No one expects the soft cushions and comfy chair to hurt!As you might imagine, any surgery that leaves behind a foot-long scar, 33-surgical staples and extensive bruising hurts as much as listening to the lesser works of Captain & Tennille.
What you might not have imagined is the pain of sitting. Just sitting. Not sitting on the surgical scar (that’s off to the side), but sitting as you’ve always sat– sitting cheek-to-cheek.
You must sit on pillows to keep your hip elevated and out of the danger zone for dislocation, but over time these cushy pillows do not comfort– they slowly torture. You spend so much time on your tush that eventually the comfy pillows chafe your butt. To counter this, you move about, do your exercise regimen and sit elsewhere. But your butt finds you, and it hurts– not a lot, but just enough to be a minor pain in the ass.
This too shall pass, this Spanish Inquisition of cushions and comfy chairs.
After total hip replacement surgery, my favorite room in our house is the one that rains.
The shower is like a feel-better pod. I carefully check the water temperature and scan the shower floor for bars of soap, banana peels, crude oil slicks– anything I might slip on and subject me to the horrible forces of gravity. I step into the shower slowly, oh-so-slowly, and let the soothing waters rain o’er me. Keep clean to keep dangerous infection at bay!The post surgical instructions are to keep the wound clean with daily washings and fresh dressings. I move slowly, oh-so-slowly, out of the shower and begin patting myself dry. My wife tends to the surgical scar with an antiseptic, absorbent pads and medical tape. The tape is hateful (though not nearly as hateful as using duct tape might be).
The tape’s adhesive hurts no matter how slowly I pull it off. I face the never-ending question: is it better to take off the bandage quickly for a blast of intense pain, or slowly for a longer, lower level of pain? Every mortal has his/her own opinion on this– it’s one of the great philosophical questions of all time, right up there with glazed or jelly?
I roll with a slow and steady tape removal (like Socrates did; Plato was a grip ‘n rip guy).
After a shower and fresh dressing, I feel better. It could be psychological or it could be actual, but I feel like some of my pain went down the drain. I hope pain cannot clog drains.
After hip surgery, my dream buffet line is short, unsatisfying and unfulfilling. At the end of every day comes a little something I call ‘nighttime’— when Mr. Sun punches out and passes the baton to Mr. Moon who comes center stage in the sky and works it hard.
It’s the dark time. The time most people eat, watch some TV and go to bed for restful sleep. But for myself and the post-surgery set, the promise of sleep is problematic.
I nibble at an hour or two of sleep here, an hour or two there– but there is no feasting at the dream buffet. There’s no uninterrupted blast of eyelid exploration. My bladder wakes me and wants to go for a walk. Suddenly a big production is underway.
I need help hoisting my surgical leg out of bed. I need a walker for support. I need bat-vision to move through the dark on my way to Porcelain Swirly Town. I may even need another painkiller (is it time yet?). Sleep hides in the basement.I have gotten into a post-surgery sleep routine. I work two short shifts in bed, then slowly hobble down two flights of stairs (32 of them) to the basement where I have a pillow-topped La-Z-Boy chair. I plop myself on top of the chair like an astronaut preparing for lift-off. I pull the lever for full recline and I’m soon taken to slumberland for my third and final sleeping shift.
I awake, not necessarily well-rested but somewhat rested. So begins another day.
“Hello, Mr. Sun, you’re up awfully early today…”
The sun doesn’t talk back. Nor does the neighbor’s dog. Seems everyone’s crabby this morning.
I need the drug that drips. Not morphine– caffeine. Strong, hot, black coffee love. And maybe a painkiller chaser (is it time yet?).
A steady diet of painkillers, better-than-hospital food, rest and various spots to sit that are jacked-up with throw pillows so that my hiney and hips are hoisted out of harms way.
I receive visitors: my Nurse at Home and my Physical Therapist at Home.
The Nurse comes to take my temperature, blood pressure, pulse and get a blood sample. She is not great with getting blood work. She draws blood with little confidence. She ties-me-off clumsily and searches intently for a tapping spot, finally pricking me and filling the small sample tube… leaving a drop of blood on the carpet for good measure. No, this isn’t one of the exercises…My Physical Therapist– Bonnie, however, is the best.
She has an exercise regimen that is challenging but not impossible. She takes my hip to the brink of pain with simple exercises that would make you giggle for their lack of physical challenge. But they are strenuous work for me, my new hip and its 33-surgically-stapled 12″ scar. I do the exercises and Bonnie brings me back from the brink o’ pain. I do exactly as she says and slowly my hip is getting stronger.
Then Bonnie does a dirty trick. She adds more exercises to my regimen. Curses! She is a physical therapist/dominatrix!
But this is the drill. The ONLY way to get back to normal is to do the physical therapy. And Bonnie is great at designing a program that builds the muscles. I’m wearing hose, no garter belt required.My poor surgery leg is very swollen and bruised beyond belief. Bonnie suggests I get something called JOBST Compression Stockings. They are super-elastic hose that run to the top of the thigh and help improve overall circulation. They’re $60 a pair and I only need to wear one on my surgical leg. I take the suggestion and start wearing hosiery– but I will not succumb to stylish pumps. A man must know his limits.
Bonnie is right. After a couple days, the swelling in my leg goes down. My blood is now circulating well and reducing the bruising. I am healing.
My challenge at this point is simple: I must survive the nurse taking my blood work so that I have some circulation.
Inside my body are two state of the art titanium hips. Medical science claims I could get 15, 20, maybe even 25 years of wear out of each hip (your actual mileage may vary).
Whatever performance I get from my fake hips, I can’t do anything post-surgery without the aid of some amazing gizmos. Yes, I’ve got technology galore inside my body, but just get a load of some of the advanced technologies I have to help me cope with everyday life. The Hook-y Stick Tamp-y Pole While this contraption doesn’t look like much, it is an invaluable tool to someone who cannot bend over for fear of dislocating his new hip. Note the hook on one end– a brilliant design to hoist one’s loungewear up over foot, leg and on to waist landing area. Ummm, elastic hold me tightly– who needs a belt with you to comfort me?
Note the other end with a clever tamping device. Use it to take pants off, or reach and lift something up with the opposite side.
A stick has never been so useful, so essential, so absolutely crucial!Perhaps the greatest invention of all time– The Sock Put-Er-Onner! Imagine for just a moment you cannot bend over, yet you enjoy wearing socks– especially on your feet. You might think this an impossible task: putting socks on naked feet without bending over, but it CAN be done, Buster Brown!
With a clever design and advanced engineering that borders on magic, the incredible Sock Put-Er-Onner (my name) is perhaps the greatest invention of all time (it makes sliced bread look like a crappy invention– try getting a sock on with a slice of bread, it can’t be done!).
The Sock Put-Er-Onner is a hard plastic half-tube. You place your sock over it, put your foot in the sock and tube, grab both ends of the rope–with comfy soft spongy handles– pull upwards, and SHAZAM, you’re socked and stylin’ faster than you can say, “Hey, is the house on fire? Where’s all that smoke coming from, and what’s with those flames?!”
Eat your heart-out MacGyver, you’ve never done anything this inventive.With the amazing Picker-Upper, you can pick stuff up without touching it! When you’re recouping after major surgery, you quickly come to an ugly truth: no matter what you want, it’s not close by.
No worries, not with the technological wonder I call The Picker-Upper. It lets your hand play like it’s operating one of those claw machines as you grab the trigger, approach the wanted object, squeeze it firmly but gently, grab and hoist the object back your way.
It’s invaluable for grabbing the TV remote, the phone, a bowling ball– whatever it is you want that you cannot bend over to get. I am so skilled with this device I’ve actually picked up a corn flake and a Cheerio and brought them back unharmed. You’ll want to test your skills, your dexterity as The Picker Upper makes grabbing things an exciting new sport.
These incredibly amazing devices are what make painful surgery worth it. Go ahead, schedule your procedure and get to work on your recouping games. It’s all we’ve got until we get better.
It beats going out the window.And so it came to pass– one titanium hip, two units of blood, enough morphine to keep Keith Richards happy for about eleven minutes, and only the phamacy knows how many Percocets later… I was ready to be discharged from Piedmont Hospital.
Piedmont is an excellent hospital, the attention is first rate and the food is entirely edible. I highly recommend it for all your surgical needs; I just don’t want to be admitted back into it any time soon. I was ready and eager to go home.
Just like on TV and in the movies, when it’s time to leave the hospital, you go in a wheelchair. This is probably to caution against patients doing leg-splits, acrobatics or stupid antics, hurting themselves and lawyering-up to sue and make a bundle. No worries for me. I was more than happy to roll-on out.
My hip surgery was Monday November 2, and my discharge date was Friday the 6th. A couple weeks before surgery I had received a letter from my insurance company informing me they were graciously granting me a two-day hospital stay. If it were up to the insurance company, I’m sure they’d have rathered that the procedure be drive-thru with no hospital stay.
But, the surgeon/doc had made the call for how long I stayed, and I guess the insurance company was picking up the tab. For the next six months, a mountain of medical paperwork will be making its way into our mailbox.
Now that I was free, I needed to be very careful getting around. Placing my sore body in and out of a car is like watching a Quaalude-influenced ballet. The car seat must be leaning back and pillows must pile the seat cushion. I must enter the car butt-first, plant butt slowly, pivot bad hip in very slowly, and cautiously pivot good hip in. Buckle up, raise the seat a bit, exhale and go. I’ve pimped my ride with irony.For getting around, I have a walker. Yes, I own a walker. I bought it, and many other necessary contraptions, with my last hip replacement. This go ’round, at the suggestion of my home physical therapist (Ms. Bonnie), I have pimped my walker with a couple tennis balls.
I am now stealth on wooden floors with my walker– like a Navy Seal in my ability to advance quietly. But when I see the tennis balls, I have ironic flashbacks to the orginal diagnosis of my arthritis. (WAVY LINES, WAVY LINES, SFX: HARP MUSIC)…
Ten years ago, I played a lot of tennis in two different leagues. I had been playing for years, and suddenly my knees hurt. I went to see my G.P doc. He X-rayed the knees and told me I had arthritis. “Should I give up tennis?” I asked. “No,” he told me in his honey-smooth Southern accent, “not as long as you don’t overdo it.” He wrote me a script for a steady diet of arthritis drugs, and off I went to play more tennis.
A year and a half later, my hips were killing me, so I went to see my doc. He X-rayed them and told me that I now had arthritis in my hips, too. “Should I give up tennis?” I asked again. “No,” he said, “not as long as you don’t overdo it… and if you do have pain, then maybe we might wanna oughta get you some stronger medications.”
Suddenly it hit me: I was taking medical advice from a guy who says “maybe we might wanna oughta.” So I thought maybe I might wanna oughta get a second opinion.
I took my X-rays to a doc who specializes in arthritis. He looked at them and somberly said, “It’s not a question of if you’ll need hip replacements but when you’ll need hip replacements.” “Should I give up tennis?” I asked. The doctor looked at me like I was the village idiot on a particularly slow day.Soon I’ll raise a cane.“You play tennis? That’s the worst thing you could do with arthritis,” he said sternly. “The human skeletal structure is not designed for lateral motion, and sudden starts and stops on hard surfaces are horrible for your joints. Yes, you should give up tennis immediately.”
No maybe… no might… no wanna… no oughta. NO TENNIS!
I retired immediately.
Many say the game hasn’t been the same since. They say my 34 mph serves and punishing 28 mph volleys were a major attraction for all fans, not to mention my slow advancements to the net so my opponent could slam a ball 126 mph at my noggin. Alas, go I must and go I did.
Now I have tennis balls on my walker. I roll with sweet, sweet irony, baby….
