Preparing for Major Surgery: More Than Just Recovery

 When people hear the words major surgery, they often think about what happens afterward — the healing, the physical therapy, and the road back to strength. What I’ve learned in preparing for my upcoming knee replacement is that the preparation itself is almost a journey of its own.

It’s not just about showing up at the hospital on surgery day. It’s about preparing your home, your body, your mind, and your heart.

In a week I will be undergoing a total right knee replacement. The surgeon is using a newer method called the Zimmer  Biomet Quad Sparing Knee Replacement. This surgery is supposed work around the quad  muscle, have  less bleeding and a quicker recovery time. I'll still be out of commission  for six or more weeks with many patients feeling like themselves again in a year.

Preparing Your Space for Recovery

One of the first things I realized was how much my everyday environment needed to change — at least temporarily.

Out came the scatter rugs that could cause a slip. Shoes were moved off the floor. Even the dog toys had to find a new home so I wouldn’t trip while using a walker.

I had to think carefully about:

• Where I’ll sit during the day

• How I’ll get up and down safely

• Where I’ll sleep comfortably

• How I’ll shower without risking a fall

Simple routines suddenly required planning. It was eye-opening how many small things we take for granted until mobility becomes limited.

Preparing Meals Ahead of Time

Another important step has been preparing meals in advance.

Cooking will be difficult in the early days of recovery, so I’ve been stocking the freezer with easy, nourishing meals and organizing quick snacks within reach.

This preparation brings peace of mind. Knowing that meals are ready allows me to focus on healing instead of worrying about what to eat.

Preparing Mentally for Surgery

Perhaps the biggest preparation of all is mental.

Major surgery naturally brings a swirl of thoughts:

• The reality of blood loss

• The discomfort of recovery

• The pain and effort of rehabilitation

It’s easy for fear to sneak in. But I’ve been working to replace anxiety with knowledge, trust in my medical team, and a focus on the long-term goal — better mobility, less pain, and a fuller life.

Mental preparation also means coming to terms with a sense of helplessness. At my pre-op session yesterday, both the doctor and nurses repeatedly referred to the procedure as “major surgery.” Hearing it described that way surprised me and made the reality of it all sink in even more.

I’m someone who’s used to being independent, so learning to rely on others has been its own adjustment. My husband will be walking Augie, driving me to rehab appointments once the first two weeks at home are over, and helping with everyday tasks I normally do myself.

Letting go and accepting help isn’t easy but it’s part of healing.

Understanding the Risks and Being Cautious

Another reality of major surgery is being mindful of infection.

With a new joint in place, even a small cut or scratch can become serious if bacteria travel to the implant. It’s a reminder to be extra careful, keep wounds clean, and listen closely to medical guidance. Even dental cleanings will need an antibiotic.

It may sound scary, but understanding the risks helps me stay vigilant and proactive during recovery.

Preparing the Body: Prehab and Rehab

Preparation doesn’t start on surgery day, it starts beforehand. 

Pre-surgery exercises (often called “prehab”) help strengthen muscles and improve flexibility, which can make recovery smoother and faster.

After surgery, rehabilitation exercises will be just as important. While they won’t always be comfortable, they are essential in regaining strength, movement, and confidence.

Thinking of rehab as part of the journey — not just a hurdle — has helped me mentally prepare for the work ahead.

Embracing the Journey

As someone who believes deeply in learning and growth both personally and professionally, this experience has reminded me that some of our greatest lessons come during life’s challenges.

Preparation isn’t about controlling every outcome. It’s about setting yourself up for the best possible recovery and approaching the experience with courage and resilience.

Much like the themes I share in Caitlin’s Star, this season is about trusting that even in moments of uncertainty, there is light ahead.

Learning From Others and Helpful Resources

One thing that has surprised me in the best way is just how much information and support is available.

There is a lot of helpful guidance out there on preparing for all types of surgery, and I’ve personally learned quite a bit by joining several Facebook groups where people openly share tips, experiences, and encouragement.

Hearing from others who have already walked this path has helped ease anxiety and provided practical ideas I might not have thought of on my own.

Final Thoughts

Preparing for major surgery is far more than a checklist of medical instructions. It’s creating a safe space, caring for your future self, and strengthening your mindset.

If you or someone you love is facing a major surgery, my biggest takeaway so far is this: give yourself time to prepare — physically, practically, and emotionally.

It makes the journey into recovery feel far less overwhelming and much more hopeful.

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Have you been through major surgery or are you preparing for one? I’d love to hear what helped you most in the process.

When Snow Days Meant Panic, Not Peace

There was a time when a snow day didn’t bring joy or cozy moments at home. It brought panic. When my children were young and I was working full time, the announcement of school closures sent my heart racing. Schools were closed. Daycare was closed. After-school programs were closed. And my parents didn’t live close by. 

Meanwhile, our companies still expected us to be at work. Coming in a little late was acceptable, but staying home was not. I didn’t have what people would call a “critical” job. I wasn’t in medicine. I wasn’t in public safety. I worked in Human Resources at a pharmaceutical company. Important work, yes, but not work that required my physical presence during a snowstorm while juggling childcare emergencies. 

 So when snow days happened, I didn’t start calling around for help, I took a personal day or I used a vacation day. Not because I wanted time off, but because I had no choice. As a single mom at the time, there was no partner to switch off with. The responsibility was entirely mine. Later in life, when I did have a partner, we could sometimes take turns. But even then, as the mom, I usually ended up using my vacation time the most. 

What made it even more stressful was that we technically had “Work Life Balance” procedures. On paper, they were meant to support employees. In reality, if we needed time off, we were required to come up with a plan to make up that time. The message was clear. You could be away, but the work didn’t go away. There was no working from home. No Zoom meetings. No flexible schedules. No logging in from the kitchen table while kids played nearby. If you weren’t in the office, you were considered absent.For parents, especially working parents, snow days felt less like a break and more like a penalty. 

Looking back now, I realize how much unnecessary stress was placed on families Today, many people can work remotely when weather hits. Meetings shift online. Emails replace office visits. Work still gets done, often just as effectively, without forcing parents into impossible choices. The world didn’t fall apart because people weren’t physically in the building. In fact, many companies discovered something important. Flexibility works. 

 Back then, we didn’t have that option. Instead, we quietly absorbed the burden, using our own time, our own days off, and then working extra hours to make up for it. Since I used the days as personal or vacation days, I took them seriously. We played outside, made cookies and hot chocolate. The kids still remember those days too. 

 For many parents of my generation, they were filled with anxiety. And the truth is, much of that stress was unnecessary. The systems simply weren’t built with families in mind. I’m grateful that today’s parents often have more flexibility. It’s not perfect, but better. I hope companies continue learning that productivity doesn’t require rigid rules that ignore real life. Because raising children is already challenging enough. We don’t need snowstorms turning into emotional emergencies.Sometimes progress isn’t about working harder. It’s about working smarter and kinder.

Sources for Caitlin's Star

 
 

Welcome, Caitlin’s Star is an interactive picture book offering comfort to children and families navigating loss. Explore the book, media features, and related resources below.

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Nancy Range Anderson reads Caitlin's Star here.  

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Holiday Memories

 

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Remembering the People Who Shaped Us

 

Me as a young "Jr. Trainer".

Have you ever noticed how certain people come to mind at unexpected moments? Maybe it is when you have accomplished something, reached a milestone, or handled a situation in a way that feels distinctly like you. Suddenly, someone from your school days or early in your career surfaces in your thoughts, as if they are quietly behind the scenes of your success.

I have had a few of these people in my own life and career, individuals who, often without knowing it, influenced how I developed my own style at work and in life. They were not necessarily formal mentors or supervisors. Sometimes they were teachers, early colleagues, or simply people I admired from afar. What they shared, in different ways, were qualities that left a lasting impression, confidence, kindness, curiosity, integrity, or a steady belief in me before I fully believed in myself.

Early in my career at Chubb Insurance, I was a Junior Training Associate, back when we still called it “Training” rather than Learning and Development. That’s where I worked with a colleague named Mark. Looking back now, he probably was not that much older than me, but at 23 I thought he was ancient.

Mark was an excellent instructor. He was funny, engaging, and, most importantly, he knew how to get his points across. Watching him in the classroom, I did not just see a good trainer, I saw the kind of professional I wanted to become. I admired his style and, in many ways, wanted to be just like him.

One day my manager assigned me to a sales training program, the same one Mark delivered, with the goal of cross training me. My first task was simply to observe him. I sat quietly in the back of the room, taking copious notes, not just on the content but on how he moved, how he handled questions, how he read the room, and how he kept people engaged.

A few days later, I was asked to present parts of that same program to Mark alone so he could give me feedback. I remember feeling nervous. This was my chance to step into a role I admired, guided by someone I deeply respected.

To make a long story short, I memorized the program and delivered it almost exactly as Mark had. I used his jokes, his mannerisms, even many of his questions. In effect, I became a mini Mark. I remember feeling proud of myself, after all, I had replicated what I thought was excellent training.

Afterward, Mark took me aside to give me feedback. As you can imagine, his response was both kind and insightful. He told me, gently but clearly, that while I had done a good job, I could not simply be a copy of him. If I wanted to be effective, I needed to make the program my own.

He encouraged me to develop my own opening, use my own questions, and lean into my own style and way of persuading an audience. You have to make it relatable to yourself, he said, before you can make it relatable to others. After doing that, we’d try it again.

That day opened my eyes to the power of going off script, of creating and delivering training that felt authentic, human, and relatable rather than simply rehearsed. It changed the way I approached my work from that point forward.

Over the years, I went on to design and deliver a multitude of programs and work with hundreds of people. I’ve been told that my style feels non threatening, accessible, and easy to connect with, feedback that has always meant a great deal to me. But what mattered most was this. Participants did not just enjoy the training, they actually used what they learned and succeeded with it. For me, that has always been the most meaningful level of training evaluation.

In many ways, that early lesson from Mark shaped not just how I trained others, but how I showed up as a professional. My hope is that I have been able to do the same for others along the way.

One of the themes in Caitlin’s Star is remembering the people who have made a difference in our lives. Mark is one of those people for me, not someone I remember only in the past, but someone whose influence is very much alive today. We still occasionally keep in touch, and his impact continues to show up in how I work, how I teach, and how I treat others.

 

The Bonds That Outlasted the Job

 Work friendships are so important, and you may not fully realize it until years later. How could they not be, when you spend nine or ten hours a day with people, day after day and year after year? They become something like family.

You may have lunch together or occasionally meet for drinks after work. You may share bosses, coworkers, or projects, or you may not. You might come from different departments and find one another through a cross-team initiative or simply discover a connection that grows into something special.

No matter the circumstances, you come to care for one another. And if you are lucky, those friendships endure even after one or more of you leave the company.

Today, I am met a small group of former Johnson & Johnson colleagues for lunch, people I have not worked with in years, yet still consider close friends. Our connection has outlived projects, reorganizations, and even my own departure from the company in 2008. That continuity is what has made me think more deeply about what makes work friendships endure.

As I reflect on these friendships, both the ones gathering today and one that has lasted more than three decades, I’m reminded of what truly makes relationships endure. It isn’t proximity, titles, or shared projects. It’s mutual respect, the kind that makes you genuinely value one another as people. It’s emotional safety, that feeling that you can be yourself without being judged and it’s repeated choice — the willingness to keep showing up for one another, even when life, careers, and geography pull you in different directions.

Jobs end. Companies change. People move or even retire. Still, the right friendships don’t disappear, they evolve. And in that evolution, there is something deeply meaningful and profoundly human.

 

This isn’t going to be pretty. It’s raw, it’s relevant, and it’s not something to be dismissed.

I’ve witnessed ageism in the workplace for years. Not always in obvious ways, but in quieter, more corrosive ones. Decisions made without input. Opportunities quietly withheld. Urgency that fades as experience increases.

I’ve seen people on the cusp of their 50s labeled “too expensive,” quietly let go, or encouraged to exit, only to watch their roles reappear with new titles and younger staff hired at significantly reduced salaries to do the same work. It’s rarely discussed openly. Instead, it’s framed as restructuring, right-sizing, or bringing in fresh perspective. But the message is clear to anyone paying attention. Experience becomes a liability when it costs more.

What I didn’t expect was to encounter that same pattern in a doctor’s office.

On December 16, I had an MRI of my knee. The findings were serious. I did not learn that because my orthopedic doctor called me. I learned it by reading the report myself on my radiology patient portal. Days passed. Then weeks. No explanation. No guidance. No call.

What made this experience especially unsettling was the seriousness of the medical situation and the absence of communication around it.

The MRI showed advanced damage. This was not a minor finding or a casual “we’ll keep an eye on it” situation. Yet no one contacted me to explain the results or discuss next steps. I had to interpret the report myself and repeatedly reach out just to understand what was happening in my own body.

As my pain escalated dramatically, the silence became more troubling. I was left to manage worsening symptoms without guidance, without context, and without a clear plan. When I ultimately sought care elsewhere, I was told that I need total knee replacement surgery. That level of intervention underscored how serious the condition had already become.

That gap between the severity of the diagnosis and the lack of response is where ageism often lives in medicine. Not in overt cruelty, but in diminished urgency.

In the workplace, ageism often sounds like assumptions.
They can tolerate more.
They don’t need the same explanation.
There’s no need to rush.

In healthcare, those same assumptions can have real consequences.

I was also left questioning whether a conservative gel injection, intended to help, instead triggered or accelerated the inflammatory cascade that led to debilitating pain. A second physician acknowledged that this was a reasonable concern. But by then, the damage had been done.

This isn’t about villainizing one doctor. It’s about recognizing a broader pattern that many older adults, particularly women, will recognize immediately. A pattern where communication thins, follow-up slows, and patients are left to advocate for themselves at precisely the moment they are most vulnerable.

Ageism doesn’t always look like disrespect.
Sometimes it looks like silence.

And whether it happens in a conference room or an exam room, silence has consequences.

I am moving forward now with a surgeon who listens, explains, and treats my condition with the seriousness it deserves. I am grateful for that. But I am also paying attention.

Because dignity, transparency, and timely communication should not diminish with age. And no one, in the workplace or in healthcare, should have to fight to be seen, heard, or taken seriously.

Go On Ahead Without Me

I keep thinking of those old cowboy or army movies where someone who is injured or tired turns to the group and says,
“Go on ahead without me, boys. Don’t let me hold you back.”

It’s an acknowledgment that the pace has changed, and that staying behind isn’t quitting… it’s necessary.

That line has been echoing in my head lately.

Not because I want to stop moving forward, but because my body has made it clear that I can’t keep the same pace I once did. My knees have slowed me down in ways I didn’t plan or choose. Walking is harder. Pivoting brings sharp pain. Stairs require strategy. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I guess it is a result of a lifetime of moving, dancing, bending, running and living.

There’s grief in realizing I can’t do the things I’m used to doing — long walks, spontaneous movement, even simple errands without thinking through every step. There’s frustration in needing to sit when every instinct tells me to push through. And there’s humility in hearing my body say, firmly, now is the time to slow down. And I’ve never been very good at that.

Like many of us, I’ve tied a lot of my identity to motion — doing, creating, showing up, keeping pace. Rest has often felt like falling behind. But this season is asking something different of me. It’s asking me to step out of stride, not in defeat, but in trusting my body.

As I’ve been sitting with this, I keep thinking about Caitlin’s Star. When I wrote that story, I was writing about a child learning to live in a world that had changed. A world where things didn’t feel the same, and certainty was gone. What I didn’t realize then was how universal that lesson would be.

Change asks us to slow down.
To sit with uncertainty.
To trust that love, meaning, and light don’t disappear even when life looks different than we expected.

Recently, I was told what comes next: total knee replacement surgery on February 4th. It’s a quad-sparing procedure, which means the quadriceps muscle is preserved and recovery may be quicker although it’s still major surgery. It’s not the path I would have chosen, but it is a path forward.

I’m learning that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is acknowledge when the pace has changed and give ourselves permission to rest, regroup, and heal. Not because we’re weak. But because we’re listening.