Building Bone

Along with more pain meds than anyone could ever need,  I was sent home from the hospital with a Healthy Shopping List.  The goal was to be certain I ate enough protein, since protein builds bones.

Now, I thought Wonder Bread helped build strong bodies 12 ways, and it turns out I was right.  Who knew that there were 4 grams of protein in the slice of brioche bread I ate this morning.  Add two hard boiled eggs, a glass of milk, the can of tuna fish for lunch and the apples and pears and cheese and nuts for snack last night and it seems that I'm doing quite well on the Protein Calculator's scale.

And that's without eating trout or kale, two items on the hospital's list that made TBG's face turn just a little green.  He's allergic to fish.  He and kale had an unpleasant, roto-rooter type experience several years ago that left him reluctant to try it again.  I can safely avoid these two triggers and still meet my daily needs.

As the swelling goes down I find myself regaining range of motion.  Nothing seems stuck underneath my skin.  Without the steri-strips holding the incision tight, folding my skin over on itself, annoying me with their stickiness and refusal to move when the rest of me decides it would be prudent to do so, I'm not only less encumbered physically, I'm psychologically lighter too.

Unfortunately, that lightness of being has not translated to my actual weight.  The prosthesis is heavy - somewhere between three and five pounds - and what they removed weighed far less.  There wasn't a lot of bone left in there, and I wonder if arthritis weighs very much at all.  There is still some swelling and inflammation; my ankle was swollen last night after a day of movement and massage (thanks to husbandly redistribution of the fluid from the incision area to the rest of my leg).  

In all, I'm looking for reasons to explain the unfortunate number on the scale.  Can it be that I have built so much bone that it's tipping the scale?  Probably not.  This is like my plan after gaining 47 pounds during Big Cuter's pregnancy - have an 8 pound baby, a 30 pound placenta, and lose the rest easily.

Would that it had been that easy.  Perhaps, as I did then, I ought to pay more attention to the foodstuffs going in, and match it with exercise and discipline and movement.  

How nice to be able to include movement in my prescription.  

Memorial Day

 First posted in 2008.  

I used to march in the Memorial Day parade. I was dressed in my Brownie uniform, and then in my Girl Scout uniform - replete with those embarrassing anklets. I wore them because the troop leader said we couldn't march without them, they were part of our official uniform.  Marching was too cool to pass up.  I wore them and bore the scorn.

All the school bands marched too, and the moms on Benjamin Road provided the materials and the labor to make the capes the high school kids wore. There must have been a military presence there, but I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I was marching and I knew that, all over America, other kids were being Americans and marching, too.

I belonged.

In Marin, the Memorial Day parade was always good for a controversy or two. Or three. Should the anti-war protesters walk alphabetically in the main march, or have their own march, or walk 50 yards behind the official march? I especially liked this discussion: should weaponry be allowed?

That was fairly disingenuous even for Marin.

There were bands at this parade, too, and with Bobby Weir as the Grand Marshal you know the music was worth hearing, especially at the picnic in the park afterwards. Not exactly your typical VFW-sponsored event, but no one was complaining. It was Memorial Day; there had to be a parade and a picnic and a coming together as Americans.

I've got the flag G'ma bought us for a housewarming present, which replaced the one Dadooooo got us in Chicago.  I'll wear the tie-dyed tank top the Cuters and I made early one July.  I'll remember the fallen and recommit to doing everything I can to make this country worthy of their sacrifice.

We have a long way to go, but I have confidence in the future.

We are the ones we've been waiting for

Dystopian Fiction

It hides in plain sight, this particular genre.  The Candy House is serious fiction, a family history, and a story of computing run amok.  Jennifer Egan doesn't go out of her way to remind you of this; she's a more subtle writer than that. But just when you're rolling along with the details of the plot, the overarching nemesis reappears.

The computers are watching, and there's really nothing we can do about it.

I started what I thought would be a quick read, and found myself, once again, in computer dysphoria.  Happy For You led me to believe that it was a story about being the other, a theme that has run through many of the novels I've picked up recently.  

We Are Not Like Them  and Hell of a Book explore otherness deeply, beautifully, and terrifyingly.  If An Egyptian Cannot Speak English reduces the concept to bare bones, leaving the reader with no answers, and lots of confusion.  The concept is intriguing, and I've been noodling it around in my brain for quite a while (being housebound leads to prolonged periods of deep thought - followed by ice cream).   

Happy For you brought me right back to the reach of the World Wide Web, its intrusive data collection, its inability to shield those who want to remain anonymous, it's insistence of mining the depths of what makes a human a human.

And sitting on the comfy chair in the afternoon sunlight, I realized that I had had my own encounter with a sentient computer, right here in my library.  I posted about it.  Linda and Olga commented about it.  It's become dishearteningly real.

We have given the machines too much power.  They decide when they need to update (always when you just need to quickly print something out).  The decide how to store your data.  They track your habits and communicate between themselves so that what you do on your desktop becomes fodder for your phone.  

I'm debating whether to keep reading this book.  

I might switch it out for a plain old double murder in the English countryside.  That would be more soothing.

Murdered Babies

I love the fourth graders.  They are deep thinkers who are uninterested in the pre-teen/tween dramas that await them.  They are into bugs and getting dirty in the garden and spraying one another with the hose and none of them should be worrying about being shot to pieces, bodies so destroyed that it took DNA evidence to identify their corpses.

Gabby Giffords is doing great work on the state and local levels, but Steve Kerr says it best.

Steve Kerr just walked out of a pre-game interview after laying the blame squarely on Republican Senators and Joe Manchin - 50 people blocking the will of nearly 90% of the American people.

Bill Penzey has been including the Republicans are not good people mantra in his weekly emails for years now.  

Do we really have to live like this?  

How brave does a parent have to be to drop her child off at school in the morning?  

The kindergarteners when I was shot will be seniors in high school when classes resume in August.  They have learned to hide silently in closets during Active Shooter Drills.  They have watched little kids and big kids and medium size kids killed with weaponry they were too small to pick up when we first met in 2011.  

Ben's Bells went to Newtown, and soothed souls.  The Parkland kids became vocal activists for gun safety legislation.  I've spent all day trying to find my place in all this, smiling at the friends far and wide who reached out to be sure that I was okay, reassuring them that I was, when the reality is that I just don't know.

CTG would have attained her majority this year (she'd have liked that phrase, asked me to delve deeper into it, considered it, and then made it her own..... I miss her.....).  The Sandy Hook Elementary kids would be thinking about prom and PSAT's.  The 4th graders at Robb Elementary School..... the educators who huddled with them and died with them..... sending thoughts and prayers and condolences and blankets and casseroles can't make up for the fact that they'll never be 5th graders.

We really shouldn't have to live like this.

The Phantom Printer - A Snippet

Are you printing something, wondered from the other side of the couch.  

He was listening to sports talking heads, I was reading James Lee Burke's painfully personal new novel, and neither of us had been near the computer for hours.

Yet there it was, the peculiar whirring and clanking and here I am getting ready for the onerous task of doing that for which I was created noise this printer makes as she's gearing up, followed by the rhythmic back and forth as the lines appear on the page.

Except there was nothing in the queue, at least nothing since 11 o'clock this morning, six hours ago.

It was a label for a package of sweet treats I sent to Big Cuter and Queen T this morning.  I already printed out the label and pasted it on the flat rate envelope and put the whole thing in the mailbox.  Why the USPS decided to print me out another one is a mystery.... as is the fact that my printer responded.

Technological wizardry was how the Carvana ad described their ability to quote you a price in minutes.  Is this the same kind of wizardry, only gone amok?

Getting Better

Little Cuter liked the Getting Better label on yesterday's post, and, as usual, she goes right to the point - my work isn't over, it's just taking a more positive trajectory.  

TBG and I laugh about the fact that,  at this stage of life, there aren't a lot of body parts that are getting better.  Maintaining the status quo feels pretty damn good most of the time.  But today the surgeon took out my stitches and sent me on my way - without the walker, without any medication except one big aspirin twice a day, and instructions to swim, but not cannonball off the side of the pool.

This most conservative of physicians thinks I'm getting better.  Who am I to say him nay?

He brought me a titanium ball and socket and the anchoring shaft that went into my femur when I wondered what was put where.  They were (and, I suppose, are) surprisingly heavy; perhaps I can chalk up my weight gain to implanted parts and continue to self-medicate with Baskin Robbins ice cream sundaes.  

My body is getting back to normal.  Leaving the past sent me to a pretty dark place this afternoon.  Sitting in the lobby, waiting to see the surgeon, I relived every memory of CTG that I have of that morning on the sidewalk.  Over the years, I've been fairly successful at separating the limp from the event.  Today, that barrier dissolved.  

It was all one, as it's been all along.  I saw her face and had all the usual worries - did I say enough/the right things/was she scared/and her face/and someone asking who was responsible for this child/and she should be right here right now, being just as glad as the rest of you at how much progress I'm making.

From Tucson through Sandy Hood to Buffalo...... the situation is only getting worse.  Some things are beyond my control, though I can nibble around the edges.  But my physical recovery is totally within my control.  If I do the work, I will be fine.

Holding on to that piece is the next step in Getting Better.  The CTG piece might need a little more help. But that's okay.  Anything else is impossible to imagine.  The sun came up today and I was here to see it.  That makes it a very good day.

Here's to many many many more of them.

I'm Walking

This will be brief, because the joy is too much to contain in words.

I left the walker in the bedroom today.  I have been gliding around the house with greater assurance as the day goes on.  Except for the annoyance of the mega-waterproof-help-me-heal bandage whose adhesive is beginning to chafe, I have no discomfort. 

I certainly have no pain.

Just typing that makes me smile.  

Little Cuter and FlapJilly were quite impressed on our video call this afternoon.  TBG has been ogling me all day.  I keep finding mirrors to walk towards.  And nothing hurts.

It's been 4, 152 days since I had a fluid gait.  Here's to the next 4, 152 days of carefree ambulation.

Thank you, Science.

One Wonders

After struggling with the mega-organization overseeing our smaller organization over the matter of sending out emails, I was convinced that I had seen the worst in organizational dysfunction.

But now, as I type to you, it is going on minute 6 of a phone call to the hotel my niece suggests we stay at for her wedding this summer.  I have time to type to you because, at minute 2, the lovely Elisabeth at the registration end of this conversation asked me to hold on for a moment.

There has been no Muzak.  There are no manly voices extoling the virtues of the site.  There is only silence.

After minute 4, I wondered if she were still there.  Yes, please, a moment more.

At minute 9:54 her voice reappeared.  She was ready to take the reservation, as task she performed with clarity and speed.

I have no idea what she was doing while I waited.  I heard no typing, no talking, no breathing.  

It was odd.

Softball

While Giblet's T-ball For Three Year Olds is barely controlled chaos, team sports have begun in earnest for his big sister.  She's got white baseball pants and cleats with pink laces . She's got two braids, placed strategically low to accommodate her bright pink batting helmet.  She's got orange socks and a green tee shirt from their sponsor - Beef O'Brady's.  She pulled up the socks, tucked in the shirt, looked at herself in the mirror and said I'm Beautiful!.

SIR is the assistant coach, who's been called up as interim coach for every game thus far.  The ball field is his happy place, and sharing it with his little girl takes it to another level.  These are the fields he played on in his youth.  His parents and his cousins come to watch.  His wife takes pictures. He's teaching and helping and taking it seriously.  Just look at those game faces.

FlapJillly's season is starting off strong.  She is hitting well and making intelligent defensive plays. She likes all the coaches and all the teammates and apparently she doesn't mind getting very, very sweaty in muggy midwestern afternoons.  After all, there are snacks with the other Ladies of Beef O'Brady's.

It's so nice to see things returning to normal.  I love that our nightly FaceTime calls have become twice weekly because there is so much going on, Mama.  I love the happy exhaustion on their faces. FlapJilly's silent reenactment of stopping a grounder in the outfield and throwing it directly to first base for an out was the highlight of my week.

She's 7.  I'm not fantasizing about college scholarships after 3 games and 4 practices.   

Nope, I'm remembering what her parents had in mind for her when she was just a little girl, going trick or treating:

The Cleaning Lady

After Perfect Patty was deported, after Pandemica ended, The Tornadoes came into our lives.  Two women with all their equipment arrive just after 9 am.  There is no down time, except for a quick lunch standing at the kitchen island.  I've demanded that they use the table; they laugh at me and go back to their conversation.  

When the leave, we are afraid to disturb the CLEAN.  It is aggressively sparkly.  There is nary an errant long white hair to be found.  My cooktop looks like it was just delivered from the warehouse.  My main windows are washed, inside and out and my kitchen cabinet faces shimmer from their monthly wipe down.

And they are pleasantly unobtrusive, self-sufficient, feeling no need to share their personal lives with me, although they are delighted to hear me describe the new framed photographs as they are being dusted.  Everybody loves grandkids, after all.  

So today, when Gentle Ben called and asked if he was correct in remembering that I had a housekeeper who was looking for extra work.  Well, that was Perfect Patty and her help is now south of the border.  The Tornadoes have a long waiting list, but I'll ask.  And Amster is coming over with dinner tonight and she has help, too.

Gentle Ben fears an argument from his spouse, but he's tired of watching her wear herself out doing tasks that could be outsourced.  He, himself, is fully convinced that he is too old to do what he is doing around the house.  He'd rather they spend that energy on things that bring them joy.

I was reminded of my Grandmother venting in Yiddish and when I asked what was up she turned and said, with her customary scowl but her eyes dancing with love, the maid is the cheapest thing in the house.

Please, put her objectification of another human being aside.  She regarded everyone who was not immediate family as The Other; this was not a specifically directed slight. 

Focus, instead, on the layers behind it.  The maid was not an extravagance, she was as necessary as the iron and the kettle.  With two of them doing the work, everything got done and dinner was on the table and  - this is where the pedal hits the metal - there is one less thing to argue about.

If the girl (okay, that one is offensive and I knew it then and I asked how someone older than my teacher could be a girl..... and I don't remember the answer.....) was available to use the carpet sweeper after dinner, then Grandpa could wipe crumbs on the floor to his heart's delight.

There was no need for an argument.

The benefits reaped far outweighed the dollars spent.  

Plus, my grandparents helped their girls open bank accounts and establish references and find better jobs in The City when it was time for them to move on  One of my favorite memories is of Daddooo taking me to visit Althea at the Chock Full O' Nuts in Manhattan.  She knew exactly what I wanted, and served it with a flourish.  I was so impressed by her real world job, and with my father's pride in what his parents had helped come to pass.

So, I told Gentle Ben that he was helping the local economy and that perhaps his extended family could gift it to them for birthdays and anniversaries and other gift exchanging occasions.  And then I went back to admiring my startling clean home.  The ladies were here on Sunday, and I've still not done more than make oatmeal in the kitchen.  It's just too pretty.

Watching It Brew

I didn't realize it at first.  The situation was being brought front and center, decisions were made, and I was led to believe that all was well in the world.

Except the decisions weren't well thought out, and presented problems of their own.  I had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, but felt no need to rock the boat.

Then, the person who should have been at the center of the situation reached out to me.  What should be done about this situation, into which she had had no input, whose solution she had created in a much more user friendly way, and which was going to be a nightmare to unravel.

After thanking her for her (really, much much much better) solution, I was forced to concede that I'd been swept up in the excitement, that she was absolutely right in asserting her dominion over the situation, and that, given the participants, arguing was inevitable.

Her more inclusive plan will no doubt infuriate the instigator, who will deny instigating, insist on her right to instigate, and wonder what all the fuss is about.  The facts are immaterial - this stems from a long lasting inability to separate ones own needs from those of others.  What she wants/needs/knows is right.  That's it.  

Only thing is, the other players have some agency here.  I, for one, am opting for the more pleasant end result.  I plan to promote the notion that there is no bad plan, was no evil intent, and nothing is lost by acquiescing to the person around whom the situation ultimately revolves.

As I said yesterday as we wrapped up our conversation, If you sent this to Ann Landers she'd be totally on your side.

And now, we sit and wait for the outreach and the response.  The gauntlet was thrown so subtly that I didn't notice it at first.  We are hoping for an immediate truce, although that seems unlikely.  Plan for the best (I am) and prepare for the worst (we are).

I'll keep you posted.

Sharing With a Friend

We used to watch the fireworks on 4th of July and New Year's Eve with them.  Our family walked, usually in slippers, to the end of our street, high above Richardson Bay.  They drove in from Mill Valley and, every time, ended up standing next to us, oohing and aahing at the flashes of light.

We didn't plan it.  It just happened.  Then it became a tradition that carried on long after all our kids graduated from the same high school.

We saw them at that same high school's basketball games - both the boys and the girls made runs at the state championships - again, after the kids were gone.  I followed their daughter's music career on Facebook, another way to stay in touch.  

They split their time between Marin and Hawaii.  There is always a beautiful sunset or sunrise to be shared on social media but, beyond that, there hasn't been very much until this month when she reached out to share that he was having his hip replaced 5 days after I did mine.

Now, I am a font of advice and best practices.  

I bought Kizik easy to step into shoes and they removed one chore from TBG's list of Getting Me Ready For The Day,  They don't look like something G'ma picked out in the 1940's.  One pair are turquoise and mesh topped,

the other, white and green and look like tennis shoes,

and there were so many options that TBG went ahead and bought himself a pair once he saw how gorgeous they are and heard me kvelling about how comfortable they are.  A nice wide toe box and a comfy insole makes walking (dare I say it) a breeze.

I emailed the link for a $20 discount.  He bought two pairs, too. (It will work for you, too, if you click through.)

His leg is swollen and bending his knee hurts - a lot.  That's been my problem, too.  It feels like there isn't enough room inside my skin for the tendons to stretch themselves out.  Last night we took off the knee high compression socks and I slept without them for the first time.  I woke up and, lo and behold, I have a kneecap!  I'm wearing them during the day today with much less discomfort.  Allowing the blood to flow through my whole leg (which is now black and blue all the way down to my ankle) seems to have made a difference.  There is much less swelling and the socks are not digging a groove in my flesh.

I've been using Arnica gel to reduce the swelling and 2000mg CBD balm where the bandages aren't but the pain is.  

To say today was a good day is to understate the obvious.  I made chicken salad.  I did laundry (TBG did the bending and carrying but I did the folding and put my own clothes away.... yes, I am bragging.)  I organized my library books and collected items to be donated and tried my very best to velcro the grab stick to my walker.

It is funny to ask him to come and pick up my grabber so that I can grab things.  Well, I laugh.  He wonders why I just don't call him to do it for me in the first place.

I've shared all of this via email, first through her, and now, directly to him.  These connections forged at the turn of the century continue to warm the cockles of my heart.  I wish we were conversing about something less painful, but it feels good to be able to offer advice and kvetch with someone who's going through the same thing at the same time.

In Psych 101 we learned that misery loves miserable company.  It's a good thing to know we'll still be there for one another once we aren't miserable any more. 

Why not?  This relationship has lasted for decades without once laying eyes on the other.

Sunset

The sun sets in the backyard.  My desk overlooks the front.  The colors are more brilliant, the kitchen is back there, and I'm usually done with the deskwork by then.  We can see the softer colors reflected in the dining room mirror, but I rarely watch the fauna our front during what appears to be a most delicious time of day.

The quail are bobbing around.  I don't see any babies behind them, so maybe it's just mom and dad stocking up on groceries.  

The lizards are quieter as the shadows grow longer.  

The little birds, the ones I'm going to learn to identify with Cornell's help this summer, are balancing precariously on the 15' shoot out of the yucca near the driveway.

I'd take pictures, but balancing in the middle of my walker is not a great idea. (Can you hear Little Cuter shrieking MAMA DON'T DO THAT??  I can.)

Have a wonderful weekend, denizens.  I'm going to continue to do laps around the pool, enjoying every single pain free step.

What I've Been Reading Lately

There was a time when I documented every book on the sidebar. If you miss that feature, perhaps this post will help.  For while I was recuperating from the surgery, I read.  I read a lot.  TV was too jarring, my silly game on my phone made me jittery, but books took me right in and kept me company.  I was feeling everything very intensely; the characters and the authors felt like they were lying beside me.  Here's just a snippet of what the library provided.

Do you get antsy when the author's politics rankle?  Can you ever be sure it's the author and not the character?  That's what I struggled with in Shadows Reel by C. J. Box.  I love his stories.  I love the animals and the scenery and each one of the finely detailed women in his life.  I never forget who's who or where they were when last I left them.  But this one, with Antifa a turning point, kept kicking me in the shins.

T. Jefferson Parker's A Thousand Steps was a blast from the past.  I could feel the sand between my toes in Laguna Beach, 1968.  There's a list of people to thank in this book, and I read each and every one of their names, wondering whose story was whose.  The mystery is, as his always are, well crafted, but it's the people and the scenes themselves that made me want to keep reading even as my eyes were closing.

I went on a James Patterson and company binge.  The Paris Detective was three novels under one cover.  The world's richest, suavest, handsomest human being only wants to be a detective.  His gradually-becoming-besotted partner more than carries her fair share, but there's nothing creepy about any of it.  I realized two chapters into the story that I'd read The Jailhouse Lawyer already; it's a tribute to his storytelling that I remember how the book ends.  Fear No Evil is also one I'd read before, but Alex Cross and John Sampson are some of my favorite literary duos so I read it again before picking up  Death of The Black Widow, which kept me in suspense the whole way through. 

A Step Too Far was much better than I'd come to expect from Lisa Gardner.  Her last few novels have left me cold but this one was delicate and intricate and posed questions I'm still pondering.  The Paris Apartment was a lot creepier than I'd hoped for and a lot more happy ending than is possible in the real world and was waaay more predictable than it ought to have been and yet I enjoyed each and every page.  Lucy Foley, a new author for me, drew vivid characters and her descriptions put me right in the center of Paris, eating (wishfully) pastries that broke gently under a silver fork.

I did some heavy lifting reading, too.  I'm saving those for another post.  

Fits and Starts

Every day is a new adventure. 

Yesterday I was twitchy and achy and slow.  Today I am peaceful and achy and not quite as slow.  I took 2 steps straight forward today without thinking about the walker.  It wasn't a planned experiment, I just found myself at the island with both hands free.

I must be getting better if my subconscious let me do that.  But I'm still keeping the walker.  Two steps are, after all, just two steps.

After some confusion over the instructions, I've abandoned the fat Ace Bandage hugging my thigh.  It was uncomfortable and I am glad that it is gone.  The TED hose are still on, but I'm making them a fashion statement.  Scarlet said that yesterday's outfit could be taken out to dinner. (Of course, she then said without those socks, of course..... but I'm pretending not to hear.)

My head feels clearer every day,  which is the best part of all.  Not being able to keep two thoughts in m head simultaneously was emotionally draining, and resulted in my discovery this morning that my old habit of leaving piles everywhere is not quite as buried as I'd hoped.  It's not easy for me to move things around, but TBG takes direction very well and this house now looks a lot more presentable .  Thinking is good.

I'm stiff and I'm working on it because rehab sometimes hurts but that hurt is stretching what needs to be stretched, is avoiding lazy old habits which will inhibit my ability to resume much of my pre-perforated life, making me whole again.

Thank you, Science.

A Tasty Morsel

My body takes its own sweet time shedding anesthesia.  I live a different life while it's in me, the most noticeable thing being the world's most vivid dreams.

Like last night.

We watched half of No Man of Her Own, wherein pregnant Barbara Stanwyck takes the full load when she's tossed over by her boyfriend.  The original version was I Married a Dead Man, which gives you some sense of how she found a chance at a new life, until the old boyfriend and his new squeeze show up to ruin it all.

We got bored halfway through and went to sleep.

And then I was dreaming, and the blonde bimbo was out to get me and I was in the car and she was trying to drag me out of it and it was all in Technicolor and going very fast and I knew that I had to get her to let go so I bit her hand.

Only......

Sweetie.... babe.... please don't bite me.

Yes.  I had grabbed his hand and chomped down.  This was not a nibble he said through his laughter, holding his hand and examining the damage.  

I didn't break the skin, but it was close. We turned on the lights and held one another and laughed and cried and laughed some more.

Ah, I am so lucky to have him nearby when I need him.

Post Op

Every single thing about the experience was exemplary.

You know that I am a harsh critic of just about every thing, so that must be surprising for you to read.  But it's true.  Others may have had negative experiences there, but I have nothing but praise for the folks I met at Banner last week.

It went seamlessly (what I remember and what I've been told).  I never felt insecure or ignored.  The treatment team listened to me.  They spoke intelligibly, and didn't mind my (many) questions.  

And then I woke up and, just as the surgeon and his team promised in his office, the pain in my hip was gone.

The pain in my hip is gone.

As I wince from the surgical process itself (itching and swelling and pain at the incision and having to sleep on my back and being nauseated by the pain meds and and and AND as G'ma used to say who wants to be around a crabby old lady so I'll stop kvetching) I have to keep reminding myself that the pain in my hip is gone.

The pain in my hip is gone.  

I'm uncomfortable enough that it's hard to focus on what feels good, but the tears in the eyes of Little Cuter and TBG when I first stood up to grab the walker tells the story.  They were shocked.  Gobsmacked.  Overwhelmed.

No groaning.  No lurching. No leaning. OMG look at you!

The pain in my hip is gone.

Once I figure out the best way to keep the pain manageable (do I have stories to tell) and am able to hold more than half a thought in my head, I'll be more readable, I promise.  But, for today, I'm focusing on just one thing:

    The pain in my hip is gone.

Change is Gonna Come

Little Cuter is arriving today.

Tomorrow I'm having my hip replaced.

For eleven and a half years I've been exercising, concentrating, reconnecting nerves, losing numbness, reclaiming my glutes, and limping all the while.  As long as the pain moved around, I knew that I was targeting weakness.  That was a good thing.  

But for the past six months or so, the pain has been static - my entire hip joint hurts all the time.  My quads and my hamstrings are doing their best, but, as my x-ray showed us last month, arthritis has invaded my acetablulum and my femoral head.  It looked like snow in December - all white and crusty and definitely not as sharp and pristine as my youthful left hip.

The answer was obvious - it was time for it to come out.

I'm going to the same doctor who did the repair back in 2011, when the damage was new and I was younger.  I don't remember much from that hospitalization, but I do remember telling the surgeon that I wanted to keep my own stuff.  So, he put me back together with screws and plates and spit and baling wire, all twisted together in an intricate web that has held me (basically) upright for more than a decade.  

It's done all that it can do.  It's time to replace it with artificial body parts.

That's a creepy thing to contemplate.  I didn't like having an IUD, not for the cramping but because it was a foreign body inside my human self.  I'm not thrilled with fillings in my teeth.  

Going under anesthesia isn't my favorite way to spend a morning, although they'll be using a lighter method that will have me awake as soon as the mask is removed.  Last time they went into me, they used a tube down my throat that irritated my uvula to the point of being unable to swallow.  I won't have that issue this time, but being unaware of what's going on around me is not my favorite place to be.

But, I can't get up without groaning.  I have moved from limping to gimping to waddling to swaying.  Since I've made the decision, my gait has gotten worse; there's no use in trying to work through the discomfort when the discomfort will soon be gone.

That's right. Gone.  

What sold me on doing the procedure was the nurse telling me that when you wake up that pain you feel in your hip will be gone.  There will be surgical pain, but the hip pain will be gone.

Gone.

My constant companion since CTG died, the aches that pull me back to gunshots in front of the grocery store will be no more.  Several years ago, Brother looked at me with compassion.  You don't ever get a break, do you?  It's a constant reminder, isn't it.

I don't know what I'll do without that reminder.  It's been lurking in my brain for a long, long time.  There will be a void.  I don't know what will fill it.  I hope that gliding smoothly across the floor will put joy where there was angst.  I hope that bending without being reminded that my body doesn't like doing that any more will make me smile.  Yoga and Pilates and lifting weights, tumbling and rumbling with my grandkids,  hiking and squatting and just moving without pain --- all this is in my future.

I don't need aches to remind me of my little friend.  I don't need to suffer in order to honor her memory.  I do need to reclaim those parts of my life that the shooter took from me.  Surgery is the next step on that journey.

I'm taking Thursday and Friday off from blogging.  I'll be back on Monday morning with an update.

Reading Too Much?

I have 11 books home from the library.  

I went twice in 3 days, both times to pick up a hold that came in.  Both times, there were authors I love (Lisa Gardner, Michael Connelly, David Guterson) on the Your Lucky Day shelf (isn't that a great sign?).  

Both times there were titles that smiled at me, like Hell of a Book, which turned out to be a hell of a book.

As always, there were cover blurbs that inspired me to take a peek inside, like Reese's Book Club and Read with Jenna.

And so, here I am, with more stories than I can keep straight.  I tried to take a nap this afternoon, but I couldn't remember which kid in which story was riding his bike when the awful thing happened.... and I couldn't keep track of which awful thing I was half-remembering.

Does this happen to you?  Do you stand in front of the library shelves wondering if you've read this title before?  Do you get books home only to find, on page 3 or 4, that you know exactly why this character will be killing that character over which bit of evidence that will damn them both forever?  

I do.

Now I am looking at titles that no longer appeal to me and wondering why I bothered tp check them out.  I have a Jack Reacher novel, Better Off Dead, written in a 4 book deal by the original author - Lee Child - and his younger brother, Andrew.  Lee knows he's aging and that his readers are hungry so he's passing the series off to a younger but just as energetic and enthusiastic writer, whose shown his chops at mysteries while writing as Andrew Grant.  That shows a great kindness to those of us who think Jack Reacher (who looks NOTHING like Tom Cruise) is the ultimate hero.  It also put another book in my book bag.

They range from fluff to magical realism.  They touch on race and class and honor.  Thus far, there are no boring stories, or predictable plot lines.  And none of it cost me one red cent.

Benjamin Franklin and Andrew Carnegie had the right idea - libraries enrich us.  I'm so lucky to have mine right around the corner.  Please excuse me now; Jack Reacher is calling. 

Rest In Peace

When the first Play Group Dad died, it was an anomaly.  We were young, raising our growing families, but he'd always been a bit distant, close to reclusive, which, we found out after his passing was due to a long standing illness he chose to keep private.

We mourned.  We supported.  We wept.  People our age weren't supposed to be die.  We were stunned, with no real framework in which to set the circumstances.  Holding it as a one-off, we moved on.

But now Carey is dead.  

Carey, with whom we'd vacationed.  Carey, whose son played on most of Big Cuter's teams when they were young.  Carey, whose daughter and ours were the young hangers-on to Play Group.  Carey, whose kids went to school with ours, went to the Menomonee Club after school for sports and crafts and companionship together.  He could be counted on for carpooling in a pinch, for sharing a freezing sideline at a flag football game, for showing up.

The same could not be said for all the dads, whose presence was often greeted with a Look who's here!  Carey was there.  He was in our lives.  Now he is not. I'm having a hard time getting my head around his absence.  

He'd been ill earlier in life, while the kids were young but not babies.  He survived the treatment, wore hats and sunscreen everywhere, and carried on with the business of medicine and parenting and marriage and managing the household.   

Then, he got sick again....much sicker....with much less hope than before.  I sent letters as he battled, but I'd sent letters before that.  My words of solace and encouragement didn't have much impact on the outcome.  He was brave and fought valiantly but to no avail.  He's been gone since February.  I got the letter from his wife today.

She and I power walked the Chicago Lakefront for years - she taking off fast, me taking some time to warm up but then matching her stride for stride.  Long walks and long talks with a smart and loyal friend do a lot to shore up the down sides of life.  I know she was that for me.  I hope I was able to return the favor.  

And now, there is more consoling and mourning and sorrow..... so much sorrow.  

Because it's not an anomaly any more.  This is what the future will hold.  We knew that.  We just didn't know that.  

There's a hole in the world where Carey used to stand, short and snarky and helpful, smiling and enjoying the chaos surrounding him, getting knocked down and climbing right back up, maybe not asking for help as much as he could have but knowing that those around him admired and respected his work ethic, his love of family, his devotion to his friends. 

Olav HaShalom.  May peace be upon him.  His time of suffering on this earth has ended, and for that, we are grateful.

But he's not here any more, and that sucks.