I am 10 days post hip replacement.
I have a lot more understanding now, more knowledge about all the things I feared.
The pain has not been too bad. Since I awakened from surgery, it has been well managed. The precautions, dictating how I move, have been manageable. I daresay that I am now an expert at getting just about anywhere, and doing almost anything, without bending at the waist, crossing my legs, or twisting. The worst parts have probably been my inability to sleep in my favorite positions, and being sick from the medications. Oh yeah, that, and waking in the middle of surgery to hear the surgeon hammering the implant into my femur. Overall, it is not as bad as I feared.
My baby girl is a champion. She is overjoyed to spend so much time with her grandparents, and we are finding ways to interact, despite my limitations. Several times every day, she approaches me, points to my right leg, and says "Mommy's okay leg," and subsequently points to my left leg and says "Mommy's owie leg." She has shown compassion and sweetness, rubbing lotion on my leg and fixing the toes on the stockings I have to wear every day to prevent blood clots.
It is good to have all these answers as I face another surgery in 3 days.
I think my surgeon knew, as soon as he closed 10 days ago, that the discrepancy in the length of my legs was significant. He expressed concern, but said he wanted to see how I felt about it. I have definitely noticed. It is difficult to stand on both legs without bending my left knee. When I sit, it seems apparent that my left femur is longer. After a series of X-rays yesterday, we learned that there is nearly an inch difference.
I had a long talk with my surgeon about what happened, and about my options. He said that because of the surgeries I underwent as a child, the normal "landmarks" that he uses to determine leg length were missing. He said that I could live with the discrepancy, and potentially put lifts into my shoe that would help make my legs even. But there could be problems down the road. The tilt in my pelvis could cause pain and arthritis in my back. And possibly cause problems with my other hip.
My other option is more surgery to make adjustments to my hip implant. My surgeon said he feels confident that he can make my legs much more even by changing the angle of the femoral head, and changing the insert in the cup of the joint. Overall, it should be an easier surgery than the first. But it will add two more weeks to my recovery.
Last night, I was upset. I feel scared of more complications. I feel discouraged. It is difficult to feel as though I have taken so many steps forward to then go back. It sucks to potentially miss two more weeks of my summer. I hate that the time I can't play with Kinnie, fully, is extended.
Today, I am reminding myself and in the grand scheme of things, this is a tiny speck of time, that my coming recovery will be even better, because I have such a clear picture of how it is going to look. I have incredible support from all over the place. I am reminding myself that it will be okay.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Early
It is too early to be up. Especially when the baby is still sleeping. But eyes popped open, and my thought process went something like this: "What time is it? Oh, 5:00. One week from right now I could be in surgery." And that was it. I certainly was not going back to sleep.
The slew of emotions I experience in anticipating one week from today is overwhelming. A lot of those, perhaps, can be summed up in one word: anxious. I am anxious about how surgery will go, how it will feel to wake up and have a new hip, how bad the pain will be. I am anxious about all the restrictions in my movement, and how hard it will be to remember to keep my legs at shoulder's width apart, to not bend at the waist more than eighty degrees, and to not twist my new hip in any fashion. All of that, for six weeks. I am anxious about my baby girl, and how she will be, how much she will understand, and whether this will change our relationship (ah, this is where a lot of it lies- the waterworks have commenced). I am anxious about how this will weigh on Brian, trying to take care of all of us- granted, with a lot of help.
I am also grateful. I am grateful for the outpouring of support, and all the family members and friends signed up to help us out with the baby, the house, the dogs. I am grateful that after I recover, I will no longer be in pain. I am grateful that this is something that can be fixed, from which I know I will recover. I am grateful that my leave from work means a break, and fresh start in 7 weeks- the kind of opportunity which is rare in my line of work.
I am humbled. I am humbled by having to ask for so much help, and receiving more than we could need.
One of the lessons for me in this experience is that I will only recover if I ask others for help. Though I like to be super-woman, I cannot in this situation. And this is a lesson I need to learn. I am a caretaker. I like to do for others. I don't like to ask of others anything that I may accomplish on my own. Even when it would make more sense to ask for help. I still remember when I had my appendix out, many years ago, and a friend called and asked if she could could walk the dogs for me. I told her no. Even though everything in me wanted to say yes. I didn't want to inconvenience.
I realize now how much it means to me to be able to help others. And that, when I deprive others of the same opportunity, it isn't fair. And that I am deserving of help. I hope this is a lesson I can learn with grace.
So, the countdown is on, in earnest. I'm not sure if my next post will be before new hip, or after new hip. And, yes Mama, I am saying the serenity prayer....
I realize now how much it means to me to be able to help others. And that, when I deprive others of the same opportunity, it isn't fair. And that I am deserving of help. I hope this is a lesson I can learn with grace.
So, the countdown is on, in earnest. I'm not sure if my next post will be before new hip, or after new hip. And, yes Mama, I am saying the serenity prayer....
Friday, May 4, 2012
An open letter
Dear Left Hip,
I am lying in bed, on a heating pad, after taking as much Ibuprofen as I could stomach, to try to calm you. I am counting down the days until a new, less damaged, more stable hip takes your place. I have purchased the necessary medical equipment (including the LOVELY bedside commode) and am losing sleep over what it will be like. I am eager to be free of pain. But losing you is bitter sweet.
I am not sure whether it is your fault, or mine, that you ended up dislocated with a tendon knotted in you, making you malformed. Maybe it was because I was trying to enter the world butt-first. Or, maybe, I was butt first because you were a mess. I guess that we'll never know for sure. I am lucky, I think, that I don't remember the first surgery to try and correct our problem. At two months old, it was probably traumatic for us both. And then living life in a body cast for months... well, that couldn't have been pleasant, particularly with diapers involved.
I also don't remember why, when we were 9, it was decided that more surgery needed to be performed. I don't remember having pain, or being limited. But, clearly there was some major work to be done. To try and help us, they cut bones in half, screwed bone together, and left us with some cool metal gear in there. Do you remember all the work we had to do to get well? Two weeks in the hospital, three months on crutches. Now that I'm a parent, I can't imagine going through that with my child. We were lucky we had so much support. Mom stayed every night in the hospital, and do you remember that Papa came by every day with a gift? Dad took care of everything at home, and aunts and uncles came to read to us. I also remember that I missed the last 6 weeks of fourth grade, but my teacher came to visit, and brought a Garfield balloon. I drew a lot of pictures. And we had to do a lot of practice on those crutches to manage stairs. It was terrifying, but I daresay we became experts. And we recovered.
After that, we were a little more limited. The metal plate would be dangerous to fall on, so I had to protect you with a lot of padding when I went ice skating, and I wasn't allowed to ski. I didn't like to sleep on my left side anymore (my former favorite sleeping position) because somehow I could feel the pressure of the plate in there.
When the time came to remove all your hardware, we spent a few more nights in the hospital after a much easier surgery. And after that, we were essentially free. My family was told I would likely need a replacement one day, but that always seemed so far away.
For years, I didn't think about you much. From time to time, I'd be asked about the scars, and would be briefly reminded of what we had been through. I finally tried skiing (and found it was not my forte). You did your job, despite it all. I remember the first time that I was aware that you were not "just a normal hip" was in college, when I went through a two week period of pain. It scared me, but as quickly as the pain came, it left.
In the ten years since, we have seen a lot of life together. We've traveled, walked miles and miles along beaches and forest paths. We tried snowboarding (also not my forte), and climbed mountains. We've carried a child, in my womb and out, so many places.
I appreciate that you have carried me. It is not with spite that I have decided to replace you. But, rather, with gratitude. Though we struggled, I learned a lot along the way. Thank you for all you have given.
I am lying in bed, on a heating pad, after taking as much Ibuprofen as I could stomach, to try to calm you. I am counting down the days until a new, less damaged, more stable hip takes your place. I have purchased the necessary medical equipment (including the LOVELY bedside commode) and am losing sleep over what it will be like. I am eager to be free of pain. But losing you is bitter sweet.
I am not sure whether it is your fault, or mine, that you ended up dislocated with a tendon knotted in you, making you malformed. Maybe it was because I was trying to enter the world butt-first. Or, maybe, I was butt first because you were a mess. I guess that we'll never know for sure. I am lucky, I think, that I don't remember the first surgery to try and correct our problem. At two months old, it was probably traumatic for us both. And then living life in a body cast for months... well, that couldn't have been pleasant, particularly with diapers involved.
I also don't remember why, when we were 9, it was decided that more surgery needed to be performed. I don't remember having pain, or being limited. But, clearly there was some major work to be done. To try and help us, they cut bones in half, screwed bone together, and left us with some cool metal gear in there. Do you remember all the work we had to do to get well? Two weeks in the hospital, three months on crutches. Now that I'm a parent, I can't imagine going through that with my child. We were lucky we had so much support. Mom stayed every night in the hospital, and do you remember that Papa came by every day with a gift? Dad took care of everything at home, and aunts and uncles came to read to us. I also remember that I missed the last 6 weeks of fourth grade, but my teacher came to visit, and brought a Garfield balloon. I drew a lot of pictures. And we had to do a lot of practice on those crutches to manage stairs. It was terrifying, but I daresay we became experts. And we recovered.
When the time came to remove all your hardware, we spent a few more nights in the hospital after a much easier surgery. And after that, we were essentially free. My family was told I would likely need a replacement one day, but that always seemed so far away.
For years, I didn't think about you much. From time to time, I'd be asked about the scars, and would be briefly reminded of what we had been through. I finally tried skiing (and found it was not my forte). You did your job, despite it all. I remember the first time that I was aware that you were not "just a normal hip" was in college, when I went through a two week period of pain. It scared me, but as quickly as the pain came, it left.
In the ten years since, we have seen a lot of life together. We've traveled, walked miles and miles along beaches and forest paths. We tried snowboarding (also not my forte), and climbed mountains. We've carried a child, in my womb and out, so many places.
I appreciate that you have carried me. It is not with spite that I have decided to replace you. But, rather, with gratitude. Though we struggled, I learned a lot along the way. Thank you for all you have given.
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