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.