#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!