Hip, Yes Indeed- What It Is

Me, after bionic enhancement

After several weeks of absence I now sit at the writee machinee, once again attempting to manipulate the English language into semi-coherent thought. It’s not all that easy, as I am recovering from surgery- the total replacement of my left hip. I hadn’t told very many people about this, as I have never been comfortable with burdening others with the tedium of having to come up with appropriate expressions of sympathy or support.

The last time I was hospitalized was about 5 years ago, after my appendix had exploded. I was flat on my back for 5 days in Louisville’s Norton Hospital, hooked up to various tubes and I.V. bags. I vaguely remember ordering my first-born daughter to go home, arguing with my fiancé and otherwise being generally churlish with the nursing staff. How or why they all put up with me remains a mystery. In fact, I have always been a wretched hospital patient, snarling and snapping at staff workers, impatient with family visitors, indifferent to flowers and cards and desiring nothing more than to be left alone with the TV remote and morphine drip button. After a day or two, nurses tend to hate my ass-face. So, this time around, I was determined to be less disagreeable. After all, due to a part-time day gig which provided health benefits, I could finally afford this operation and after nearly a year of limping around like Frankenstein’s Igor (“Walk this way…”), I would soon regain my ability to pace the floor and worry- one of my favorite pastimes.  I should be thrilled.

A pratt fall on the back porch during the holidays had exacerbated my pain and made it almost impossible to walk, so I needed this thing in a hurry. But hip replacement surgery, while becoming increasingly more commonplace, is not a simple in-and-out procedure. It took a referral from my G.P. to an orthopedic surgeon, multiple tests and x-rays and coordination of hospital and doctors’ schedules. My surgeon, the kindly and ever-so-competent Dr. William Sutherland, was able to find a spot in the middle of January at a small boutique hospital in the quaint seaside village of York, which advertised “the best lobster rolls in the state of Maine.” Yum, yum, I couldn’t wait.

So, on the 19th of January my fiancé Julie drove me to York Hospital for the surgery. As we pulled up to the main entrance, I couldn’t help notice that the tiny facility was bursting at the seams, with new construction turning everything topsy-turvy on the outside. People were marching in and out with dogs on leashes- York had a “dog visitation” policy, supposedly great for patients’ mental health but one that I, as a surgical patient, found fairly disturbing. To no avail, I tried to banish the vivid images in my mind involving packs of flea-infested, butt-licking dogs roaming the halls, ripping at my sutures, peeing in my ginger ale and chewing on I.V. tubes at their leisure. I suppose my surface veneer of calm was starting to crack. “Think lobster rolls, yum, yum,” became my mantra for inner peace.

After the preliminaries, I was ushered into a tiny, cluttered waiting room resembling a linen closet. “The anesthesiologist will be in shortly to discuss your options,” the nurse advised, after ordering me to change into a standard backless, typically humiliating hospital negligee. “In the meantime, you can fold towels, if you get bored.”

Twenty minutes and two stacks of towels later, the smiling anesthesiologist waltzes in. “Let’s discuss your options,” he begins. “Options?” said I. “How about the one presenting the least chance of mortality and a fair chance of preventing unspeakable agony under the knife?” “That sounds reasonable,” he says. I resist the temptation to ask which one comes with soup and egg roll. There are two options- one, full general anesthesia, involving being put into a death-like comatose state, with a plastic tube crammed down your throat. The other is a spinal block, augmented with a sedative, allowing for intermittent periods of wakefulness and the promise of a speedier, less nauseating recovery. I opt for number two, as the idea of being able to check out the progress and have a chat with the surgical team is irresistible. Plus, there’s no tube in the throat. After all, we don’t want any lingering impediment to my lobster roll delivery system.

Dr. Sutherland makes a brief appearance to go over a few last-minute details. I prepare to deliver my last bit of witticism: “Hey Doc, it’s the left hip, okay?” But he is way ahead of me- he actually marked the correct hip with a magic marker and I am commanded to initial it. A few minutes later they wheeled me into the O.R. I had envisioned a scene out of the Inquisition, with Dominicans preparing torture devices over hot coals, but the room actually reminded me of a small, brightly lit Las Vegas cocktail lounge. It’s Showtime! I would like to think my natural he-man fortitude was responsible for my jaunty, cavalier attitude in the face of impending surgical mayhem, but it’s quite possible that the sedative already pumping into my vein from the I.V. bag could take most of the credit. As they inserted the needle into my spine, I was already drifting off on fluffy clouds of fresh-steamed, chunky lobster meat dripping in butter and stuffed into a crisp, toasted hot dog bun…

BANG-BANG- BANG! “What the Hell is that?” I am startled from my crustacean fantasy by what appears to be construction noises in the vicinity of my ass. “That’s Dr. Sutherland, building you a new hip,” the smiling anesthesiologist explains. I can’t see the operation, as I am laying on my right side. To take my mind off the matter at hand, he asks me to recommend some jazz albums for his collection, as he is “interested in expanding his musical tastes.” I vaguely remember suggesting he begin with Ornette Coleman’s This is Our Music before I nodded out again. As I said, I’m not a very nice patient.

The operation was a success and was actually the easiest part of the hospital experience, as it turned out. Two hours after surgery, I was wheeled to my room, which I would be sharing with an elderly gentleman with a blood infection, who spent all night moaning, throwing up and calling repeatedly for the nurse. I was spared the visuals, as he kept his curtains closed the whole time, blocking the only window. Thus, I spent the next few day without ever seeing daylight, strapped flat on my back with a plastic wedge stuck between my legs, hooked up to a catheter, various I.V. bags and monitors. Even so, the day after surgery I was in great spirits: “Great job, Dr. Sutherland- I want you to sign this hip!” The benevolent surgeon shrugged it off, attributing my euphoria to the residue of the sedatives and pain killers still in my system.

Sure enough, by the second night, I was my former churlish self. My tubes were tangled, the bed adjustments were not functioning and the restraints pinning me flat on my back were making it difficult to breathe. I imagined all kinds of horrors- pneumonia, infection, the ultimate rejection of my brand new hip joint. My night nurse was curt, defensive and impatient and I began to suspect her level of competency as well. But upon reflection, I suppose that her bedside manner, however indifferent to my suffering she may have been, didn’t merit me calling her and her C.T. “a team of assassins.” From that point on, the anger and resentment would be increasingly palpable as Florence Nightenmare jabbed and prodded in her inimitable passive-aggressive style. “Was it something I said?” I asked, not without a touch of irony.

Fortunately, on the third day the more experienced, no-nonsense morning nurse took the matters in hand, requisitioning a new bed, straightening out the tangle of I.V. tubes and requesting a change in the night staff for the malcontent patient Barnes. My cheerful physical therapist did his job of getting me up and moving and I began to eat small amounts of food- Jell-O, beef broth, a piece of toast- in fact, anything but lobster rolls, which somehow had lost their appeal. A visit from my brother actually lifted my spirits. My roommate was discreetly moved to another room (at his request, I’m sure) and I was finally able to see sunlight.

On Friday, four days after the surgery, I was discharged, with home physical therapy scheduled. But there was one unfulfilled experience I had yet to savor. Yes, for my last meal, I ordered one of York Hospital’s celebrated lobster rolls, which arrived a few minutes later- cold, unappetizing shreds of nebulous, smelly, previously frozen invertebrate meat, on a stale bun soggy with mayonnaise. It didn’t matter- I was just happy to be going home.

The main point, of course, is that I am lucky to be able to have this surgery. Currently there are nearly 50 million Americans out there who are uninsured and couldn’t afford this procedure, nor even the basic, life-saving health care that people with group benefits take for granted. I hope that our government remedies this inequity soon.

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the surgical team headed by Dr. Sutherland, the staff at York Hospital, the home health care people and my long-suffering fiancé, Julie, who bears the brunt of my recovery process.

UPDATE- April, 2013:

I’m happy to report that, three years later, my left bionic hip is still functioning and has not given me a bit of trouble.

I’m unhappy to report that my hopes for a more equitable healthcare system, where proper medical care is available to all, not just the lucky ones with group benefits or millions of dollars in the bank, is no closer to being a reality than it was when the Clintons attempted to reform the system back in the ’90s.  As Dr. Sutherland had predicted, I now need my right hip replaced.  Whether I will be getting this much-needed surgery or not is dependent on the policies of Penbay Health, Knox County and my current limited financial status. I’ve become the Blanche Dubois of orthopedic medicine- “dependent on the kindness of strangers.”

Assuming that I am granted this surgery, I promise to chronicle the experience again in my blog- but this time, without the over-written cuteness of the above article.  At least I’ll try.