Hipiversary!

Thirteen years ago today I had bilateral hip replacement surgery. Is that dramatic or what? You can imagine that it was something of a “to do” back in the day.

I had two great fears in approaching the operation. The first was the fact that after the surgery I would be confined to my bed for at least a week. Oh dear, this is still a bit delicate to discuss. Well, the thing is…oh fine. I’ll just say it. Bedpans. I was utterly horrified about the idea of using a bedpan. Several people had prepared me gently for this, nurses, doctors, a social worker or two. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, everyone was a professional, it would be no big deal, and it would simply have to be done at least for the first couple of days. Ha! I smiled and nodded politely when they discussed it with me, but privately I vowed I would never lower myself to that. My plan, as I recall, was simply to walk to the bathroom and use the toilet like an adult. I would be a marvel! Everyone would be stunned by my fortitude and resiliency! Really, all one needed was the proper motivation and one could accomplish anything. So yeah. That was my big plan. Just get up and walk! Problem solved. Oh Little Hannah. You are a treasure.

My other deep fear was the fact that I would be naked during the surgery. No, I’m not kidding. Of course in real life I was modestly draped, really entirely covered except for the portion they were working on, but I hadn’t watched a lot of surgery shows at that point, so how was I supposed to know? In my mind I imagined my body splayed out on the table for all the world to see. And by world I mean…doctors. Male doctors! I was terribly embarrassed about the whole thing. As any self respecting self conscious fourteen year old should be.

During the pre-op appointment, I sat with my doctor wearing nothing but a gown and a little robe thing. My doctor wanted to draw lines on my hips to mark wear the incisions would be, but before lifting my gown asked me if I was wearing underwear. Internally I was kicking myself for casting my undies aside prematurely, while outside I was trying to play it cool, all: “Who me? No I never wear underwear. What am I a nerd?” It was a little traumatic. Poor Little Hannah.

In retrospect it is possible that I was nervous about the wrong things. I do remember a couple of times trying to drum up a little fear of oh, I don’t know, dying. But it never felt real. I definitely enjoyed the sense of drama it gave me, but I was never really scared of dying, or of pain, or of any of it really. My fear was basically limited to going to the bathroom, and people seeing my nuddy-self.

I like to give past Hannah a hard time. I blame her for a lot of my current problems. Like, if past-Hannah had dealt with her email, I wouldn’t have 48 unanswered emails in my inbox right now! And if past-Hannah had just applied herself a little, I could be a lawyer or a doctor or a trophy wife by now. And really past-Hannah…are all of those brownies necessary?

But in this particular matter, I look back at past-Hannah with a little bit of awe. Because you see, what fourteen year old Hannah did, was something that twenty-seven year old Hannah would have a much harder time with. If I had to make that choice now, I would be pouring over outcomes and googling horror stories, convincing myself they were all about to happen to me. Man, what a gift that was. If I hadn’t done that surgery, I would most likely be in a wheelchair right now. It’s kind of stunning when I think back on things I could not do for before that surgery. I mean, things like walking around school, yes. But also truly basic things, like getting up off the floor by myself. Imagine having to ask someone to lift you every time you tried to stand. I don’t even think about it anymore. My life is so different than what it was, and what it could have been—and you will have to excuse me for getting a little schmaltzy for moment, but I am so, so grateful to the fourteen year old me who went through the hard part, so current me could reap the benefits. (And, you know. I guess the surgeons helped a little too.)

So, happy hipiversary to me I guess! I always feel like I should throw a hula party or something to commemorate, but in the meantime, feel free to swivel your hips in general celebration.

I Should Probably Stock Up on Apples or Something.

You know how some people don't really believe in going to the doctor and only go when, like, they're hacking up blood, or accidentally lost a foot or something? Or slightly less extreme, (and hopefully less graphic, lost a foot? ew.) they have a general practitioner they see every three years or so when they have a cold or the flu or a particularly nasty hangnail? Well. This has not been my medical experience.
I don't so much have a doctor as I have a panel. First there's my primary care doctor, who I actually see very little of, but of whom it must be said, has the best waiting room. (Note to doctors everywhere: Play romantic comedies on the waiting room tv instead of Diabetes home care how to's. Your patients, even the diabetics, will thank you.). And then there's my Rheumatologist, who I see the most often. (actual quote from ol' Rheumy when he found out I forgot to get my blood work done again this month: "Hannah! What the hell dude?!". We have good times Rheumy and I.) My lame hand wringing surgeon who for SOME REASON will not give me the ok to bungee jump even though I SAID I would use a chest harness. Add in a hand specialist, a foot specialist, a chiropractor and a team of highly trained psychiatrists to treat my chronic delusions of grandeur. (At least thats what I like to pretend.) Alls I'm sayin' is, I have a lot of doctors.
What this means is that I also have a lot of doctor appointments, which I'm pretty cool with. I usually have them pretty spaced out, one or two a month depending. But for some reason, without meaning to I seem to have scheduled appointments with pretty much all of them this week. And let me assure you, I'm not complaining, I love all my doctors (Except for Surgeon. Surgeon needs to lighten up.) and I'm totally glad I have the ability (i.e. health insurance) to see them. But boy oh boy. How many waiting rooms can a girl take in one week? And the questions. What medications are you on? When were your most recent x-rays? When was your last period? Do you still have arthritis?Any changes to your insurance? What is the capital of Vermont? Over and over and over. Its a good thing I'm so long suffering. (Also, not dwell, but the nurses at both Rheumatologist's and GP Doc's offices both didn't let me take my shoes off when they weighed me. THAT IS AGAINST THE RULES LADIES! Even SURGEON lets me take my shoes off.)
What I would really like to do is have all my doctors meet me at IHOP or something where they could all ask each other who was prescribing what and compare notes and make recommendations over a nice stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Oddly no one has responded to my invitations to do this yet...maybe next month.

Pop

Hi! How was your December? Mine was great! Christmas? Grand! Hello new ipod! And an extra special welcome to the family's shiny new wii. (I had no desire for a wii but holy crap are those things fun! Come over anytime and we'll go bowling.) And now, because I'm not exactly known for smooth transitions here is a gripping and dramatic tale to spice up your new year.

A little background for the three readers (I exaggerate) who haven't known me for eight thousand years. I have a little something called Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. This is for those of us who believe in aging backwards so as to get the unpleasant aspects out of the way. Or some sort of autoimmune disorder, its hard to say. Regardless, when I was fourteen, had delightfully thin arms and was sporting an unfortunate unibrow, I had a double hip replacement surgery. You may think this sounds sad, but trust me, its been an amazing blessing in my life. I always have something to bond over with old people, I beep cheerfully in airport security, and I almost always win in who's got the coolest scar contests. Plus, you know. I can walk. Thats been pretty sweet.

Having major surgeries always come with pro and con lists. Pro: You can walk like a normal person! Con: You must never ever bungee jump. Pro: You're two inches taller! Con: You will never realize your Olympic dreams as a gymnast because you are not allowed to do the splits. Pro: You learned how to pluck your eyebrows! Con: Oh yeah, sometimes your hips might pop out of their sockets.

That last one was the biggie, the reason behind all my new found don't's, (don't cross your legs, don't sit indian style don't try to land a double front flip off the uneven bars...) Because at any moment an extreme position might send one of my new hips right out of their reinforced titanium sockets. I gravely agreed, and with great care and concern I stepped out into the world. It was worth the trade. I was very careful when I first got them, watching and waiting for the inevitable day when they popped out. But...they never did. Despite all the warnings of my surgical team (who could totally beat your surgical team), those hips stayed right where they were supposed to.

Flash forward eight years to 2006 when I bent down to pick up a plug in my apartment was jumping over a vat of electric eels on my motorcycle. Suddenly quite tragically, it happened. Hip popped. It was quite a moment. I actually had to army crawl over to my desk and pull down my laptop and instant message my cousin to have her call 911. (This part of the story is true, I realize it might be hard to tell with me.) It was very dramatic and quite inspiring. Couldn't have come at a worse time, smack in the middle of midterms, but I was confident that I would be able to pop the sucker back in and be back in school by Monday. Hahahahahahahahahaha! No. I didn't take into account the whole healing process. It takes about six weeks for a dislocated hip to heal, all the while wearing a stylish brace that goes around your waist, and connects to a separate piece that goes around your thigh. I was, I must admit, just a little dissapointed. Still, six weeks isn't that long, and before I knew it I was back to my usual skipping self. Older, wiser, and with a new story to add to the old repertoire.

Imagine my surprise a couple of days ago when I bent down to grab a soda off the bottom shelf and when I stood up I heard and felt that distinctive pop. I believe my exact thought was "Oh my gosh you have got to be kidding me. Again?" Which I eloquently verbalized thusly: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!"

My mother thought I had seen a particularly nasty spider. She came to my rescue anyway, as did the rest of my excellent family. (At one point as my parents held me on the kitchen floor and two emt's prepared to move me onto a stretcher while another put in an iv to give me some much needed morphine I suggested someone get the camera and snap a picture for a scrapbook. For some reason I was not taken seriously and so unfortunately I don't have any photos for you.) Anyway, I got to ride in an ambulance WITH sirens, and crack McDreamy jokes with the nursing staff and after a couple of tries got my hip put back in place!

And at the conclusion of this long and sordid tale I must ask you. Why oh why does this always happen in the lamest of ways? If I had known I was going to pop a hip on Friday I would have just gone skydiving. I mean honestly, grabbing a soda? So thats then end folks, six weeks in captivity. Fortunately I'm extremely long suffering. Expect to hear from me often.