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.'

Lake Life

I just got back from a two-week stay in the Shushwap with my future in-laws. Lake life is pretty great; I adapted quite nicely to the retirement lifestyle, too. If I started golfing four times a week and had a winter home in California, people would ask me when I was turning 65. I pretty much lived the dream out there. Most of my day was spent on a patio chair on the deck, overlooking the blue waters of the Shushwap and surrounding green hills. I read. A lot. I read real literature, too, a nice change from the smutty stuff of my morphine days. Every day I'd go for a therapeutic walk or swim in the lake using my old-lady aquasize belt. Following cocktail hour and dinner I'd craft and watch TV before sleeping for nine to ten hours. See? Dream lifestyle.

Rod and Allyson, my prospective in-laws, were extremely kind and solicitous. The first few days I was there it was: No, Sara, let me get that. No, Sara, I'll get you a drink. No, Sara, leave those dirty dishes there, I'll put them away. Eventually I was permitted to assist with after-dinner clean-up, but only if I didn't over-extend myself. By contrast, Dan is much more eager to let me help with dishes, dinner and sweeping the floor because it's part of my "occupational rehabilitation."

I can't describe how nice it was to get out of Calgary for an extended period of time. When you're sick, and especially when your mobility isn't too great, it's very easy to feel trapped: trapped in your room, stuck in your house, prevented from going anywhere you fear is inaccessible. The world shrinks and condenses and you feel imprisoned by your own body. Trading my little bubble of house, physio and parent's house for lake, walking and swimming was so liberating! And normal! Now when people ask me what I did this summer my answer doesn't have to be restricted to: well, a surgeon stuck his hand down my pelvis, broke some bones and pinned them together, and I had to do a lot of ass exercises. Now I can say that I built up my "tan," I caught my first fish, I read this year's Booker Prize winner and I beat Dan in scrabble (several times).

Another nice thing about my break was talking to new people. Since I'm off work I don't really talk to anyone unless I make a point of getting out of the house. Sometimes it will be two in the afternoon and I'll realize I haven't used my vocal chords. If Dan is golfing, I may not socialize until ten at night. Socializing is one of those skills you have to keep using lest you suddenly transform into a pedantic weirdo. Fortunately I start school in a couple of weeks - so there's hope I'll preserve my remaining small talk skills and remember what it feels like to be a normal, non-gimpy, adult.

This Ass Won't Quit

Healing, to paraphrase one of my favorite female Americans, is a very good thing. But some parts of getting better really aren't so great. I've summarized as follows:

Pros of Healing

• Walk with fewer mobility aids. I'm down to one crutch most of the time. This means fewer instances of crutches falling on the floor and crashing loudly. Also I do not get trapped in doors as easily.
• Walk pain free!
• Walk longer than I've walked since January!
• Walk!!!
• Strangers still volunteer to open the door or carry things for me, and generally they treat me like a brave warrior.
• Turns out that when I'm not on drugs I can use full sentences.
• New bragging rights: my physio says that my progress is "unreal." I'm doing step exercises normally reserved for a few months post PAO. No big deal.
• My kitchen is so much cleaner.

Cons of Healing

• My handicapped parking expires today! Double sad face. While I haven't used the pass in a couple of weeks because I feel those spaces need to be saved for people who are having trouble, it was just so damned convenient.
• My scar scares small children. (Or is that a pro?) A few weeks ago I showed Dan's nephew the top half of my scar, and he paled a little and didn't say anything for a few minutes.
• I've gone through most of Netflix's comedy series.
• Most comedy series aren't as funny when you're not on drugs.
• I have to make my own lunch.
•  B-O-R-E-D-O-M.
• Butt exercises, butt exercises, butt exercises.

I complain about the slow nature of the rehab process and my interminable boredom, but it has all been completely worth it. Living pain free, walking - these were unimaginable concepts a few months ago, and I feel like I'm more myself than I have been in a long time. I am so grateful to have a condition with a cure that, although it's painful, can reverse my disability. I'm willing to do as many ass exercises as needed to get back to work and get back to life in general. I may have a scar that scares small children, but I've learned that some scars are worth having.

I'm an Over-Doer

I am genetically hardwired to "over-do-it." I can't help it - either it's all nature or I've learned by observing my parents over the years. For instance, these are some of my Dad's ideas of a "fun" vacation: several Ironmans; dozens of marathons; biking across America (the entire country which is also, by the way, a continent); competing in 50 km + cross-country ski races internationally; walking across Spain; and biking up gravel highways in Alaska. My mother is also an over-doer, but in a different way: if there's something she's interested in or wants to learn about, particularly if it relates to art or fabric, not only has she signed up for five courses, but she's purchased most of the magazines and books related to the topic, she has at least five pounds of materials and equipment and something being shipped from the States, she is best friends with shop owners, teachers and ladies overseas who are also interested in dyeing fabric/stitching/textile, and she has fifteen new projects started. With the parents that I have I am left with no choice but to tackle the project in front of me with exceeding amounts of determination and enthusiasm. Including recovery.

I have not been able to walk the distance of a block without considerable pain since February. Now I can walk! I am seeing my neighborhood for the first time and getting outside more than I have in months. Getting stronger is very exciting, but I want to walk more. I want to walk farther. I've been waiting to walk for so long that one small walk a day isn't good enough. I can sort of swim now, too, with a buoy between my legs, and getting in the water awoke such a glorious sensation of freedom that I went out a little hard and may have swam a hundred meters too many. The problem with walking or swimming in excess is that I don't have any glute muscles, so if I do too much, as I'm told repeatedly, I risk hurting myself, delaying recovery, developing weird muscle imbalances... The words of warning melt away when I'm walking just one more block or swimming just fifty more meters.

Sometimes around the house I've taken to one-crutching it. Using a hand to hold objects is very useful. With one crutch I can move a beverage from point A to point B, or take ingredients out of the fridge to make a sandwich. The liberty is intoxicating: it makes me want to use both hands, to roam crutch-less, free to pick up whatever object whenever I want! I got in trouble for my brazen contempt of mobility aids. Dan found me at the kitchen table and my crutches across the room. Not only did I get a stern lecture (you're not ready to go without crutches! You'll develop a limp that will take way longer to correct than learning to walk properly in the first place! You're going to hurt yourself and then what?) but I got "I am disappointed in you" eyes. I hate "I am disappointed in you" eyes. Guilt is the worst punishment of them all. I have since been much more diligent in using my crutches/walker and I hurt less at night. It's the worst when people telling you what to do end up being right.

Yesterday I was officially allowed to drive again. My test run was pretty disastrous: I nearly ran over a teenage cyclist. I'm off of the drugs but somehow I'm still a total space cadet. Maybe I've always been a ditz and just didn't know? Since driving was a total bust I'm not allowed to go out without further practice and supervision, which keeps me housebound. It's probably a good thing for general public safety.

I really want to swim more, and start yoga. Exercise, even in its gentlest forms, feels so good after six months of disability and inactivity. Whenever I say 'yoga' or 'daily swims' Mom and Dan get this pained look in their eyes and say: let's wait and hear what the physio says. I see physio on Thursday and Mom is accompanying me to hear exactly what I can and cannot do and generally lay down the law.

I know that the protectiveness and bossing around I'm experiencing are in my best interest. It's hard to remember that I'm only eight weeks into a 24 week process when I'm caught up in the thrill of moving. Learning to walk is a lot harder than I anticipated. It will be at least a few months before I can over-do-it without significantly hurting myself.

Withdrawing and Walking

It's been quite a week. Major highlights include:

• I wore bottoms with an actual waistband. Twice.
• I got a haircut. It's a wee bit too short so I kind of feel like I have a military grade crew cut, but still, it's an improvement.
• Sunday I went outside AND used a non-raised toilet seat for the first time. I got a sun burn but I managed NOT to get stuck on the toilet.
• I made a whale hat.
• I withdrew from morphine.
• I saw my surgeon.

I feel like if I say I went through withdraw I kind of have to elaborate a little bit, so here I go: I stopped taking my long-acting morphine on Wednesday, and was feeling pretty good - generally sharper and smarter. I was only taking my short-acting morphine on an occasional as needed basis if I was sore or doing a lot of walking. On Thursday I started feeling nauseated and by the time Friday evening rolled around I was wishing for death or at least a light coma. It was kind of like the flu: general malaise, muscle aches, and this horrible nausea that I couldn't puke away and didn't abate with Gravol.

The withdraw caught me totally by surprise: I know I'm hardcore, but I'm a pretty far cry from the people you see huffing crack through their eyeballs on Intervention. I didn't have a psychological need for the morphine so I was surprised my body still wanted it, but it makes sense I was withdrawing because I've been taking the milk of the poppy daily since February. Anyways, I still felt terrible on Saturday morning. After a greasy fast-food lunch and a major power nap (a pretty good cure for a lot of self-induced ailments) I felt like a new person. If a controlled and slow taper off of a prescribed analgesic is that bad, I can't imagine what it feels like to come off a major substance dependence. I don't think I'll start heroin anytime soon.

After two weeks of mounting anticipation I saw the surgeon today. My appointment was a bit of a let down. In my secret fantasies, the appointment unfolded thusly: I would be sitting in the examining room and Dr. Johnston would enter, curly ringlets bouncing. He would regally say 'walk.' I would stand, throwing my crutches down to the ground, and start performing deep lunges around the office. Residents and fellows would follow in my wake, mystified at my superior healing abilities. In reality, I waited almost two hours to see the surgeon for two minutes. He told me I could start weight-bearing, gave me a prescription for physio, and showed me my x-rays.

This is what my hip now looks like:

 

 

That's not the best picture. There are actually five screws in there - two of them are the really long upright guys. Seeing the x-ray puts all the pain and trauma I went through into perspective. Those are big screws and big cuts in the bone: no wonder it's been a slow recovery.

 

I tried taking a normal step today. It was pretty hilarious. Since I don't have adductor muscles and all the other muscles needed to walk, I've got a 'lurching limp' (doctor's terminology, not mine). It's hard to describe: I just can't lift my leg and walk normally. Things just aren't working right. With physio I'll start rebuilding muscles and practice putting more and more weight on my leg. I'm still using my walker around the house;  I'll transition to two crutches, then one crutch, and hopefully by the time September rolls around and I see Dr. Johnston again I'll be walking all on my own, no mobility aids required!

 

In the meantime life isn't so bad: I don't need my leg lifter - I can swing my leg up into bed all on my own; I had a bath for the first time in seven weeks and it was glorious; and when my strength is up I can start swimming and doing some yoga. I'm psyched to be on the rehabilitative pathway and actively perusing recovery. Plus I've got a 'lurch limp.' I'm basically the best member of the Addams Family.

 



Whoa. Big News.

It was a pretty big weekend around here. I didn't do anything crazy like wear pants without elastic waistbands. No, I did something much more monumental: I went to the movies. The movie theatres. In public. It was huge.

My movie of choice? This summer's most critically acclaimed film, 22 Jump Street. If Channing Tatum and the promise of hilarious penis jokes aren't enough motivation to leave the house, then I don't know what is. It was an epic journey to get into the theater - the longest walk I've been on since going to the surgeon's office. For Channing and Jonah, the process was worth it. I broke into a cold sweat from exertion right at the steps leading into the Westhills Theaters; I received the normal amount of pity/horrified/hope-it-isn't-contagious glances; I held up the line exiting the theatre because of my slow gait; and I was so exhausted when we got home that I didn't get out of my creeper chair for several hours, but it was gratifying to leave the house and do something normal. I was a bit disheartened that the process was so taxing, but I'm happy to be making progress: a few weeks ago I couldn't sit upright for two hours straight, let alone in a public forum.

This weekend I also went out for coffee. Not out to the living room, but out to a café. Last Wednesday I went out to a restaurant for lunch. When you only breathe fresh outside air two or three times a week, each outing is a really big deal. Talking to people who aren't related to you, engaged to be married to you, or aren't cats? It's a whole new strata in conversation. I think Marvin and Gizmo are a little jealous that I'm venturing out of the house, but I also think that I spend too much time thinking about what Marvin and Gizmo are thinking in those cute little cat brains of theirs.

On Saturday I went into my sewing room and sewed a couple blocks of the quilt I'm working on. (If your mind is reeling, I did give fair warning that this was going to be a crazy post). I could only sit and lean forward for half an hour but being in a different room was delightful.

The piece-de-resistance in all that I am celebrating is that today was my last blood-thinner needle.

No more Framing. No more bruises dotted over my stomach. My respect for diabetics has increased tenfold because needles suck. They sting. In fact, the longer you have to give yourself needles the more they hurt. By the last week of my anticoagulation treatment I felt such dread of the needle that I stretched out the injection process to take a full five minutes, and I'd start wincing and squirming before I even opened the package. However, no more needles, and no blood clots either.

So that's what's been shaking at the Ross-Hannaford Household. It's pretty non-stop around here. Well, that's not strictly true because I stop a lot to rest, watch TV, look out the window, and worry if Gizmo is mad at me. Still, it's nice to be feeling a bit more energized. My mom might even take me for a haircut this week. Look out, Calgary. I'm going for car-rides.

It's Not Easy Being Green

I want to stand with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

I want to go swimming.

I want to take a bath.

I want to walk unencumbered by walker or crutch.

I want to help out in the garden.

I want to scale the steps to my parents' house and visit their dogs. Copper is depressed and Simone had teeth pulled - she needs someone to tell her that she's beautiful and mean it.

If it's nice out, I want to go outside unsupervised instead of observing the blue sky from my creeper chair in my bathroom.

I really, really, really want to walk! And start physio! And feel better! But I Can't Have What I Want!
I'm super close to weight-bearing: two weeks, barring good X-rays at the surgeon's office. I'm so close but so far out, too; it's an itch that's impossible to scratch; a tantalizing, tortuous wait.

Pretty much 80% of my energy is dedicated to containing all of the above whines inside my head, but I'm not very good at curbing my negative vocalizations. It's not like I'm trying to have a giant pity party for myself, either: this week I've read three books, planned a couple of projects and started a new embroidery piece. All of the busy-work can't mask what my soul longs for: to frolic freely in the backyard. Maybe do a few twirls wearing a full skirt. Hop over the sprinkler, or walk to the corner store to get one of those white and blue and red rocket popsicles.

When voicing my frustrations, I've heard the same sage advice time and again: pretty soon you'll be starting physio and before you know it you'll be walking and back at work! And you're doing so well -  getting stronger and getting off the pain medications! In my bad-person moments I get frustrated with all of the well-intentioned words of encouragement because it's easy to offer advice to a cripple if you can put on your own underwear or tie both of your shoes independently, or if you aren't confronted by a nine and a half inch bright red scar bisecting your torso when you face the mirror. Sometimes I want to stomp my good foot on the ground, pout like there's no tomorrow and yell: You don't know me! Who do you think you are, to tell me to feel better! Just be honest and call me out on being the pathetic, bad attitude sick person that I am! Go ahead, walk away from me on BOTH FEET! You know nothing!

Usually I can prevent a full-scale meltdown and I can stay in a positive, recovery-oriented frame of mind. I can settle in my creeper chair with a tv show and a craft. But then I'll see something that plummets me into a state of self-pity: someone walking, holding a slushie. Our eighty year old neighbor mowing her own lawn. Last weekend was the Calgary Marathon and a little piece of my soul died because I won't be able to run another marathon again.

Two more weeks... and then maybe I can stand with both feet planted firmly to the ground.

Going Under

It's funny how one of the biggest, scariest days of my life was treated with casual nonchalance by everyone partaking in it. The entire day of surgery was a strange mixture of waiting, answering questions, and mounting nerves.

My surgical day started at 6am at the pre-admissions counter. I waited in the hallway to be ushered into a small room to verify my personal information and be given my hospital bracelet. I then waited for the lab to open, where I waited a little bit longer to pee into a cup. After that I was sent to day surgery; next I was directed into a small curtained-off section of room with a stretcher for me and a chair for Dan. I strip and change into a hospital gown. Unfortunately the gown is a telemetry gown, so there's a breast pocket that is supposed to hold a telemetry monitor. Consequently I almost have some nip-slip going on during my big day.

My nurse is kind and has a calming energy, which is a good thing when you're in a large room lined with people about to be wheeled off to their prospective fates, and your neighbor keeps loudly asking about her thyroid pill. I go through my medication history and medications with my nurse, squeezing Dan's hand the whole time. Finally my time comes: a porter arrives to take me to the O.R. I have to take off my glasses and I say goodbye to Dan in the hallway.

When I get into the O.R. suite, my porter hands me off to a man in scrubs and surgical cap who hollers "room four" and leaves me outside of room four. I don't know why he gets to wear a fancy hat if his job is just to leave me outside of the room, but he seems to take great pride in his uniform.

I'm lying on a stretcher in a busy hallway, cold, and my nipple is on the verge of exposure. I'm completely disoriented because all I can see is a generalized blur. (I'm pretty blind without my glasses). The only logical way to prevent absolute panic is to stick my head under my blanket. I have to remove my head from said blanket when my anesthesiologist's assistant comes by. He asks me the same questions my morning nurse asked while starting a giant 18 gauge IV in my hand; fluids are started and a weird cooling sensation travels up my arm. It's my first IV and I'm too distracted to really appreciate this new sensory experience. Another man in scrubs saunters down the hall whistling. I'm about to go under the knife and forsake walking for a very long time and this guy is just going about his day, whistling.

The anesthesiologist himself comes by and asks me the same questions about medical history and medications. I remember feeling uncomfortable when he started talking about my period because it didn't really feel like a good time to have that discussion. Shortly after my nurse meets me and again asks me the same questions. Soon the rest of the team congregate around my stretcher to debrief: Dr. Johnston, his fellow, his surgical assist, the anesthesiologist and his assistant, and my nurse. In my mounting anxiety I don't really follow the conversation - something about approach and spinal. Plus I'm distracted by Dr. Johnston's head piece: it's a surgical cap framing his face and wrapping around his neck, kind of like a surgical version of what an old Baba wears.

Next thing I know I'm walking from the hallway into the O.R. Thankfully I can't see all the tools and surgical packages in my blindness. I look up at the lights and strange faces, I'm given a happy drug, and I don't remember anything until I'm being wheeled into recovery and someone repeatedly calls 'Sara' in my ear.

I have fragmented memories of my time in the recovery room. I remember shaking violently and feeling confused. I remember my left hip feeling heavy and pain so bad I shook even harder. I remember my nurses giving me several different drugs and pulling out my arterial line. I also remember an inflatable blanket that warmed me up and stopped the shakes and my catheter spilling on the floor when they transferred me from the stretcher to the bed. Whoopsies.

Dr. Johnston came by and said the surgery went well; also I was given 8.3L of fluid, so my fingers were fat sausages. I have hazy recollections of sleeping, eating ice chips, and telling my nurses to read my blog. I called Dan, too, and apparently it was a funny conversation.

After five hours in recovery I went to Unit 81. It was a long day, a bizarre day, and yet just another workday for everyone involved in my care. I'm glad my surgical day is behind me, but I don't know if it's better or worse knowing the smells and sounds I'll have to face when I get my next hip done. Sometimes I prefer blind ignorance to uncomfortable knowledge. My PAO pal Bill will have the answer to that question soon because he gets his second hip done this week. Sending lots of good vibes Bill's way!

#Ballinwalker

The inevitable has come to pass: Dan has gone back to work, leaving me home alone. Not alone alone - Mom checks in regularly. We've had to be creative about how I can get all the basic chores of life accomplished (dressing, filling up water bottle, accessing M + Ms and entertainment) without use of both hands and without putting weight on my leg. It's a tad tricky.

So far our routine is air-tight: Dan makes meals in Tupperware containers the night before and leaves them in a grab-a-ble spot in the fridge. In the morning he leaves me with coffee, water and clothes. I can manage pulling a muu-muu over my head but I can't wrangle underwear or pants over my leg so it's easy breezy day wear for me. As of Sunday I can brush my teeth all by myself, independent woman that I am! (Never mind that I'm out of breath afterwards). Showering is only done under supervision so I don't have to worry about that during the day. All of my hygiene and nutrition needs are covered.

My essential possessions like drugs, water bottle, and tablet to watch Netflix are stored in my #ballinwalker:

 

Ain't she sweet? Coral. Styling. #Ballinwalker enables me to be pretty self-sufficient. I can clonk on over to the fridge and stash my pre-prepare meals in my bag and then hobble over to the table to eat them. (Clonk, by the way, is a new verb I'm coining - it really captures the spirit of walking with a walker). I've got my lip balm in case of a chapped lip emergency; hand cream to rub on flaking skin from rash around scar; Kleenex; emergency snack. I'm all set for the day.

 

I'm developing a walker callous on the heel of my left hand. It started yesterday when I walked my farthest distance to date, from the parking lot to the surgeon's office. I'm guessing the distance was under 200m and I did not have to stop for a break mid-way. Hussein Bolt watch your back.

 

The surgeon's appointment went well. An elderly Hutterite lady really wanted to be my friend: we traded hip stories and she asked me when I would finish school. She thought I was 16 and when I told her I was 27 and working she laughed like it was the best joke she'd heard in a while. Dr. Johnston waved me over to the exam room to introduce me to his first PAO patient. She's five years post-op and has young kids and a normal life. Dr. Johnston had her walk down the hallway for me so I could admire her normal gait. Hope really does spring eternal.

 

Dr. Johnston was really pleased with my healing: I have no nerve damage, the pain I feel at night is normal, and my mobility is pretty good. He kind of laughed at me when I got my leg lifter from around my neck to hoist my leg onto the exam table. Apparently most patients aren't as keenly prepared for their appointments.

 

(Leg lifter in action)

 

Dr. Johnston manipulated my joint and moved my knee around in a circle. That felt so wrong - I can't even describe the sensation - it just kind of grossed my body out because the muscles are still protecting the broken bones and my hip has never been able to make that movement smoothly and without pain. Another bizarre sensation is when I lay down my hip bones don't feel the same: the left operated-on hip feels higher, more centered, and the ridge of the hip bone seems more prominent. By comparison the right hip feels shallower and off to the side. It's weird.

 

Anyways, I next meet with the surgeon in one month. I'll have X-rays done and I may be able to increase my weight bearing status! Until then I'll be hanging with my cats in my muu-muus, just generally keeping it real in true #ballinwalker fashion.  



Recuperatin'

I have reached the two-week recovery mark! It's been a mere two weeks since hands were in my pelvis re-arranging my hip bone alignment, and I have to say that I'm doing fairly well. There's possibly four more weeks until I can be full-weight bearing; possibly one month until I could walk, start physio, go for a swim... I can't wait. In the meantime I can put 20-30 pounds of weight on my left foot: I use a walker to get around the house. I'm careful to transfer all of my weight onto my hands while making a heel-toe step with my left foot when I walk. I'm not allowed to lift or fully extend my left leg, maybe because using the muscles could pull things out of alignment (?), so I have a handy-dandy leg lifter to maneuver my foot onto the bed or couch. It looks like a yoga strap with a loop at the bottom. I wear it around my neck when I walk - all symbolic, like an albatross.

Recovery is fairly uneventful. Netflix is my best friend. I watch a lot of television shows, but they can't be nuanced, plot/dialogue heavy or hard to follow because I don't have my brain back. It's been missing for two weeks. Occasionally it makes an appearance so I can write or have a quasi-intelligent conversation, but by-and-large my brain has abandoned me. I can't read yet - all the words jumble together. I can't even concentrate long enough to read the Heathrow Airport British Chick-lit book about marriage misadventures that I've been saving for three years.

I do a lot of napping; napping is probably my favorite pastime right now.

aren't they cute?

 

The cats are happy because they don't even have to change rooms to supervise me. I have to sleep on my back, so Gizmo gets a lot of time to park his fat butt on my chest and just hang out there. Fact: All cats love being sick.

 

My routine is simple but nice: wake up, sit in creeper chair (my rocking chair by the window where I watch the children walk to school. I actually believe the children think I'm some sort of witch because I'm always in the same chair, watching them with my hair standing up while I'm stroking a cat. They don't look in my window or pick-up toys that fall in our lawn, and they shuffle past our house rather quickly). Anyways, I eat breakfast, give myself a needle in the stomach (bloodthinner) and take my pills. Every other day is shower day! I then watch TV, look out the window, and if I'm feeling up to it I venture into the living room to work on a jigsaw puzzle. I have a Guinness every evening: it's high in iron and liquid painkiller is an essential part of every post-op diet. Sometimes I have the required hand-eye coordination to knit and sometimes I don't.

 

Once in a while my routine is punctured. Rash:

wasn't the most welcome interruption. (Sorry if that image has scarred your eyeballs). Turns out that I'm allergic to steri-strips. I spent a lot of time on the phone procuring skin-care advice from my sister and applying lotions to stop the burning. Visitors are always welcome, and if I know they're coming I put a bra on. Yesterday was my first time outside of the house. I had a doctors appointment, and I had to climb an entire flight of stairs to get there. I did reach my destination, albeit out of breath, sweating profusely, dizzy, and almost-scary pale. I made it back down the stars, and spent the rest of the day in bed watching Community. Tonight is a big night: I'm planning a trip downstairs to watch the Survivor Finale live. If anything is worth a trip downstairs, Jeff Probst is. Survivor 4evah.

That's recovery. It isn't so bad. Once I get my brain back I might even feel bored.  I think Craft Tuesday may be happening next Tuesday. Plan a visit!

My Poop Story

I've always had an affinity for poop and fart jokes. Firstly, they're universally hilarious - even if someone pretends to be disgusted by the vulgarity, they're secretly giggling on the inside. Secondly, I have two brothers. I am in my late twenties, and they still sit on me and fart on me at least twice a year. Thirdly, I'm a nurse. Our profession deals with poop a lot: it plays an important role in health and well-being. In fact, a major trigger for delirium in seniors is constipation; sometimes they have a poop and they revert to their normal selves. Plus, you've never seen a dramatic personality improvement until you've deal with someone before and after a major back-up. The transformative powers of a good poop are really amazing.

Before my surgery, my brothers played a laugh-tastic game: name your last fart after a movie title. My personal favorites were: The Sound of Music, Twister, The Godfather, Waterworld, and Captain Phillips. The list goes on - it's a fun game. I'm glad I played it: it put me in the mindset to laugh (rather than feel demoralized) at my own poop story.

Everyone is at risk of constipation in the hospital, especially immobile individuals taking high doses of morphine. (Me).  I was afraid constipation would be my fate in hospital, and it was. I had some luck but not enough. The day I was discharged I wore a striped maxi-dress/muu-muu, and everyone was gracious enough not to point out that I looked six months pregnant. Seriously, my belly was so painfully distended that I even took a picture. I immediately erased it out of shame. Oh, it was so painful, my bloated stomach. Something had to happen.

That evening, after a few false hopes and fruitless attempts, I hobbled over to the raised toilet seat with my walker and banished Dan from the room. He kept lurking because I was deathly pale, but I persisted in shooing him away, and he would check up on me in five minute intervals. I strained. Ah, how I strained. It's a hard thing to do when all of your insides hurt, when you're exhausted, and when your hip really hurts. However, I was determined to be victorious and I kept working away until I reached a small modicum of success. I called Dan into the room. I was pale, collapsed onto the bathroom walls, and literally panting. I needed a glass of water and a cold compress around my neck to keep me from passing out. I was destroyed, ruined. That small poop was harder and more punishing than finishing an effing Ironman - no jokes.

I got back to bed and started crying. Blearily, I asked Dan: is this ever going to be funny? And he said: it's already funny. There's always a choice - to laugh or cry. I laughed.

The next morning, well, let's just say that success was mine. I texted my little brother to share the good news. I showed Number Two exactly who he worked for. And if you don't get that reference, you probably don't like my story.

P.O.D. #2: The Darkest of Days

I am home.

There's no place like home: the tastes, smells, cats and blessed silence. I've had some time to reflect on my hospitalization: I have a very good surgeon; I had knowledgeable and kind nursing staff. However, post-op day number two (P.O.D. #2) haunts my hospitalization experience. It really was the darkest of days. I don't want to dwell on it or remember it forever, but I feel like it's important to share my story.

Anemia is a truly horrible feeling. On P.O.D. #2 my hemoglobin was 78, 8 points away from requiring a transfusion. I have never felt so ghastly in my life. I was pale as death; literally you couldn't distinguish my lips from my skin. I had no energy and sitting up created this black vortex in front of my eyes. I couldn't stop shaking - large scale tremors that rattled the bed. Plus the pain of pinned together hip bones and hands inside your pelvis. I can't describe that pain. I had a button I could push for pain medication - a P.C.A. of dilaudid.

Pain and Anemia set the tone for my story. Basically I did not feel good before horrors of the day began.

My nurse for the day was a very sweet LPN, 'P,' and she had a student following her. They rounded on me fairly early, around 7:30. That day I was supposed to have an X-ray at 10:45, my drains pulled out, my catheter removed ad my pain management switched from the PCA button to pills, a long-acting and short-acting morphine. After P's initial round, I didn't hear from her again. In fact no one checked on me, offered me water, helped me set up for breakfast, or assist me with am care, which is bad because all patients need to be rounded on every hour. I pushed the call bell for my meds a few times but no one came to my room. P finally gave me my 0800 meds at 0930. At this time I was getting anxious about getting ready for the X-ray and taking the long-acting pills to control my pain. As a nurse I knew that long-acting pain meds take about 30-45 minutes to be effective. Therefore I should be given the long-acting pain meds well before the PCA is removed so I have some sort of pain-killer in my body. It's pretty logical: there has to be an overlap with the medications to control pain. I told P I wanted the meds, and P said she would come back but that she was really busy with other patients.

At 1015 the LPN student and her instructor came into the room to remove my catheter. At 1030, very close to my X-ray, I needed to pee. I called for help and the only person who came to help transfer me from the bed to the commode chair was the LPN instructor. This was bad. I hadn't been taught how to transfer and the instructor had never heard of a PAO surgery so she didn't know what precautions were needed. Luckily I transferred to the commode safely. When I was on the can, P came into the bathroom with another nurse to remove my PCA - before I had the long-acting pain killer.

However this nurse knew what was up, and she told P it wasn't appropriate to do this in the bathroom. She transferred me (safely) onto the stretcher, gave me my long-acting pain killer, and took off the PCA. Basically I had no pain-killer in my body two days after the most invasive, aggressive and painful surgery that the orthopods perform.

The journey down to X-ray was definitely not comfortable. I felt every jostle and bump. In X-ray, they had to slide me back and forth from the stretcher to a hard surface. I screamed when they moved me. As soon as I got back to the unit I took the short-acting morphine, but I didn't feel good: anemia, pain, and something else. I finally met my nursing assistant, Q, who got me to the bathroom. Then I started puking. I mean, gross, projectile, all over myself, the floor, my compression stockings, everywhere puking. And it wouldn't stop. I stripped off my gown and I start to cry and shake.

P runs out of the room to get some IV medication for me without assessing me or asking other nurses for help. I want to shower off the puke, but Q isn't sure if I can because of my dressing, so she says she will go ask P if I can. I'm cold, naked, crying and puke-sodden. P is a sweet girl but she hasn't assessed me, given me proper medications, or safely transferred me, so I tell Q: Go get someone who knows what they are doing. This offends Q. She leaves the bathroom as I ask for something to rinse my mouth out. She gives me a glass of water and then leaves. I have a mouth full or puke and nowhere to spit it out, so I scramble for an absorbent blue pad and continue heaving. P rushes into the room to set up my IV - she doesn't come see me first. Q walks into the room, loudly tells P that I "want a nurse who knows what she is doing" and then leaves. I am crying, shaking, puking, naked and alone in a hospital bathroom, two days post-op.

Thankfully, my mom enters the room and takes control. She wheels me into the shower, cleans me and soothes me. All I'm stammering out is: How could someone say that about me? How could someone treat another person like that? Q humiliated me. Eventually the hysteria died down. P got me into bed. It's past 1200. She doesn't check my vitals or assess me after a major fluid loss. Mom demands to speak to the charge nurse, to whom I tell my story.

It's almost one by the time I get more pain-medication, anti-emetics and my vital signs are finally checked. We see the unit manager, and he promises that what I experienced won't happen again. And it doesn't. For the rest of my hospitalization, I'm paired with competent, knowledgeable RNs and strong, helpful NAs. But it can't erase how I felt.... Utter humiliation. Extreme pain. Total frustration and betrayal with the health-care system and nursing care.

What happened to me on P.O.D. #2 shouldn't happen to anyone. No one should be left alone, naked and vomiting in a bathroom. Our system needs strong nursing care. I'm moving on: I'm getting stronger, and I have some hilarious poop stories I'll post later. I'm getting P.O.D. #2, the darkest of days, out of my system.

Sara is ew

Hi, I am in the hospital, on unit 81 at the Rocky. I'm on a narcotic drip and fairly anemic so this might not make the most sense. Dr Johnston said the surgery went really well and he's happy with the joint alignment. Waiting for the surgery was its own terrifying experience I'll profile later. Surgery was five hours. I spent for hours in recovery. The shakes I got from the anesthetic terrified me- so convulsive and strong. My pain was terrible but they got it in control with hydromorphone. I made it up to the unit afterwards and met Dan and my mom. I was so crazy high. Giving myself toast was a game of here comes the airplane. My lips were the same color as my skin. Not cool. The night was rough. I hurt and when I feel asleep the pain would build up and them I'd wake up. Plus I am on the same side of the unit with all the bed alarms. Not a restive environment. Today was long. I was feeling gross and couldn't believe I'd ever get better or that I could survive another surgery. I felt way better after physio. I stood! Up! Sitting on the side of the bed and then standing is probably the hardest thing I've ever done and I'm very proud. The physio said I was her best PAO post op day one ever. I have also never been so pale or felt so woosy. So its evening and I am hoping to stand one more time tonight. I'm pretty whack-a-do still. I think I make sense but the drugs and low hemoglobin make me shaky and make it hard to keep my eyes open. Anyways that is my post op day one review. Thanks for all the good vibes, I'm using them all up!

Update: I atood again! Feels so good!

Gah! Tomorrow is the Day!!!

I imagine the nerves before you get married are pretty intense; after all, you're yoking your life to someone else's for the rest of time. The nerves can't possibly compare to what I'm feeling right now. I feel even worse than that nauseating dread I got before piano exams and recitals. I'm breathing like a smoker; my hands have this fine tremor; and I'm singing a weird ditty under my breath from a computer game we played as kids, N & N Toymakers. The game featured an egomaniacal cat who takes control over Santa's Workshop. Neowneow (the cat) forces his elf-slaves to sing: what a luck-luck-luck-luck-lucky day that you came our way. I'm singing that, but with swear words.

I'm beyond feeling anything. I'm just caught in this paralyzing anticipation. I-don't-want-to-go-tomorrow. Blearheilimugisolajiop. Bleariabpaty. Bloooopb. My brain isn't making words, just letter blobs. Blear blabitty poop.

I've got my hospital bag all ready to go: got my meds, muu-muu, tooth brush, young adult novel and sensible clogs for physio. I'm having my last dinner tonight with the fam, and all members of said fam are actually in town. But I know that I make the worst company right now. When people talk to me all I want to do is cry but at the same time I don't want to cry anymore, so I don't say much or breathe deeply because if I do I will emit ragged sobs. I must look really constipated. I've got some MET Gala coverage to read but otherwise I'm ready for today to be over so tomorrow, the event I've been waiting for/dreading for five months, can just happen already. But really and truly I don't want today to be over and I don't want the stupid surgery and it isn't fair that this is happening to me blarrg blaaah blip blap snioenios.

Moving on from letter blobs, I've always suspected that animals, even cats, perceive the currents of emotional energy that run rampant through us. Gizmo, my fatty, is a little moody with his affection. Since I've been home on disability he's like: God, why the hell are you home all the time? I can't sleep if you're constantly molesting/petting me. However, the last couple of days he's been keeping an eye on me: sleeping in the same room that I'm in; waking me up at four in the morning to sit on my chest, purr loudly and nuzzle his face in my neck. Late this morning he lay across my chest like a fat little sausage, as if he knew I needed the extra pets and compression.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading my posts! I'm touched that I've been able to connect with so many people from different parts of my life. I've gotten way more page views than I ever thought I would - so of course now I'm fame hungry. Tell all your friends about my blog! Let's make hip dysplasia go viral! Sincerely, I appreciate all the good vibes being sent my way. I'll be sure to send out a drug influenced post as soon as I can.

Bon chance!

Intuition Failed Me

As my surgery date rapidly approaches, I keep wondering: how could I have not sensed that something was so wrong in my body? I've done a lot of activities like yoga, choir, and tai-chi that teach mind-body awareness. I'm perceptive about my health and my body; it irks me that I couldn't tell I had a problem.

I have always loved pushing myself physically - probably because it's a trait I admire in my Dad. I did my first full marathon, the Big Sur race in California, at aged 19 with my Dad. The race bib and excitement of the mass start got under my skin. It's hard to describe the feeling of community you get when thousands of people are sweating beside you to reach the same finish line. After the race, I knew my Dad was proud of me. The experience was addictive: even though every muscle in my body hurt, I was planning my next race. (Surprise, Dad had signed me up for a half-marathon the following week in the Redwood Forests).

My Dad did his first Ironman when I was in junior high, and I knew it was something I had to do. Finishing a race everyone else deemed impossible was very attractive to me; it was the ultimate test, the ultimate physical challenge, and the ultimate proof that I could do whatever I set my mind to. I signed up with my friend Keith to do the race after only doing one baby triathlon.

I'm not a naturally gifted endurance athlete, so I had to work hard for the ten months leading up to the race. The four hour runs and eight hour bike rides took their toll, and I'd start to feel pain and a kind of clinking sensation in my left hip. Of course training with triathlon nerds creates a groupthink mentality: eat the protein bars, buy a better bike, and ignore the pain! I reasoned that something was bound to hurt if I was doing an Ironman, so I didn't think my hip pain was anything serious. I just started taking Ibuprofen: it made the runs easier and the butt-pain during long rides tolerable. I finished the race and it is, without a doubt, one of my proudest accomplishment.

I marvel that I could finish the race in pain, take Advil every four hours, and still not know that something was wrong.

Last fall I started learning Olympic weight-lifting. I loved it. I miss it. I was good at: my Scottish-Germanic heritage was happy, I found an athletic activity I was actually good at! Seriously I should be schlepping cows around because I am very strong. I loved lifting the bar, stacking it with weights, and then dropping it on the floor after a set of squats. I loved the looks I'd get when I deadlifted almost as much as some bros at the gym and their masculinity was threatened.  I even loved the callous build-up on my hands. I was getting really into lifting when my hip began to deteriorate, and I could tell that lifting caused hip pain. It hurt but I still didn't think anything was wrong at a basic alignment level.

The funny thing is that people have asked me if I ever suspected something was wrong with my hip. Their tone belies that I should have sensed it. This basic assumption exists (and I know because I once shared this belief) that anyone in touch with their body should intrinsically know if something is really wrong. We've all seen the medical dramas where the beautiful surgeon wonders why didn't the patient come in sooner before the tumor started growing so big. If you can't blame the illness on something tangible like smoking, unchecked diabetes or obesity, then the fault of the illness must lie somewhere in the person. I still find it hard to believe that my bad hip isn't somehow my fault.

It's hard to accept the fact that things happen randomly; that you didn't luck out in the gene pool; that something you have no control over could affect your life so profoundly. Sometimes I think that if I'd been easier on my body and foregone the marathons I wouldn't be sitting at home on a Monday waiting to go for surgery on a Wednesday. But then I wouldn't be who I am right now, and I don't wish for that. I now know that I can't intuit everything that happens to me. Life happens without my control or permission, and I just have to deal with it one day at a time.

The Last Time

Life is fairly dramatic inside my head right now. Every time I see a friend it is the Last Time I will see them before my surgery. In reality I'm going to see those same friends shortly after the surgery; I'll probably end up seeing them more than I normally would. Still, in my mind it's the Last Time... The Last Time I'll see them... until surgery. My inner dialogue is currently replete with emphatic ellipses. It's not even as if it's the last time I'll see them before a really crazy change. For instance, it would be really bizarre seeing people one Last Time as a woman before a sex-change operation, or  Last visit before giving up all material possessions to join a commune in California. I'm not planning on becoming a man or a hippie, but I'm really practicing my Last Time farewells.

It's my Last Weekend. Like all the cool 27 year olds, I'm going to Beer Festival with my family and my mom will likely push me around in my wheelchair. Sunday is the Last Time I can drink alcohol until I'm off of heavy duty drugs - and I think I'll miss my liquid pain killer. Tomorrow night is the Last Time I can take my Naproxen or any Advil. Tuesday is the last time I wear pants before a four month sojourn into muu-muus. Dinner on Tuesday will be the Last non-hospital meal I eat for a while.

People keep asking me how I'm feel these Last Few Days befor surgery. I don't know how to respond: anxious? Worried? I'd really like to just remain in denial, but that's hard to do because every time I glance down I see the yellow type and screen bracelet around my wrist. Or, I see this beautiful bruise:

 

 

That's from one very gentle blood collection, and the photo doesn't convey the full amount of purple and green in there. I'm seriously going to be one solid hematoma from all the labs, IV, and aggressive maneuvering of limbs during surgery. At least my muu-muus are voluminous.

 

So it's my Last Saturday. Then it's my Last Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Since it is my Last weekend I should drink a lot of liquid pain killer this afternoon. Good thing I have someone to wheel me around. 

Bruising and Muu-Muus

Shit's getting real.

Yesterday my mom took me out to buy muu-muus. Nothing beats their ease for post-surgical wear. No bending down to grab a pant leg, no pressure on new incisions, no waistbands, not for this girl Just easy-breezy muu-mus for all my summer style needs.

I also got my pre-surgical blood work done yesterday. I have been eating more beef than I usually do, so I hope those RBCs are nice and concentrated. I also have to wear a yellow band (to match my blood type in case I need a transfusion) until my surgery. At least, if I may say so myself, I have great veins. Seriously, they're practically garden hoses - they're every lab tech's dream. I'm so pale that all of my veins are ultra-visible- no palpating necessary. They're long and straight. You could throw an IV dart at my monster blue-green AC fossa and get it in, no problem. Fingers crossed I'll be an easy IV start... but I don't know, I've never had an IV before. (We don't practice on each other in nursing school if you're wondering. At least the rule-conscious students didn't).

Only problem with my translucent skin is that I bruise like a peach. I have a two inch long deep purple bruise from the collection poke yesterday. It's pretty gross; I look like a 90 year old on Warfarin. I'm going to have hideous bruising after surgery. I'll post lots of pictures.

Six days! Six days until surgery! I'm beyond freaking out. To quote one of my favorite holiday movies, I'm "shitting bricks." I'm a concentrated ball of nervous energy. Six more days!

Crafting Saved My Life

Honesty, if it weren't for all of my projects this winter, I would have gone insane. The OTs in my life (and there are quite a few) stressed the importance of finding things I enjoyed doing that I could still do with my disability. So I found activities that I liked, gave me a sense of purpose, and kept my hands busy. Busy hands stemmed my worrying by giving me something else to fixate on. When I start to worry that in nine days someone will have their hand in my pelvis and cut up my hip bones, I go sew. It's very therapeutic. It's similar to when our dogs get really antsy and my mom gives them a bone to calm them down. Crafts are stress smoking for the non-smoker. In my nerdiest of moments, I pretend that I am a Jane Austen heroine, doing what ladies do all day: lady-like crafts and pastimes. Lizzie Bennett probably didn't lounge in her pajamas until 1pm and follow celebrity gossip blogs, but I know that she could - like me, her spirit sister - embroider up some nice handkerchiefs.

My first project were these whimsical tablecloths:

They're always covered in hair (the cats, mine is too short to shed) and there isn't quite enough room on our table to lay out all four of them. I don't normally like cutesy but I saw the pattern and I knew I had to have lovebirds placemats to call my own.

Next up came the obsessive baking:

 

Everyone should know how to make bread, right? Making bread made me feel like I was reclaiming my inner pioneer woman by getting in touch with how basics are made. Never mind that I used my kitchen-aid to mix the dough. The baking phase was fun, and I was sad when I couldn't do all the standing required to bake and cook. I then turned my attention to finishing unfinished projects:

 

Haha morphine bottle to the right

I also started some new unfinished projects. I learned embroidery, very fun:

I also started this bizarre wool cat applique "penny rug" project. It's very confusing: why do the cats have carrot noses? Why are some cats wearing hats? I started it when I was visiting Toronto and my friend Jen was taken with it. Jen has claimed it.

I completed my first commissioned project:

 

Oh, and I made a recovery quilt for myself. I put that one up on an earlier post. Actually all the frenzied crafting started to make my right forearm really sore from lifting the iron up and down and repeated rotary cutting. I took a break from sewing to knit a sweater for my friend Laura. It's almost done- I just have to weave the loose ends in. I knit the shit out of it pretty quickly because I have watched at least 5 NHL games (!) this year, which is way above my annual quota. Knitting is great if you're feeling stressed or worried. Or if you are watching hockey.

 

I don't yet have the heart to tackle one knitting project that is haunting me: the reverse mullet cardigan. I made it for my sister-in-law, and somehow the front ended up being a good seven inches longer than the back. It looks absolutely ridiculous. I either have to knit more or rip out a lot of stitches. Ugh.

 

The last craft I've taken on is paper piecing, a really nifty quilting method. 

 

I nearly had a major meltdown on Friday because it's tricky and I cut 240 small pieces the wrong length... but crisis averted, I figured it out, and it's really fun.

 

Oh I also got most of a wedding planned this winter. That was fun, too. Next major craft I have planned is embroidering things for the wedding.

 

For the next phase of crafting, my mother, in all her OT wisdom, is instituting "craft Tuesdays" after my surgery. I can't tell if she's joking or not. I think she is serious. What I think will happen is that you can come over with a craft and bag of M+Ms for me and we can all craft together. Therapy for all!

 

Nurses Make the Worst Patients. Fact.

Guaranteed that whenever a nurse reads in a patient's profile that they are a Registered Nurse, that nurse will say F-ck. Here's why.

1) Could you wash your hands please?

2) Hmm, that's not the vein I would have chosen.

3) What's my hemoglobin today? What was it yesterday? How's my sodium? What's my creatinine trending? Did they do a thyroid draw? Can you make sure they get one today? Thanks. Oh, good morning.

4) So I don't mean to be annoying, but you just touched the computer. And that patient. Could you please wash your hands?

5) Actually, best policy states that only three bed rails should be up on that demented patient. See, all four side rails will increase risk of falls.

6) Are we sure that's still sterile?

7) Oh I don't take unpackaged meds, sorry. I need to know what I'm taking. You can open them at the bedside, thanks.

8) I'm pretty sure I smell c-diff.

9) I don't care what the resident says. He is an idiot. Page the attending.

10) You know I'm that patient. Just wash your hands when you see me.

Of course nurses are also the most patient and understanding patients when the floor is madness. They're on top of their health and motivated to get out of the hospital. Usually they're sweet and appreciative - albeit particular - and their partners bring in awesome treats for the staff. I'll be in hospital during nurses week (I think) so I'll be extra appreciative. But please wash your hands.

PAO Pals

As a pre-teen, I was obsessed with The Babysitter's Club book series. Those girls had everything: their own phone line, curfews, boyfriends, and super long hair. Their idyllic fourth of July beach parties, complete with fireworks, hot dogs and denim cut-offs, really set me up to be disappointed in my adolescence. As a teen I had the worst trifecta of features (short hair, braces and glasses) and the only clubs I belonged to in high school were book club and honor role club. Le sigh.

As an adult I really don't care about perusing the All-American teen-girl lifestyle. Girls worry over the dumbest things. Besides, I'm part of away better group now: PAO Pals. (Everyone I've spoken to with congenital hip dysplasia I hope you're okay with this name and being part of my club. If it's too lame you can drop out, I totally understand).

I've spoken with a couple PAO peeps on the phone, and today I met with two awesome individuals, Bill and CJ. I'm really glad that everyone's shared their experiences with me. There aren't many of us, and the pre-surgery package, as I've mentioned in a previous post, gives you no idea what to expect. No one uses pay phones, Alberta Health Services. No One.

So far, my PAO pals are all normal. Their legs seem the same approximate length and they don't walk with weird limps - all good things to someone nearing their surgery date. Everyone speaks really highly of Dr. Johnson and his work: pain and quality of life are way better after surgery. Plus I've gotten indispensable advice:

• Respect the surgery.
• DO PHYSIO. It hurts and it sucks but DO PHYSIO.
• PCA no way (the little button post-surgery that delivers pain medication). Long-acting oxy is where it's at.
• Quit boozin' two weeks pre-surgery. (I'm still going to beer fest).
• Swim as soon as you can.
• Listen to Dr. Johnston. If he says no walking, no walking: your pins can shift under the weight. Ew.
• Make an excel spreadsheet to keep track of your drug intake.
• Prepare to watch TV, sleep and eat ice cream.

Plus I've seen scars, pictures of X-rays and pins in the hip, and I feel like I know what to expect the day of my surgery. My PAO people were really positive and excited for my surgery and how I would feel soon after. Everyone I've talked to is physical proof that there is life beyond surgery!

It's the Final Countdown

I'm pretty good at waiting. I hang out with a lot of 90+ people, and when you're that age all you do is wait; an attitude of patience and acceptance is necessary for a body that moves pretty slowly. I've been excellent at waiting these five months. Now that the countdown to the big day is approaching a one digit number I'm starting to freak out. Fifteen days. I kinda feel like I did back when I was a kid and there were two weeks left of summer vacation: a little excited to go to school, learn new things, and stop watching Price is Right everyday, but mostly reluctant to go meet new people, wear real clothes and give up summer.

It's hard to describe what it's like to wait for major surgery, especially as the surgery draws closer. I'm in disbelief: because of my bad luck something will happen and the surgery will be delayed for another three months. I anticipate getting my life back and maybe getting to swim and do physio in two months. Mostly I'm terrified of possible pain, surgical complications, hospitalization, and immobilization. Surprisingly I feel sad, too.

My life isn't very exciting or action packed right now. It's limited by pain. It's monotonous and quiet and structured around waiting, but it's my life and it's known. Take away the wait and I don't know what comes next. Fear makes me wistful for what I have and focus on potential losses. It makes the change harder.

Now everything I do is an actual stroke off my pre-surgery list: Easter and family dinner, done. Wedding dress, done. (Hurray!) Next up engagement photos, my last weekend and then.... May 7. It's hard to relax and enjoy anything with this auspicious countdown to someone opening me up, breaking my bones and sticking their hand in my pelvis.

I felt the same sense of anticipation overshadowed by dread before I left on my sailing trip. It was the first time I'd ventured out on my own and I was such a homebody; I loved home and hated venturing from it. People were surprised I was doing this trip because I wasn't the adventurous type, but that's why I knew I had to go. As the date crept close I couldn't remember why I'd signed up in the first place. There were so many unknowns! I wouldn't know anyone, Papua New Guinea was so remote, and there was no possible way to know if I'd packed enough sunscreen. For the first two months I was away, I felt incredibly homesick; it physically hurt how much I missed home and family. Eventually that hurt lessened and I had an amazing time.

I guess what I need to do is to be sensible: try not to panic, try not to slash giant Xs through each day in the calendar as it passes, try not to live these upcoming two weeks like a giant to-do list. It would be wise to just live in the moment. However that is impossible.  I think my goal is to not worry so much, and when I'm struck by fear to squeeze onto something really tightly and wait for the moment to pass.

Fifteen more days!

Bridal Moment

Last summer my sister banned me from watching TLC's illustrious television program Say Yes To The Dress because, simply put, it turned me into a crazy-person. I'm normally fairly level-headed but  the show amplified my impulsive streak. My thoughts ran like this: Dan is the man I want to marry, so why not just get married now? Why not just speed up the dating process and get married sooner rather than later so I can get that done and move on with life? So many girls on the show get engaged after a few months of dating, so we could too, right? Sure some of the brides who want 'butt cleavage' seem a bit shallow but I'm not like that.  If Dan isn't ready now, he will be soon enough, so I just start thinking about important things like lace or beading... ball gown or fit-and flare... number of bridesmaids... I've never seen a girl with short hear wear a veil... Maybe there are pictures on the internet...

Poor Dan. My sister was right, and I had to stop watching Say Yes. My ban was lifted at the end of January when Dan proposed. I was allowed to think about full skirts, cascading layers of tulle, and hints of blush. And today it was my time to have the 'bridal moment' Randy, from Say Yes, talks about so much.

Of course, I never imagined that buying a dress would happen exactly how it is now happening. I didn't think my story would resemble the 'brides overcoming the odds' or 'gimpy brides' themed episodes. We needed to space out our appointments because I get pretty fatigued. There's a lot of standing, stepping up and down platforms, twisting, and preening in heavy dresses. I definitely needed more help than your average bride stepping in and out of the gowns, and I needed a few rest breaks in the hour-long appointment. However, my disability didn't dampen the process at all. With each dress I transformed into a bride wearing white. No one saw my bad hip, not even me: they saw me smiling and feeling radiant in billowing fabrics. I know it sounds a little corny, but my experience is so much richer because of what I've gone through.

Dan and I have grown a lot as partners during this process. We've tackled issues that not many couples our age have to face. Our love, patience and trust have been tested and will be tested again after my surgery. I am excited for our fun wedding next year but the marriage that will follow is much more important. Yes, I'm dreaming of my dress, but I'm dreaming of the life I will share with Dan, too.

I was a little worried, a few weeks ago, that my disability would overshadow my bridal moment. I now know that was a thought conceived out of self-pity. I had a wonderful morning: I spent the day with two of the most important people in my life; I wore beautiful gowns; I felt beautiful. I have a few more bridal appointments this week and I can agonize over style, fabric, shape and detail for hours on end. No gimpy hip can hijack my bridal moment.

Wrong Sara

This shouldn't be me. I shouldn't be here. Maybe they have the wrong Sara Ross? The Sara Ross sitting in the Pre-Admission Clinic waiting room should be old and decrepit. I fit neither of those descriptors: I shouldn't be here, in this hospital, waiting for an anesthesiology consult.

A heavy-set lady lumbers into the waiting room shortly after I arrive. She limps painfully and wheezes short, rattling breaths. She can't attract the unit clerk's attention - the unit clerk is sitting in the back room, prattling on about her new roller blades - and the limping woman collapses into a chair in defeat, her girth threatening to tip the small chair. "I can't stand for any longer," she whines in pitiful tones: "it's not even the knees, it's the sciatica today." I avoid eye contact. I cannot muster any sympathy; I don't want to bond with her, one sick patient conspiring with another.

Soon the nurse leads me into a small exam room, takes my blood pressure and asks all the routine screening questions. My vitals are perfect and I have no surgical risks. I am a healthy young woman - but there she is, typing in a medical chart that has my name written on it. She is the nurse. I am the patient.

She leaves the door ajar while I wait for the doctor. Other patients plod slowly past my room and I hear snippets of conversation: yes, I'm wearing the sleep mask at night; yeah, the new pace-maker is working all right; my blood pressure has been pretty good lately. Smokers, diabetics, seniors, the obese: every high risk patient is here. And me. We are all waiting to see the doctors who have started their rounds an hour late.

When the anesthesiologist breezes into see me, he looks mildly puzzled. After going through my history he concedes, very kindly, that bad luck has brought me here. He tells me that I am a young, healthy whipper-snapper; the odds are in my favor; they'll manage my pain and in a few years we can look back on this whole thing and laugh. Don't worry.

I can't stop worrying, though. It's one of those days where it's hard to gather enough damned energy to be optimistic and brave. At the end of the day I am a patient, and that's really, really tough for me to deal with. But my mom and sister-in-law let me cry in public, give me a hug and buy me a latte. Dan makes me a great dinner. And in a gesture of sublime animal intuition, Marvin gave me his most selective demonstration of love: my first kiss on the eyelid.

10 Cardinal Rules for Surviving Disability

1) Become really invested in your cats. I recommend at least two. Get to know their sleeping patterns, prime cuddle times, and favorite hangout locations. Harness their purrs because they have healing powers. (Science actually says so). Other pets, like dogs, are ok too. My brother has a little Chihuahua that loves snuggling all the time and is extremely portable.

 My little Gizmo; my other man; my fatty.

Marvin didn't initially like me that much. I was persistent and forced my love onto him. Now we snuggle. Marvin enjoys sewing.

 

2) Leave the house daily. This is a lofty goal and often proves unattainable. But it is nice to leave the house. I go to the same Starbucks a couple of times a week, and I've created imaginary relationships with the Baristas who work there. It's kind of like visiting friends, but not really.

 

3) TREAT YOURSELF!



Once a week I treat myself to something special: new nailpolish, a book, a massage (RNs, you can get a prescription and get 30 bucks back!) It makes you feel, in the words of L'Oreal, worth it.

 

4) Create a reading goal. I've always wanted to read more Charles Dickens, so I tackled The Old Curiosity Shop, A Tale of Two Cities and The Mayor of Casterbridge (actually a Thomas Hardy novel). You feel erudite, you learn new words, and you get more naps. Next up: Nicolas Nickleby.

 

5) No day-time television, including anything PVR'd or Netflix. This rule is hard but it's a cruel world and cultivating discipline is important.

 

6) Shower every day. Put on clothes every day. This can happen as late in the day as you want, but hygiene is important.

 

7) Hobby Hobby Hobby! I make quilts. For example:



This is my recovery quilt for after surgery. Helpful for building my cat relationships and staying warm while reading or performing hobbies. See how many rules are interconnected?

Be creative with your hobbies! When my brother lived in Brampton, he started a cat photography blog. There's knitting, making jewelry, calligraphy, scrapbooking, meditation, language learning... All sorts of things to do that don't require standing. (More masculine activities are out there, I just don't do any).

 

8) Cultivate friendships. I talk more frequently with close friends and really value my friends who find the time to write me an email, send me a text, go for a coffee.

 

9) Use the internet with discretion. This blog has been a great way to re-connect with old friends and meet other people who have my condition, but I find myself getting a little caught up on it. Spending hours planning your dream wedding, reading about every hip dysplasia surgery ever performed, or too much pinning/Facebook/Instagram/Reddit/website of choice leaves you disconnected from the real world and a little bit lonelier.

 

10) Put lipstick on that pig. Once a week, wear pants that don't have an elastic waistband. Put on a colorful shirt. Remind the world that you still got it.