Sometimes life has a way of teaching you humility. For me, this took place in the form of a hip replacement. I was only 45 – okay, 46.
There was never any real explanation for the premature degeneration of my right hip, but there was no denying the inevitable. Surgery was in my imminent future.
I resolved to get on with it. But I would do it better than others. I would find the best surgeon, recover faster and be back to my normal activities post-haste.
I researched and learned about a new variation of the traditional hip replacement, one designed for young active people who want no limitations on their post-surgical activities. Obviously, this was for me. I found the right surgeon and booked the appointment. I moved confidently toward my date with destiny.
My pre-surgical information session at the hospital did nothing to burst my smug little bubble. There I was, young(ish), slender and hip (no pun intended) in my jeans and hoodie, surrounded by the usual crowd of 60-, 70- and 80-year-olds. I was even asked to take a pregnancy test prior to getting X-rays done. A grand day indeed.
Here’s where it all unravels and my much-deserved humbling experiences begin.
It’s April and I’m already juiced up for surgery. Paralyzing agent has been shot in my spine and happy serum is running from the IV to my head. Enter the surgeon.
“Christine,” he begins, “I’ve been thinking about this newer hip procedure you opted for back in October. I’m no longer entirely convinced it’s the best one for someone as small-boned as yourself.” (So much for slender.) “I think perhaps a full hip replacement might be the better option.”
I heroically refrain from mentioning that it might have been a better option to discuss this a week ago. Instead I slur out what my husband refers to as one of my typical non-decisions. “Why don’t you just go in there, doc, take a look around, and you can choose.”
Outcome? I’m now sporting a traditional “senior” hip.
Surgery complete, morphine becomes my next humbling agent. I know what you’re thinking. Morphine. What great stuff. You just push the little button on your morphine pump and send yourself off into a happy place.
This is how it works for about 24 hours. Morphine and I are best friends. But suddenly, without warning, my best friend turns on me. My stomach begins to churn, my face takes on a deathly cast and my new best friend becomes the kidney bean. You know the one. The small, curved bowl, present in all medical contexts, that is guaranteed to fail in any high-pressure situation.
Call me a slow learner. After several ill-fated sessions with the bean, the nurses eventually hide it and hand me my much larger bath bowl to throw up into. Sponge baths are never the same after that.
My next humbling experience is the bedpan story. Fear not. This is not about using it. I disdainfully dismiss the thought. Instead I rise gamely from my bed and, with my trusty walker, begin the long journey to a civilized commode.
Unfortunately, I fail to recall that I am attached to an IV line and that the IV is plugged into the wall. As my line runs out, I am snapped back toward the bed. This is when I realize that my “situation” has changed from mildly urgent to code red. The bedpan is looking really good right about now – except that it is hidden deep in the recesses of my bedside table.
I am in panic mode, which precedes total humiliation, which precedes standing in soggy slippers and calling for a cleanup in aisle 906.
Now out of the hospital and at home, it is my teenagers who continue the job of humbling their mother. Generally self-absorbed in nature, they nevertheless take stock of my helplessness and see incredible never-before-realized opportunities.
They play games of “Let’s move Mom’s walker and crutches to the other side of the room,” followed by gleeful taunts, such as, “Whatcha gonna do now, Mom? Huh? How are you gonna make me play the piano now?” You can always count on a teenager to brighten your day.
Finally, there is the afternoon that friends drop by to keep me company. These friends both happen to be turning 90 this year. They are fun and vibrant and confess that I am the first one they know to have a hip replacement. The visit over, I escort them to the door with my walker and reflect on the situation.
All of these humiliating episodes are not, however, what shake my former cocky, overconfident attitude the most. Rather, it is the obvious care and concern of so many people that does it. From my husband (by his own admission, not a natural caregiver) who ignores the relentless pressure at work to sit by my bed for hours holding my hand (and my bean/bowl); to my friend, her own son a cancer victim, who drops by the hospital with my favourite chocolates; my parents and siblings who check up on me daily; my fellow soccer moms who step in to take my turns shuttling our kids to hockey, soccer and baseball; and the many friends and colleagues whose little gifts and e-mails, invitations and drop-ins keep me sane while I struggle through six weeks of no walking and, worse, no driving.
From these countless little acts of kindness I have learned my lesson about humility. I only hope I never need the other hip replaced to remind me.
Christine McDonald lives in Toronto.
bubble Bath
hip surgery, premature degeneration, serum, spine
