Disabled. Again.

 

Well, here we go again.

I am disabled. Again.

This time it’s the right hip instead of the left hip.

This time I am almost forty.

And this time I have three young children.  

 

How did I get here? How did I go from living my regular life to disabled?

It's been a journey but not a particularly painful or arduous journey. I’ve been having pain on and off in my right hip for about a year. An ultrasound showed some sort of generalized edema and the radiologist recommended a follow-up MRI. My GP wanted to wait for the MRI results before consulting the orthopedic surgeon, but having lived through this process before I really advocated for a surgical consult. She put in the consult and I got an MRI appointment 10 months in the future and just kind of lived my life. The pain wasn’t really that bad; a full shift at the Rockyview would leave me tired and sore, but it wasn’t debilitating pain. I learned to just live within some limitations, got a new job that required less walking and less physical pushing and pulling, and life was so busy that I just kind of forgot about my congenital hip dysplasia. Life is very busy. I work a 0.7 as a nurse and my brain is constantly full of the minutiae of family life: there are school drop offs and school pick-ups, coordinating carpools, playdates, soccer, music classes, birthday parties, figuring out dinner five nights a week; I’m president of my daughter’s preschool, treasurer of the choir I sing, and we memorize all of our music; I like to bake a fancy dessert every Sunday and I sew all the time. It is busy. 

My MRI finally happened at 10:30 pm on a Sunday night in March. I was called back for another MRI a week later. That can’t be good, right? To wait ten months for an MRI but get a follow-up MRI a week later? This MRI was an arthrogram: under x-ray, the radiologist inserted a very large needle into my hip and filled the joint with contrast dye before wheeling me to the MRI machine for another looksie at what was going on. It was an unpleasant experience. The MRI results showed: borderline/mild hip acetabular dysplasia, moderate degeneration of the anterior and anterosuperior labrum and degeneration and partial-thickness intrasubstance tear of the superior labrum, moderate to high grade partial thickness tear of the posterior half of the ligamentum teres, the possibility of hip microinstability, mild tendonitis of the right semimembranosus, and a low signal intremedullary bone lesion within the distal right femoral dimetaphysis.

So not great news. 

What does all that jargon actually mean? In my non-doctor brain I think those big words mean that the hip joint isn’t sitting flush so it’s chewing up all of the ligaments and tendons. The hip socket is like an angry little Pac-Man ravenous for the delicious taste of soft tissue. Making me disabled. Again. 

Since the arthroscopy my pain has worsened considerably. I don’t think the pain is worse because of the procedure; I think the nature of having all these tears in my hip is that they are just going to get bigger and start hurting more the bigger they get.  

I went on medical leave last week. I worked two days in a row and spent the evening curled up in a ball crying because of the pain. It was the right thing to do. There’s no point in waiting until I’m in 10/10 pain all of the time before going off of work.  I can’t work all day and come home and be exhausted and in pain and having nothing left to give my family.

Intellectually I know that admitting I have a disability is the right thing to do. If anyone told me, as a nurse, that they had tears in the ligaments of their hip and it hurt to walk and their hip throbbed and kept them awake all night and they were worried about further damaging their hip with walking then I would absolutely tell them not to come in to work and take it easy. But it’s way harder to show that understanding and kindness to myself. 

I don’t want to go on disability again. I don’t want to have to think about how many steps I can take in the day – whether or not I can go upstairs to brush the kids teeth or just stay on the main floor. I don’t want to calculate how much Tylenol and Advil I’ve taken and if I can have any more and if I need to start on something stronger because I don’t want to be foggy and I need to drive my kids to school. I don’t want to use my crutch and have people ask me how I hurt myself and have this blank look on their face when I say I have congenital hip dysplasia because no one has congenital hip dysplasia.

I don’t want to give up my job. Frankly, being at home with the kids full-time is really challenging and demanding. But more than that I love my job. I’m almost a year into my job at a long-term care center and I love my residents. I love the work I do; my work matters and I know I’m really good at it and make a difference. And I don’t want to hand that off to another nurse who will probably do a good job but not do it the same way that I do. It’s nice to feel needed and valued and I get that validation at work. And I love my old people and I miss them already.

I’m grieving. I’m grieving giving up my job and my lack of mobility. I’m grieving being an active mom and being able to just go to the playground on a whim. I’m grieving being a dependent partner. Dan says he doesn’t mind having to unload the dishwasher and cook dinner and all those thousand household tasks that cause me pain but I don’t want to see him do everything while I sit on the couch and feel sorry for myself.

I’m sad.

This sucks.

I see the surgeon at the end of May and I don’t know what the course of action will be. I would imagine there will be some sort of surgery, but I have no idea what kind of surgery I will need or what the timeline will be and what my recovery will be and how long my life will be on pause. 

So I am going to feel sad and feel sorry for myself and really revel in the overall terribleness of this entire situation. And then I am going to figure out what's for dinner and pick-up my daughter from preschool because that's life, and as my grandmother used to say and I repeatedly say to my children, things are tough all over. And we will get through this. One gimpy hip at a time. 

It's the worst time of your life but this time there are three blonde children.

 Did you ever stop to remember the worst time of your life? The most difficult? Challenging? When you were at your lowest, your hygiene was poor, you felt exceedingly sorry for yourself, you burdened everyone around you with your helplessness and sickness and general bad smell? Can you picture what it was like to be you? Were you in pyjamas? Sweatpants? How long had your bedding gone without being changed? Were you several months behind your scheduled dental check up? Did you just eat from the same pot of soup for dinner every day of the week?

Okay. You can picture it. You feel sad. You feel physically repulsive. 

Now add three children. 

Maybe you already had three children and you were at your lowest low. Good for you, because you are a tough motherfucker and I am proud of you for coming out the other side. 

I've had some low lows in my life. But my low lows didn't include three children. After my eldest two were born, I had some raging post partum depression and anxiety. That was really difficult. To feel so overwhelmed and sad and helpless and be responsible for small humans. But I got through it. Going through disability and hip surgery was also a super tough time in my life. I couldn't walk, go to the bathroom by myself, cook, work... I couldn't do anything. And now my other hip is hurting and I'm terrified that I'm going to have to do it all over again except be ten years older and have three children. Three freaking blonde children who are six, four, and almost two. Who need their mom.

What if I am disabled again? How can I hold my precious baby and feel her little head nestled on my shoulder and rock her while I sing a lullaby and put her in her crib? How can I do that if it hurts to pick her up? Or cuddle carry my four year old into bed? Or follow after all of them when they come inside with my stick vacuum cleaner that I am obsessed with and use at least three times a day? How can you lift kids into their car seats, or not walk to preschool, or not be able to sit on the floor during music class, or not lift hundreds of thousands of loads of laundry every week?

How can I be me? What if I can't work anymore? What if I can't do the physical tasks that I do as a mom hundreds of times a week? How will we survive?

I'm hoping it's nothing. I'm hoping it's just a sore hip that needs some massages or physio or excercises. I'm hoping the loud thunks that I hear when I'm walking aren't really my leg bone sliding in and out of my hip socket. I'm hoping that the ache I feel when I fall asleep and wake up are actually overblown manifestations of an anxious mind. 

But I'm scared. And I'm sad. And I am already so, so tired. And I think I might need to get a triple periacetabular osteotomy all over again, but this time with three young children along for the ride. 

It's Going to be a Lose-Lose Scenario

Do you ever wonder if it’s a good idea to work part-time, complete a Master’s degree, and have a toddler all at the same time?

No! Of course you don’t, because that is a terrible sounding idea! Who would want to do that? Why would anyone want to do that! I don’t want to do that! So why do I find myself working at work, working at school, working at parenting to a small blonde-headed monster, and scrambling to get dinner on the table?

Working, schooling, and mom-ing is a lot. It is pretty terrible at times. And I don’t even have it that bad. I work alongside single moms who work full-time nights, send all of their paychecks back to their families in the Philippines, and are going to school to complete their RN qualifications which they already have back in the Philippines. Meanwhile I complain all the time about how much I have going on and I’ve got my son in full-time day care, an extremely supportive husband, and lots of family nearby who provide lots of help. Who am I to complain? Who am I to feel overwhelmed? This is not a new issue. Moms (and Dads, but especially Moms) have been trying to find a balance between this family-work issue for years. I'm hardly the first Mom to struggle. Every mom feels overwhelmed about her life choices on a daily basis. If you are working you feel guilty about working and having someone else raise your child. If you are staying at home with your child you feel guilty about giving up your career to stay home with your child. And all the articles on the internet telling you that you are doing the right thing by pursuing your passions because happy moms lead to happy children can’t take away from that little voice inside your head telling you that you really should be doing the opposite of what you are doing.

I thought I had it figured out. I would work part-time and Michael would go to daycare part-time and go to my Mom’s when I needed extra childcare coverage. I could work but Michael would still benefit from being with me at home and socializing and learning at daycare, and I could get schoolwork done when Michael took his afternoon nap. What a beautiful theory! What a sweet, naive lady, to dream up such a beautiful theory! When reality hit and I got ethics approval for data collection for my research project there were not enough hours in the day to get anything done. IF Michael was not too snotty, sick, and disgusting from his two days a week at daycare to nap, I could get half an hour of work done or clean the house or have a nap myself. Napping always won.

I felt stressed out all of the time and it was absolutely impossible to be a full-time student, part-time nurse, and have a child in part-time daycare. So we decided to put Michael into full-time daycare in December. That made completing my research possible. Suddenly I had so much more flexibility and could actually get work done! And really, I’ve accomplished a lot. Since December I’ve done almost 60 hours of observation, completed three of my participant interviews, and written the first three chapters of my thesis while working nights shifts and trying to be a good partner to my husband and a good Mom to Michael. And Michael is thriving, too. He loves his teachers at daycare! He loves his friends at daycare! They are teaching him French! He does a craft every day! His day is full of so many more structured activities than when I have him at home and I’m just trying to survive the day.

So you think that would be a win-win scenario, right? I have time to finish this stupid Master’s degree that I don’t know why I even started in the first place because I like my job and I am tired of everyone asking me what I’m going to do with a Master’s degree and what kind of job would that get me and how much does it cost. Michael is loving daycare and he is a happy, thriving little boy.

But that’s not where it ends. I love having Michael in daycare and having days to myself. And I feel like daycare is better at the whole raising a toddler thing than I am. Isn’t that terrible? Everyone says, of course that’s not true, but I know that it kind of is. Since I have decided to pursue this degree wholeheartedly, I feel like every waking hour that I am not working and not with Michael is wasted if I’m not transcribing field notes or reading an article. And every time I have a non-productive day, which happens quite frequently, I feel like a terrible, selfish Mom who would rather binge-watch the Mindy Project than spend time with her child. And I know that isn’t a sustainable attitude but how else am I supposed to feel? Someone else is raising my child so I can do this stupid degree that seemed like a really good idea three years ago and here I am writing a stupid blog post instead of actually working on this stupid degree! And the childcare that is allowing me to finish this stupid degree is taking up at least two-thirds of my monthly income! So what is even the point? Why am I doing this to myself?

Because I set out to do a Master’s degree three years ago? And I just can’t let goals go or disappoint myself or other people? I will never forget the first time I really disappointed someone. It was at a grade eight track and field meet. I was signed up to do the 3000m run. Of course I was not going to break any school records, but my small Christian school had an ‘everyone should participate’ motto, and this was the race I signed up for because it was the longest distance and my Dad was a distance runner. I practiced and was ready for the race. But the day of the meet it was raining and gross out. My friends skipped their events and I skipped mine too. And Mr. Reimer took me aside, looked me in the eyes, and told me that he was disappointed in me for quitting. All of my excuses about the weather evaporated in his stern blue gaze, and I have been haunted by that disappointment for years. The next year I ran that damned 3000 m. For goodness sake, as an adult I completed marathons, and that still didn’t fully assuage my feelings of guilt for disappointing Mr. Reimer one rainy afternoon. 

So I am going to complete this degree. I am going to show the world what exactly the culture of care is like for nurses who care for people with dementia with behavioral and psychological symptoms of dementia in the acute care environment. I am going to fork over my paychecks to childcare and give up zoo dates with my son and try and write papers at 2 in the morning when I get a break from keeping seniors alive. And one day Michael will be able to say, yup, that’s my mom, she knows a lot about the culture of care that exists in acute care environments when nurses care for people with dementia with behavioral and psychological symptoms of dementia.

And will it be worth it? Let's be honest, it probably will not be worth it. But I will have a certificate on my wall, and a book no one will ever read will bare my name as author. And maybe I'll get a sweet nine to five, Monday to Friday job. Or I'll keep my part-time position, or I'll stop working altogether and stay at home with the kids. 

And now I better go get to work. 

Let's Talk About Babies and Sadness

Today is a day to talk about mental health. Maybe, as my sister suggests, I'm much too keen to talk about my feelings. She's probably right - she is right about most things - but I thought I would use the platform of mental health awareness to talk about my experience with post-partum depression and anxiety, in the hope that someone out there could read this, relate, and feel better about the hell they are going through with their own little bundle of joy.

Having a baby, for us, was a planned and exciting event. Before our baby arrived we were fairly prepared: we went to pre-natal class, I took the appropriate vitamins, and my husband even built a beautiful wooden crib. I thought I had a general idea of how labour would go (HA!) and I felt the normal amount of healthy fear most expectant moms are feeling. Besides, I thought that since I was a nurse and took care of people every day, and since a lot of not very bright people have been raising children for centuries, that having and raising a baby really couldn't be that hard.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Babies are hard. And the first few weeks after our baby was born was a really difficult time for me and my family.

I had read about the 'baby blues,' but I was not prepared for the monsoon of tears that accompanied my body's massive hormonal shift the second and third day after birth. As anyone who knows me can attest, I cry a lot, but this crying was different. I could not stop crying: crying in the shower; crying into my towel after a shower; crying in the kitchen; crying in the car.; crying at the doctor's office and crying at the mall. I was supposed to be in love with my brand new baby, but I felt sad, and I could not stop the snotty onslaught of tears that kept flowing.

With the crying came insomnia. No one with a new baby sleeps well, but my insomnia grew and grew until I was afraid of going to bed. Everyone tells you to 'sleep when the baby sleeps' and to 'nap when you can.' I could not sleep and I could not nap. I would lie tensely awake and listen to every weird grunt and snort that the baby made. I could feel my heart racing, and and worries kept running through my brain and through my body, and I would get so anxious about not sleeping that sleep became more and more impossible. The only time I managed to sleep for a few minutes was after nursing Michael, and I would wake up with Michael dangling precariously from my arms, which is a definite safety no-no, and cemented my feelings that I was a bad mom.

Mothering, as I found out, was hard. The baby cried, and everybody could make the baby stop crying except for me. I couldn't make my baby sleep, either. Fortunately I could nurse the baby, but I felt that was more a facet of my biology than any personal attributes. The first time we went to see the public health nurse, Michael had lost a bit too much weight, and I felt so guilty that I wasn't doing a good job of being a mom.

All of my guilty feelings steadily grew. I felt guilty for needing so much help from my family and husband when other moms could do it alone. I felt guilty for feeling sad and tired instead of feeling maternal bliss. And then I started to feel guilty for feeling anxious about all sorts of stupid minutiae I don't normally care about. I made list after list of tasks I felt like I had to complete, and if those tasks didn't get done I started feeling panicky. My rational self knew that none of these tasks - like vacuuming, laundry, showering - really mattered, but I could not reconcile my irrational thoughts with my rational self. All of the worries and anxieties kept growing and were starting to prevent me from enjoying Michael.

 I was physically and emotionally raw, exhausted, sad, anxious, guilty, and stupid for letting myself get so raw, exhausted, sad, anxious, and guilty. If I were stronger/ more resilient/ a better mom I wouldn't be struggling so much.

Fortunately for me, I had an excellent doctor, a husband who works in mental health, a mom who would come over every morning and hold the baby so I could shower, and friends who were going through the same thing. My doctor kept gently suggesting that I go on an antidepressant, but I felt like going on medication was somehow cheating, like I couldn't be a mom on my own. I'd been off my normal anti-depressant during pregnancy and had been feeling really good, so starting on a new medication meant that I was moving backwards. After many tearful discussions and lengthy internal dialogue, I recognized that I was barely coping, and that I was close to falling headlong into a deep depression. But this time if I got really sick my baby would suffer too.

Four weeks after Michael was born I started on an anti-depressant, and it is one of the best decisions that I have made for myself. I stopped feeling so anxious and sad and began to feel like myself again.  I started sleeping a little. I gained confidence in my skills as a mom. And every day has been a little bit better as we find our groove as a family. I still feel anxious at times and doubt my abilities as a mom, but I think that's part of being a parent. My baby is thriving, and I enjoy him, and that's what is important.

Now when anyone asks me how it's going with the little one, I always answer honestly: it was a rough start but it's getting better every week. Once after feeling emboldened after four hours of consecutive sleep, I told a complete stranger that being a mom is a lot better on Paxil (my anti-depressant). Maybe my self-confessional tendencies are too strong, but I think it's important to be honest about how hard the first few weeks after baby can be. I am not the only new mom out there who has had a rough start. It does get better - and for me, it got a whole lot better with a little chemical assistance.

One Year Later

"Started from the bottom now we here" - Drake

 

"You gotta risk it to get the biscuit" - Wes, Survivor Season 29, Episode 10

 

"Time heals all wounds" - Rose Kennedy and Dr. Phil

 

"This too shall pass" -  Wise person of old

All  of these equally wise sayings seemed ludicrously impossible and insultingly pedantic last year when I was in the midst of my little realm of pain. It has been almost a year since my left periacetabular osteotomy and as the memories fade it turns out that those sages were right.



My life feels so different than when I started this blog as a very scared, very bored disabled lady. Firstly, my days and my actions are not dictated by pain. I can accomplish so many things I could not dream of doing a year ago. I can: work a full shift without crying (I still cry, obviously, but not because of physical pain); walk to the post office; cook dinner; vacuum; go to the mall; park at the back of the parking lot; pick up a moderately heavy grocery bag; pump moderately heavy iron; golf; shower myself. It sounds a little corny, and I'm sure I will regret saying this, but I felt truly grateful to spring clean the past weekend. After not being able to do anything, participating in the up-keep of our house was empowering.

My scar, once a bright red, angry puckered thing, has faded and smoothed; it doesn't scare me when I see it peeking above my waistband. No longer is my scar this alien shark bite - it's a part of me (and a way to impress residents at the dermatologist's office). I find that whenever I'm idle, my hand rests on my hip while my thumb unconsciously traces the arch of my scar. It's my own personal talisman.

I would like to say that I have learned many profound things because of my journey with this gimpy hip, that I am a changed woman, forever ennobled by my ordeal. I don't know if that's true. I'm still angry this happened to me and interrupted my life. I hate having this worry in the back of my mind that my other hip will need surgery. I wish I could run again. I dislike the ache and twinge that I get and the limits I have to place on myself.

However, I would say that I have been enriched by this experience, both in my character and in my relationships. I have learned to be kinder to myself; to give myself a break. I've always felt this urge to push myself: be smarter; be skinnier; have more friends; be stronger; go further; do more. I've never been a competitive person - just driven. I continually felt disappointed that I could not live up to these expectations I had in my head and be this mystically perfect size two woman. I now have distinct limitations: if I push myself too hard, I could do some serious physical damage. And I'm okay with that. I'm learning to be more gracious towards myself. I'm learning to be okay with being me.

I've learned tolerance, too. Maybe I'm just a terrible person, but sometimes I hear this little voice in my head saying "they're just not trying hard enough" when I see someone really fat, really poor, or really weak. That voice goes: "I would never let that happen to me." I haven't completely silenced my inner judgmental bitch, but I feel much more empathetic. I mean, when I went through my operation, I had it easy: I had a home, money, and support from family and friends. I cannot imagine how difficult life would be without those things; I can never understand how much some people suffer.

I've come out of this experience a better nurse. I know how crappy anemia feels and how scary withdrawal is. I know the humiliations of being dependent on someone to go to the bathroom.  I get pain and how it corrodes you. I have experienced crappy nursing firsthand, and I know how much it sucks. More than ever, I strive to be a good nurse and uphold high standards of care.

Finally, my relationship with Dan has grown stronger and better because of my gimpy hip. We were so smug in pre-marital class - the world could rain down drama and we could deal with it. Honestly, when your romantic partner has witnessed your severe constipation, has showered you, has shouldered your feelings of guilt and inadequacy - than other issues, like wedding details or playoff beards, don't feel particularly stressful.

Our wedding really was the 'happily ever after' to this whole saga. I walked down the aisle with my Dad. I did not limp. I did not use a crutch. I was not pushed in a wheelchair. I walked down the aisle with my Dad towards my Dan. I felt so much love. I felt so much joy. I never knew I had the capacity for so much happiness. And I know that February 14 couldn't have been so perfect if I hadn't spent some time being gimpy.

Working Girl!

After ten months of disability and one invasive surgery, this gimpy-hipped girl is officially going back to work tomorrow!

!

Normalcy! It's returning to my life! I will have a reason to get up in the morning (although morning is going to come really early after ten months of sleeping in). I will be making money for a change. I will get to see my beloved senior population again. (I have missed senior citizens like crazy. Dan can attest that I stop in the mall to smile at old people and babies). I get to be a nurse again instead of a patient. I've really missed the structure and sense of purpose work brought to my life, and I've especially missed being able to help someone, instead of someone who gets helped.

I am very happy about going back to work and getting my life back, albeit a little nervous: what if I don't know anyone to talk to in the break room? What if I can't remember which drug is for gout and which drug is for blood pressure? What if I can't balance the schoolwork for my Master's program with working fulltime? What if none of the patients like me? What if my hip gets really fatigued really quickly and I just can't do it?  I think my scariest fear of all is: what if the pain comes back? What if the pain starts in my other hip? What if I need another surgery? What if, what if, what if?

 

Those 'What if' questions are all legitimate realities I might have to face, and they're all intimidating in their own way. I've come to realize that different 'What if' questions will always haunt me in different phases of my life. I can't ever get rid of the anxiety associated with the unknown, but I can cope with whatever 'What if' life throws at me. I mean, in the last ten months I've had to deal with chronic pain, immobility, the stigma of disability, and literally learning how to walk all over again - 'What ifs' I never would have dreamed of a couple of years ago - and never would have believed that I could cope with. Because of the last ten months, I am ready to unflinchingly face all of my 'What ifs.' I am going to continue to be a rockstar physio patient. I am going to continue to rule at school. And, I am going to kick ass at my job tomorrow.

(I have watched this video more than once and may have cried).

 

Double Happiness Roll

I've been doing really well in my recovery. Like, really well. My physio is happy with my progress: therefore, I am happy with my progress and the slow build up of butt muscles I've acquired. I have been crutch-less for a few weeks and it feels fantastic. Firstly, they're not always clattering onto my toes and sending the cats scattering. It's like I've lost a mental encumbrance as well as a physical encumbrance. I now walk unassisted on my own two legs just like a normal person. No one gives me pitying-awyoupoorcripple-glances or speaks extra slowly and loudly to me. I'm just a regular, normal person (with a bad-ass scar).

Despite my excellent progress, I was still nervous for my follow-up appointment with the surgeon yesterday. Thankfully Mom came with me. I couldn't walk by myself into the place where I was fatefully told, in heavily accented English: "your hip very bad. You have big, big surgery and not walk for a long, long time." 

We arrived at the office for my appointment and I had to wait over an hour to see Dr. Johnston. (In the waiting room, I did get to see my PAO pal Bill who is recovering from his second surgery like a freaking boss. Go Bill!) When I finally saw Dr.Johnston, he too was pleased with my progress: minimal pain, excellent range of movement, normal gait. He told me to book an appointment to see him next May and asked if I had any questions.

Me: "Well, what about booking a surgery date for my other hip?"
Dr: "Oh, were we doing the other hip?"
Me: "Hmmm.... yeah, I think so. That's what I was told. You're the doctor, not me." Okay, I didn't say that last part out loud but I definitely thought it.
Dr: "Oh, ok, I will go double check about that."

Dr. Johnston left the exam room to review my x-rays and his notes. Mom and I rolled our eyes at each other in a doctors, they never know what is up, kind of way.

Upon returning to the exam room, Dr. Johnston says: "I've reviewed your x-rays and I don't think you need surgery on your other hip."
Stunned Sara: "!!!"
"Your hip is dysplastic," he continues, "but mildly so. It's a mild dysplasia as compared to your other hip which was a severe dysplasia. You're right in the grey zone in terms of whether or not we do treatment, but since you aren't symptomatic and your numbers aren't that bad, we can't warrant doing a major, invasive surgery on you. It isn't a surgery we do prophylactically."

I just about kissed my curly-haired surgeon. Mom started flapping. I began grinning like a maniacal three year old receiving a much anticipated sugar fix. I've never been made happier by a doctor's appointment.

To celebrate, Mom and her friend Meredith took me out for sushi. I called Dan on the car ride over to the restaurant.
"Dan, I don't need another surgery!"
"What?"
"I don't need my other hip done!"
"I don't understand. What?"
"I doubt Dr. Johnston actually looked at my other hip before. My hip is ok. I don't need another surgery!!!"
Silence.

This changes everything. I don't have to be gimpy next year; I won't have to lose another summer to immobility and pain. I can hike! I can walk the Stampede grounds! We don't have to plan our lives around a surgery date! We can travel! I could do school full-time! I could be a nursing instructor! We'll have a full income again! I won't be a patient next year! There's always the possibility that my hip will worsen over time and I'll eventually need the surgery; however, that's a future problem for future Sara to deal with if/when the time comes.

All these thoughts course through my head as we eat lunch. I'm continuing to grin like a maniacal, possibly demonic, toddler. Everything is different: I will reclaim a year of my life I thought I had to give up. We finish our order and everyone is still a little hungry, so we order another roll.

How fitting, how perfectly appropriate, that the last item we order is called 'double happiness roll.'