Becoming Bionic
When I was 16, I had
both my hips replaced. When I talk about it, I usually focus on the way they liberated
me from more than two years of lying in a hospital bed.
They enabled me to sit in a
power wheelchair and to go home. I don’t talk about the six months from the
first replacement to the day I went home or much about the two years before
that.
I’ve been revisiting
that time in the past week, prompted by my mother’s hip replacement last week.
She’s doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances, and will likely
come home today.
It’s been an odd week.
Superimposed on my mother’s experiences has been memories of my own.
Juvenile arthritis is
the obvious culprit for triggering the need for my hip replacements, but
accelerating that need was a body cast they put me in when I was 14. The
rationale for the body cast was that giving my hips some rest from the flare
might make everything better. After a two
week reprieve to go on vacation, I spent a month in a cast from the tip of
my toes to my chest. At the end of the month, they took a saw to the cast and I
felt the air brush against my skin again. I got tipped out of the cast and then
I stood and everyone — myself, my family, the medical team — expected me to
walk.
Only I didn’t.
Couldn’t. My mother talked about it in the first Live Bold multimedia story. In it, she says “and when she got out and got
down on the floor, and found out she couldn’t walk, I saw her eyes, I saw her
face. Defeat, sadness. She didn’t cry. She just gave up on it, it wasn’t going
to happen.”
I don’t remember that
moment. I suspect my brain has very carefully wrapped it up in a box with a
sturdy lock and put it on a shelf.
I remember afterwards,
though. I was transferred from the rehab hospital to an orthopedic hospital to
get hip replacements. It was the best thing that had happened to me in a long
time. The rehab hospital was an awful place, but the orthopedic ward was quite
wonderful. It was led by an amazing head nurse who put caring first. Not just
the physical caretaking of the children on the ward, but an understanding that
children who are in hospital need something extra. They need nice people, they
need to laugh, and they need to have a sense of home away from home. They did
that well. Also, the food was pretty good.
As my fused hips
didn’t allow me to sit, I spent most of my time lying in bed while I waited for
new hips. I was pretty tiny, so the hip replacements needed to be specially
made for me in the UK (Denmark is a small country and relied on joint
replacements from other countries). A quick-thinking nurses’ aide reported my
nickel allergy, which meant my new hip replacements would be some of the first
made purely of titanium. This added to the wait time. And then, after two years
of waiting, on a beautiful summer day in July, they told me that they were here
and we were ready to go. My left hip was first.
The first three days
weren’t very fun. This was before pain pumps that allow you to control the pain
meds. I’d get a shot of something wonderful for the pain every four hours, but
it only lasted three. That last hour was about holding on, breathing through
the pain and the tears, until they came with the next shot of wonderful. The
third day after surgery was the worst, something I’ve always attributed to the
anaesthetic finally leaving your body so you get the full and exquisite
sensation of pain for being cut open. And then it gets better. Much better. The
lack of pain in the joint that previously was screaming is something I still
remember and still enjoy to this day.
Well, my hip got
better, but my knee was a wreck. It didn’t respond very well to the twisting
motion made when they dislocate your hip so they can saw off the top of your
femur. It never simmered down, so by September, they decided to do a
synovectomy, believing it would help. It did, but not in the way that was
expected. Just like my hips had after the body cast - and my right wrist did
after synovectomy when I was 10 - the knee fused. Aside from the leg sticking
out and making my dimensions bigger, I don’t mind much. It being fused means no
pain, so it’s been my strong legs since.
In early December, it
was time for the second hip and it went much like the first. Except this time,
when my knee was just as unhappy as the left had been, they did a steroid
injection in the joint and that took care of the problem.
Other than the method
of pain control, there are a couple of other differences between then and now.
Back then, you stayed in bed after the surgery, most likely until the stitches
came out. These days, they get you out of bed the day after the operation and
if you don’t need to go to rehab, home on the third or fourth. Another difference is the incision. Thirty years ago, it was long. Really long. Mine starts almost at the very edge of my butt
cheek, moves out towards my side and makes a graceful 90°-ish curve down on my
outer thigh. The scar covers 33 stitches worth of territory and I have a
matching one on the other side. These days, the incision is just on the side of
your leg. That’s definite progress (although a less impressive scar).
These thirty-five
years later, I am still grateful for my bionic hips. And I still prefer to not
think about those six months in 1978 with the three surgeries.
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