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!