Hip, hip hooray!!!

  

Life is full of anniversaries, the yard sticks against which we measure the advancement of the years. This week is a special anniversary for me, the one year mark for my hip replacement.

It seems just yesterday I was sitting in the office of a very nice young doctor who makes his more-than-adequate living from replacing the worn out hips and knees of people in my age group. Since most professionals now look like “kids” to me, I found it reassuring that this young man wore a suit and put forth some effort to look like a grown up. I'm pretty sure I have handbags older than he is...so I really appreciated the effort.

After a perfectly dreadful summer I got my nifty new hip on July 27, 2015. I came home determined to be back on my feet in record time, only to discover that you can't “out stubborn” a joint replacement. Subscribing to the “I'll bring this body to its knees if I have to” school of thought I pushed my exercises to the limit as I forced myself to do more, more, more. Five weeks into my recovery my new hip came out of its shiny new socket, necessitating an unbelievably painful return trip to the hospital to have it put back where it belonged. My well dressed surgeon then sent me to have a brace fitted. This uncomfortable monkey suit was to be worn 24/7 for a couple of months.  I hobbled around in my white plastic shell looking for all the world like an injured Star Wars Storm Trooper. I found it to be a great conversation starter...

While my original plan was to be a shining example of joint replacement success, I turned out to be a cautionary tale. My healing process was slow and tedious, but with the exception of the joint displacement there was surprisingly little pain. Cussed impatience was my worst enemy, but as is always the case time marches on. I marked the three month, the six month and now the twelve month anniversary with something akin to happiness. It took nine months to be able to walk any distance comfortably; now at the one year mark I sometimes forget, if only for a moment, that I've had anything done. There is no feeling of having a foreign object in my body, and my movement isn't restricted by anything; I hope to be back in yoga class this fall and I've already returned to kayaking.

When I visited my surgeon for my final visit this week I was walking without a cane or a limp; on my first visit I arrived as a sullen mess in a wheel chair. The doctor originally told me I'd be feeling pretty well in six weeks, but that it would take a year to a year and a half to be fully healed. Although I was in a cast by the six week mark, he was right about the year to a year and a half healing period. He thought therapy was a good idea, but I stubbornly put it off because I thought I could do this on my own.  When I finally realized I was wrong the therapy helped enormously.

My husband and I celebrated my “anniversary” by going to the Y for our regular work outs, a routine that helps both of us keep moving. I am so thankful to live in a day when joint replacement is so routine as to be boring. Like replacing the tires on a car, I feel as if I'm good for a lot more miles now.

Since my surgery I've talked to so many people who have had or are facing joint replacement and I always give them the same advice:

Be patient...it's going to take a year of your life to feel better so get on with it.

Be careful...don't push your body beyond its limits; you'll pay for it if you do.

And finally, listen to your doctor. Chances are he's actually been to school for this and knows what he is talking about. You may think he looks like a sixteen years old who just passed his driver's test, but my bet is the hours he just recently spent playing video games is now paying off in terrific eye/hand coordination that serves him well in the surgical suite. 

My nattily dressed young doctor and I now have an anniversary that won't make either of us misty-eyed with remembrance, but it's likely one I will never forget.

                                                     Life is Good

On a Wing and a Prayer

We stood on the tarmac, probably two to three hundred people watching the sky as the rain and two C-130s advanced on the airfield. Finally an airplane broke through the cloud cover; a cheer went up as it flew over our heads. As the happy crowd watched the impossibly big plane dipped it's wing in a salute to its own homecoming. The last of the deployed 179^th was home after four long months in the war torn middle east.

Looking around the crowd I watched wives and children and parents and friends of all ages waving signs and cheering as the planes taxied to their final positions. Flags flapped, children danced with impatience and relatives carried home made “welcome home” signs. I looked around me and thought about the sacrifices some these families had made over these long months; the babies that had been born and the problems that had been solved while these young men and women were in a foreign country doing jobs I don't understand, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. I imagined I could hear a collective sigh of relief as the plane's precious cargo came down the steps and finally into the arms of their loved ones.

My son in law was one of those returning young men who was met by a thankful family. The look of relief and love on the faces of our family and the faces of so many others was beautiful to see. The young people strode across the tarmac to calls of “daddy....daddy!!”....and “over here!” My eyes welled with tears and feelings of patriotism and pride filled me to the brim while words like honor, duty, sacrifice, bravery, and devotion ran through my head. I was unashamedly proud of these young people and America.

Later that evening I turned on the evening news and was assaulted by the now constant stream of murder, mayhem and ugliness. The never ending political coverage, the shooting and killing and threat of terrorism poured out of the flat black screen until I switched it off. I returned to thoughts of the plane breaking out of the clouds and the happy faces and cheers that had surrounded me. We can argue later about whether we are the greatest nation or just a war machine, about gun control and politics and the psychology of killing that seems to grip these times in which we live. For this one day I chose to be a proud American and celebrate the return of the fine young men and women who give so much to this country.

Looking back on that amazing afternoon I have a suggestion for the next president of the United States. I only ask that you stand on the tarmac on any military base in the country and watch our young people return from their assignments. Look around you, Mr. or Mrs. President, and hold on to those words that will undoubtedly run through your head as you watch the planes land and the flags wave. Honor, duty, sacrifice, bravery...the words that describe what our country should always be about. Look at the faces of the waiting loved ones, they don't care if you are a Republican or a Democrat, but not one of them wants to hear what pours out of our televisions any longer! We are the people you are elected to serve, and we expect you to do your job with the same dedication our military shows as they serve this country.  That is your mission.  It's been a long time...and we all want to come home again.

                                                                Life is Good