Re-Making Old Bones

It has always been my view that it’s a really  good idea to stay away from hospitals and in my younger days, the only time I  broke that rule was because I was not a fan of home births. You agree to that and you may find yourself cooking dinner right after because you’re such a good sport.

That’s bad planning in my opinion.

This is my way of leading up to my operation. This was a big deal because I still have my tonsils for goodness sake and I had been pretty firm about the no-hospital edict.

 A couple of years ago I developed tendinitis in my left leg, and that was the right leg’s way of calling for help as it was doing all the work.

The right leg joint was worn out, abetted by arthritis.

Surgery was the answer for my problem so that meant a hospital visit.

During the preliminaries I was declared a remarkably healthy specimen and in fact, while some patients are encouraged to recuperate in a nursing home or with a willing relative, I was told I’d probably be fine with someone there for the first couple of days and then I could manage.

This is what happens:  the hip joint is tidied up (actually they remove it and put in a false one) and this is what the artificial joint looks like

Still with me?

Here’s what I know: I exhaustively interrogated everyone I knew who’d already had the op and they all were pleased with the results.

I was the oldest of the bunch but I didn’t see this as a problem.

On my well-prepared for day, There’s a picture of me looking cheery and double-chinned as they wheeled me to the OR suite and then there’s the picture taken of me the next day. At least the double chin was gone.

It all went well; I had a spinal which was amazingly easy. I did ask the guy not to let me hear the sound of hammers and saws though, and he complied.

I was still cheery and determined to be the most alert, healthiest patient who ever crossed that threshold.

When I woke up the next day, there were oxygen prongs in my nose and when the nurses tried to get me up and walking, I fainted.

 Next, I had a transfusion and I got very sentimental about that; some kind person volunteered his/her blood just so someone like me could have the needed blood. That was so kind.

After a day of re-grouping, in quick order I learned to use a walker and that I didn’t handle codeine very well. In fact I bounced off to la-la land to the amusement of the nurses. So I settled for something less la-la and managed. I was there an extra day because of the transfusion so I went home on day 4, with my from-out-of-town daughter in tow.

She planned to stay for the suggested two days and she finally got away on day 7.

I felt about 120 hard years old and no longer looked like a candidate for head of the class.

When I was home, visiting nurses came regularly to change the dressings and a physiotherapist came to get the exercises on track. After a few days the staples were removed and that’s a piece of cake.

Despite my good intentions and the fact that the operation was a success, I am now permanently on a walker.

For my final visit to the surgeon he was satisfied the surgery was a success so his work was done. He was right—his surgery was a success although I was complaining about a lot of pain.

He politely said arthritis had done a lot of damage in my lower back and it would take altogether too much  surgery to repair the damage and I was too old for all that anyway.

So here I am still feeling 30 in my mind and my body is not keeping up.

Nine months later I’m still glad I had the operation but would have preferred a better outcome

So I’ve decided that I’ll keep the thirty-year old mind and try to live with the much older body, and I now have my very own handicap parking pass, which makes grocery shopping a whole lot easier.

Best of all.  I’m 25 pounds lighter.

And that’s my reward