Our Stoney Creek Reno Space

I remember sitting on the edge of the hospital bed the morning after surgery, socks on, face sweating from too many pillows, and thinking, okay, how do people get out of here. My knee was wrapped like a present someone forgot they were giving me, and every nerve from hip to ankle felt like bad Wi-Fi, jittery and unreliable. The nurse had already warned me about the first steps, but nothing prepares you for the tiny, ridiculous panic of realizing you have to stand up and put

I was halfway through ordering a double-double at the Tim Hortons on Main while my knee throbbed like it had a tiny drummer inside. There was a line, the guy in front wore a Leafs toque, the barista called out a name I did not have, and every time I shifted my weight from one foot to the other the front of my knee pinged with a sharp little protest. I remember thinking, not for the first time, that this is stupid. I work from a kitchen table and carry a kid on my hip. I pla