...cont
What I had not fully understood at that point was just how much Teddy and Buddy would carry me through what came next.
Surgery arrived without ceremony, much like the injury itself. There was no dramatic build up, just a quiet acceptance that this was now the only way forward. By then, I understood enough to know this was not a minor fix. When I woke, there was a strange mix of relief and weight. Relief that something had finally been done. Weight in realising just how much work had been needed, and what that meant for the weeks ahead.
Non weight bearing!
Six weeks of it!
If the injury had shrunk my world, this reduced it even further. Movement was no longer limited, it was controlled entirely. Every step had to be planned. Every task became deliberate. Things I had never thought about before became obstacles. A cup of tea, a dropped item, a trip upstairs. Each one required effort, balance, and patience. By the end of each day, I was not just physically tired, but completely drained by the constant awareness needed just to move safely.
It was during those weeks that the reality of stillness set in. Not rest in the usual sense, but enforced stillness. The kind that gives you time to think, whether you want it or not. Some days were manageable. Others felt heavy, where progress was hard to see and the distance back to normality felt far greater than it probably was.
And through all of it, Teddy and Buddy stayed. 🐩🐩
They adapted without hesitation, as if none of it was unusual. The long walks disappeared. The adventures paused. But their presence did not change. They remained close, moving when I moved, settling when I stopped, filling the space without needing anything in return. There was no sense of loss in them, no frustration at what had changed. Just quiet acceptance.
On the harder days, that mattered more than I expected. When everything felt slow and uncertain, they grounded me. They gave structure to days that otherwise blurred together. A reason to get up. A reason to keep going, even if going only meant a few careful steps across a room. They did not need the hills. They just needed me.
Time, slowly, began to shift things.
The pain eased. Movement returned in small, almost unnoticeable increments. The knee, which had felt so unreliable, began to feel calmer. Not strong, not ready, but no longer completely foreign. Progress was not dramatic. It was quiet, steady, and easy to miss if I was not paying attention.
And then today.
A day that, a few weeks ago, felt a long way off.
The brace came off! 🎉
Simple, but significant. For weeks it had been a constant presence, a reminder of limitation, of protection, of everything that could not yet be done. And now, suddenly, it was no longer needed. The physio was pleased. Not just with the outcome of the surgery, but with how I had managed the recovery. Careful, controlled, patient. Exactly as it needed to be.
For the first time, the list of what I can do is longer than what I cannot.
That feels like a turning point.
I can walk. Not perfectly, not without thought, but I can move again. I can begin to trust the leg, even if that trust is still building. I can drive. I can start to reintroduce normal life, piece by piece, without feeling like I am risking everything I have just worked to protect.
There is still a long way to go. Strength needs rebuilding. Movement needs refining. The leg needs to relearn what it once did without effort. This is not the end of the process. It is the beginning of a different phase.
But it is forward.
And through it all, Teddy and Buddy are still there. The same as they have been from the start. Unchanged by the injury, unaffected by the timeline, steady in a way that I have come to rely on more than I realised.
I can't explain to them what today means. Not in words. But I think, in time, they will understand in the only way that matters.
In longer walks. In more freedom. In the return to the places we know so well.
This has not been about pushing through or proving anything. It has been about stopping, adapting, and learning a different kind of patience. About trusting that progress can be slow and still be meaningful.
The hills are still there.
And now, for the first time since this all began, it feels like I am properly on my way back to them. In the meantime I have jigsaws 😆
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