Some people say that hip replacement surgery is a piece of cake. I think they say this because they forget the pain.
The white hot pain in the night that won’t let you sleep.
The bone on bone ache deep in the upper thigh.
The helplessness.
They don’t like to remember tenderly unpeeling the blood-crusted bandage for the first time.
The horror of the inflamed Frankenstein scar, but also the astonishment at how the body is repairing itself.
Post- surgery reminds me a little bit like labor and childbirth.
The indescribable pain, the heightened focus.
The way the injured area dictates every movement of the body with the clarity of the survival instinct.
And now later, the way you forget the pain.
These past 6 weeks added to a huge portfolio of respect – the one that I have on file for my husband.
You hear the phrase they showed up about people, but did I ever think it would involve him gently guiding my dangling foot into the opening of my underwear as I leaned against his back?
Every damn morning.
And how he kept a written schedule of my medicines night and day.
Helping me hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night countless times.
Listening to the complaining.
Being present with me being present with the pain.
To be dependent on a caregiver is a lesson in many things.
First, how to ask for what you need.
So, I’m not good at this.
Every time I need something I hear a whine in my voice, and it’s cloying. I hate it.
Only now do I see that a person who balks at receiving a helping hand is a person who is hiding a gaping vulnerability.
And saying no is my automatic protective response – like, don’t look at me, I’m needy, I am dependent.
I am vulnerable.
But my hip clearly needs me to advocate.
We grow up learning the hard lesson that we must take care of ourselves, and of course this is true.
But it’s been so drilled into us, it’s not really a lesson that bears repeating.
Rather, some of us need to learn to ask specifically for what we need.
To be direct.
Instead of sayng “Gee, my Gatorade needs refilling, say “Can you get my water bottle for me?”
I’m a really terrible asker.
And with this surgery I had a lot of asks.
Second, you have to give up the picture perfect image and outside expectations.
But it’s hard to let go of that ambition.
Perfection – how we grab for its shiny promise.
Perfection – another way to shut down vulnerability.
I boast that I only used a crutch once – one time going up the stairs after surgery. I was so determined to be like my mom who never even used a cane when she had her hip done.
Reportedly, she never took any painkillers either.
I did take them – and had to talk myself into every single pill.
So what does that family story teach me? Get up, get going, this is all on you. No one can walk the path with you, help yourself.
Such bull***t
We all feel pain, we’re just too afraid to own it.
Lastly, take the long view.
I overdid it on my exercise. I wanted points for being plucky.
And after going to a dermatologist appointment 1 week after the procedure, the doctor looked at me, horrified. I should have been at home, leg elevated.
At any rate, we try to do too much and the body says no.
If we listen.
So my days have been spent leaning on others for physical help and emotional up-lift.
It’s okay, I can learn this.
And it will take time.
Forget the supposed “milestones” described in the hospital pamphlet.
And the healing is mostly hidden.
Deep within the cut muscles and bright new bone, a new universe in there is gathering itself up to heal.
I didn’t even realize there was an ache to be found in those places, in that layer of tissue, in that joint space.
But the bone is knitting itself back together, quietly, in the dark, without me.
Lastly, when you can finally soak in a real bath by yourself your mind will play tricks.
It will forget the urgency of your body’s needs.
How dependent you are as a human.
Yes, you will take all the positive praise and soak it up. Feel relief and pride.
But deep inside, literally, is the reminder that you never did this thing yourself.
You are healing because numerous people at the hospital, named and unnamed, engineered this feat.
And thank God for insurance.
And for the grandson who brings sweet pink roses and a care package with his mommy.
And for a family that group-texts really bad photos of me right before I go under.
But mainly, I’m hugely grateful for the guy who’s been hanging around for 45 years, and who shows no sign of leaving.
Yesterday after lunch we walked in the grey winter woods of the Duke Forest.
We made it just to the half mile marker. And then we turned back.
It’s the same trail that I loved to run in my 30s, 40s, even my 50s. I felt young then – vigorous and proud of my strong body.
Impenetrable.
And here I am at 62, leaning on my stick. Scuffing my left foot along.
Trying out my new hip.
And as my husband and I chat, I think of how often we’ve walked together, and how many times he’s listened to my blubbering and bleating.
And now having patience with this older, slower me.
Me with my emotions fizzing or my brain scrambling along trying to make sense of things.
Me being my scrappy self.
He has seen me at times and in ways that I don’t want to see myself.
Me super depressed, me being snappish, me with no bra on and wearing an ugly mauve hospital gown.
Flat-out scared.
And he had the grace to not tell me how painful this kind of procedure could be (he’s had a lot of them).
And so he lies to me in the best ways.
And every day he repeats the script – that it will get better and I just need to be patient.
And I believe.
And we both know that it is a literal metaphor for our marriage.
We fall down, we help each other up, and then we do it all over again and again.
honeybees & reveries 