I’m fifteen days post-surgery, knee-deep in recovery and wishing I could expedite my slog through the pain.
Parts of the experience have been surreal. Not being away from home—I bounce easily and often from place to place—but the number of days I’ve been anchored in one spot. I’m rarely in one place for more than ten to fourteen days.
Years ago, I discovered I don’t miss home or people (I’m oddly wired that way), which makes being away easier. But during this recovery, I’ve discovered there is one thing I miss when deprived of it:
Writing.
In a medicated fog, I struggled to write on my own, and for most of the virtual group sessions I usually attend, I was too sleepy or too physically uncomfortable to sit at my computer.
My mind and mood were unmoored.
Return to the Page
Last Sunday, I asked a friend who was sitting with me to write. I came up with a few prompts, and we wrote three rounds of generative pieces.
It was the best medicine—the glass of cool water I craved. A return home.
The next day, I hemmed and hawed about attending a virtual group.
I didn’t feel well. Everything ached.
I’ll just log in, say hi, then leave.
But I stayed.
It became an oasis in my recovery desert.
Recovery is tricky and, at times, triggering. Even if I were at home, this sheltered period would feel surreal and unfamiliar. I’m fortunate to have a strong tribe checking on me and getting me to appointments.
I’ve been okay with all of it—the disruption, the dependence, the stillness—except this:
Not writing.
The following are excerpts from writing with my friend and from that virtual group. They both circle my recovery and this knee.
They might not seem like much.
But this week, they were everything.
In the Stillness
after prompt: What does healing ask of you?
“Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.” — Joyce Meyer
“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” — Leonard Cohen
“Sit, be still, and listen.” — Rumi
Be still.
This is not my forté.
And in the stillness, two very different things happen.
I flail in a hole, screaming: I can’t think, I can’t write, I hate waiting.
Or—if I manage to put on my patient panties—I sink into the stillness and let my body heal while my mind listens.
Not listening to noise—voices, cars, television, notifications, household thrums—but to something deeper. The noiseless.
I’ve changed.
They’ve removed a body part—there’s that—but also, I’ve changed.
How?
What?
With whom?
When you’re tasked with being patient, it can feel like nothing is changing.
That’s not true.
Even if others can’t see it—and I can’t yet name it—I’ve sensed deep changes stirring within me for years.
Beneath the surface, in the quiet of my heart, I’m listening.
I’m changing.
A few months from now, they promise me “better.” A better knee. A better me.
But what about these quieter changes?
What will they bring?
How will I be different?
- I expect sharper boundaries with those who don’t respect my time.
- I expect more determination—joyful determination—to finish what I start.
- I expect more confidence as I share and query my work.
Are those changes happening now?
I don’t know.
It’s so quiet.
But if I listen, I might learn.
If I am still and allow my body to heal, my mind will come along.
Dragon Knee
after prompt: Name five anxieties. Choose one. Let it speak. Write a letter in response.
My knee
The farm
My dad
My relationships
My integrity
Pennie,
This hurts.
Sure, we were hobbling before, but was the pain this intense? PT made you cry today. WTF? Pain on purpose? Why?
You chose to have your femur and shin bones sawed off—your knee removed and replaced. But you don’t even know with what. What is this new thing made of? Metal? Plastic? Chicken bones?
You don’t even know how they attached it. Turning in bed, you worry—will it slip off?
I just want to move with ease again.
How long will this take?
And will it even take?
It sure as hell doesn’t feel like I will ever be a normal knee.
Yours,
Dragon Knee
Dear Knee,
They said this part would be hard. Remember?
And thank you for this: I hadn’t framed it as pain on purpose before. But you’re right. It is.
Like a workout. Like a run. Push, push.
Okay—don’t get fired up. I know this is a workout on steroids and dragon fury. But this chosen pain is cutting through a decade of scar tissue.
That’s what’s hurting.
Ten years of scars, bad gaits, and atrophied tissue.
PT may make me cry again.
But we’ll be okay.
This is pain on purpose.
With purpose.
Pennie
What grounds you during a recovery period, whether emotional, physical, or mental? Do you have practices and routines that help you stay centered during challenges?
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026
Recent Comments