in photographs, refuses to bend again no matter how much pressure you exert on it. And when it finally does, she screams and begs us to let her swear, which we'll let her do (fuck it, why not) as long as her brother isn't around. Her face curls into an angry sneer: "Why do you keep making me do things I can't do?" "You don't understand what I'm going through." And her ankle just won't budge a millimeter: It's still stuck in the same damn Barbie foot position.
And then of course there are the nightly leg spasms, which start shortly after she turns out her bedroom light. They used to last about 10 to 15 minutes. Despite the meds she takes to control them, the spasms now last about an hour to an hour and a half. B and I lay there, trying everything to get them to stop: I shake her leg in time with the spasm; I massage the muscles; I distract her with the Colbert Report app or show tunes on YouTube; I make her lay on her belly, then her back, then her side; I have her hobble around the room on her crutches. Nothing makes the slightest difference. She wonders when this hell is ever going to end. I tell her, it will, don't worry. But I wonder myself. And I worry.
Still. As I keep reminding myself, fitful, imperfect progress is still progress. Case in point: About a week ago, the pain specialist and physical therapist both told us that, to aggressively treat her RSD, B might have to be hospitalized by late December/early January for up to two weeks. Reason being: RSD can spread to other parts of the body—it does in about 70 percent of cases. Also because her leg tendon is shortening the longer this goes on, and the damage can become permanent. And finally because her RSD is in an acute phase—so it's not yet considered chronic—and her best chance at remaining in remission is successfully treating this onset in the first three to six months.
But as of the other day, both medical professionals concurred that B is making enough progress that we should be able to keep her at home—for the time being, anyway. It's not the Christmas miracle I might hope for (B bounding out of bed, fully restored and pain free), but it is enough for now.
You said it girlfriend... nothing is ever simple. But then you said it again, later, and better: imperfect progress is still progress. Keep the faith. Sending Xmas love to the four of you.
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