Ron's Hip Adventure

It’s been over a week since my last blog post. That’s mainly because my hip adventure has slowed down to a crawl. Over the past week, I’ve done my three daily physio sessions, and the hip is healing slowly. Today, however, I have something to write about.

I’m seeing my surgeon tomorrow, and he gave me a requisition to have x-rays done at Hôpital de Gatineau prior to the appointment. I asked if I could have the x-rays done at a private clinic close to my home, but he told me it had to be Hôpital de Gatineau. So, this morning, since I’m not allowed to drive yet, Corinne drove me to Hôpital de Gatineau.

When we got to the hospital, we followed the signs to the x-ray department. On our way, we passed a huge room that was packed with hundreds of unhappy-looking people. I said to Corinne, “I’m so glad we’re not going there.”

At the x-ray department, we stood in line for 15 minutes. A sign told me to have my requisition from the doctor, my health card, and my hospital card ready. I had all of those things in hand, but, when I got to the desk, the lady looked at my hospital card and said, “I can’t do anything with this. It’s from Hôpital de Hull. Don’t you have a card for Hôpital de Gatineau?”
“No,” I said, ” It’s my first time here.”
“Oh,” she said, “You’ll need to have a card made. For that, you must go to the room with too many people.” She smiled and pointed down the hallway.

I went to Corinne and said, “We have to go to the room with too many people.”
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “not the room with too many people.”

Corinne knew where the room was and lead me there. When I entered the room, I was overwhelmed. There were too many people. The signs were all in French, and I didn’t know what to do. Corinne went up to an electronic kiosk and pressed a selection on the touch screen. The kiosk spit out a little slip of paper with the number 191 on it.

Because there were too many people in the room, I was discouraged about the prospects of getting a card any time soon, and the number 191 seemed like a big number. I said to Corinne, “This is ridiculous. Let’s get out of here. We’ll go to a private clinic, get my x-rays put on a CD, and I’ll bring the CD to my doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’re staying. Most of these people are here for appointments and other reasons.”
She pointed to a screen that showed that Guichet F was now seeing number 180. “Your number will show up on the screen within 15 minutes,” she reassured me.

Because all the chairs in the room were taken, we stood in the crowd of too many people, and soon my number appeared on the screen. The pleasant, efficient lady at Guichet F made me a card within seconds, and we headed back to the x-ray department. This time, there was no line, and I was processed and sent to a waiting room. While Corinne read her book in the waiting room, I slipped into an attractive blue hospital gown, had my x-rays done. The technicians were delightful, and we had a lot of fun getting the pictures taken. We all laughed when I bumped my head on the x-ray machine as I got up.

The entire Hôpital de Gatineau adventure only took an hour and a half. I’m glad that Corinne stopped me from bolting. I’m glad that she made me stay in the room with too many people.

Corinne is reading a book entitled “The Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing.” She decided that we need to declutter our house, and since tomorrow is our neighbourhood garage sale, this is the perfect time to get rid of stuff.

I’m on-board with the project, but in my current condition I’m not able to provide much help. I can, however, act as a consultant about what things should leave our house. Corinne has been going through our stuff and periodically brings me an object, such as a lamp, to pass judgement on. I almost always tell her that the object can go.

Corinne believes that we have too many windsurfers, and she may have a point. One of my windsurfers is a sinker board that has been in our garage for many years. A sinker is a board that doesn’t actually float when you stand on it. It must be planing on the surface of the water in order to support your weight. You can only use it on very windy days by lying in the water with your feet on the board, pushing the sail just above the water, and hoping that a strong gust will pull you out of the water. If the wind stops, you sink. I never mastered the technique of using the board, and so I haven’t used it. But, I’m not ready to give up on the idea that I will someday master the technique, even though I never practice it. I reluctantly agreed that we should get rid of the sinker; however, I told Corinne that I would need to organize the rigging, and we both agreed that it would be too much trouble for me in my current condition. So, the windsurfer will stay in our garage a bit longer and won’t contribute to the life-changing magic at this time.

Corinne decided that she should sell her 1962 Barbie’s Dream House at the garage sale. She looked online and saw that people are asking $50 for a vintage dream house. But those ones look pristine, and Corinne’s looks like it’s hosted some wild parties. So, Corinne brought the dream house up from the garage, and because it smelled like her mother’s damp basement, where it had been stored for 50 years, she put it on the back deck to air out. Here are some pictures of the dream house as it looks today.

As you can see, it’s a small but comfortable house made out of cardboard. That’s the bed on the right. Apart from that, Barbie has a couch, easy chair, coffee table, and make-up station–everything that Barbie needs. There’s no kitchen or washroom, but Barbie doesn’t need those rooms.

If you look at the house from another angle, you can see that Barbie has a stereo with a TV in it, and a large picture of her boyfriend Ken.

Corinne looked at Barbie’s Dream House wistfully and said to me, “Ron, do you really think I should sell it? Whenever I look at Barbie’s Dream House I’m flooded by feelings of attachment.”

I said to her, “Corinne, don’t sell Barbie’s Dream House. Let’s keep it a little while longer.”

“OK,” she said, sounding relieved. “We’ll keep it.” And she thanked me for my support.

So there won’t be much life-changing magic happening at our house this weekend. Decluttering isn’t as easy as the book leads us to believe. We may not have many articles to sell at the garage sale tomorrow, but at least we still have the sinker and Barbie’s Dream House.

Yesterday our friends and neighbours, Dennis and Dorothy, invited us to their house for dinner. It may have been partly because they read my blog post about squirrels and realized that I needed to get out of the house. We had drinks and dinner on their deck overlooking the Ottawa River. The conversation, food, and setting were wonderful and it felt good to be out of the house for the first time since the surgery. Here’s a picture that I took with my phone.

This afternoon, my excellent physiotherapist, Claude, came to the house. She ran through my current exercises, measured some of the angles that I’m able to create with my legs, and added some new exercises to my program. My routine now takes well over an hour three times per day. Between the exercising and the icing, physio is a full-time job.

Corinne and I drove up to the pet store today to buy some fish for our pond. There were already two fish in our pond that Corinne and Matt bought a couple of weeks ago, but they were shy fish who spent their days hiding under a rock. Corinne would look into the pond and say to me, “Ron, I don’t think we have any fish.” So, today we selected two spirited koi. One of them jumped onto the floor of the pet shop and tried to escape before the store owner picked him up and put him in the plastic bag full of water. As we started to leave the store with our two $15 koi, I noticed another tank that said “Goldfish $0.99.” We agreed that we wouldn’t be taking a big financial risk by buying two of them. So we came home with four fish—two premium fish and two cheap fish. When we added them to the pond, the original shy fish came out from under the rock and joined the gang. They are no longer shy. They have a new confidence, and it’s obvious that they just needed a leader. The six fish now do everything together, and they seem happy. Even the cheap fish seem confident. We threw some fish food in the water and there was a feeding frenzy reminiscent of Jaws.

As Corinne and I sat on our front deck this evening after supper, I told her that I’m having difficulty coming up with material for my blog. My life over the past few weeks has been uneventful. I hang around the house doing physio exercises and falling asleep. Healing is a slow boring process.

I said to Corinne, “I might have to dig into the past to come up with topics for my blog.”
She said to me excitedly, “Ron, why don’t you dig into the present?”
“What do you mean by that?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Corinne replied, “but I like the sound of it.”
So now I’m sitting at the computer digging into the present.

My friend, Gail, suggested that I might want to write about my walking aids. I do have a walker that’s on loan from the Quebec government, but I’m not crazy about it. A walker is not cool, and there’s really no way to make it cool. I went online and asked the question, “How can I make my walker cool?” I found pictures of decorated walkers, like the one below, but I don’t really think they’re cool. Maybe in some circles this is a cool walker, but not in my neighbourhood.

The walker doesn’t work well in our split-level house. Every time I want to change floors I have to call for Corinne to carry the walker up or down the stairs, and because of my restlessness, I change floors frequently. The good news is that I’m done with my walker now. I’ve moved on to the cane, which is a simpler and more elegant piece of equipment.

Our backyard is a wildlife refuge, populated by squirrels. This time of year, the squirrels are doing mating dances and chasing each other around the yard. This morning, I watched one squirrel do an elaborate mating dance. The thing about this squirrel that was both endearing and pathetic is that none of the other squirrels took notice of his dance. The dance became more frenzied and elaborate and he introduced some yelling, but still none of the other squirrels even looked at him. Maybe there was something wrong with his dance (it looked good to me, but what do I know). Maybe he was just an unattractive squirrel (I thought he was cute, but I’m not a squirrel). Whatever the reason, his dance was ignored by the other squirrels, and I felt sorry for him. I hope that some day he will find that special squirrel who will appreciate him for who he is.

One of the fun things about squirrel watching, that I’m sure many of you have discovered, is that the word ‘squirrel’ rhymes with ‘girl.’ This means that, while squirrel watching, there are thousands of songs you can sing by substituting squirrel for girl. Songs like: My Squirrel, Squirrels Just Want to Have Fun, If You Were the Only Squirrel in the World, Brown Eyed Squirrel, Fat Bottomed Squirrels, and Big Squirrels Don’t Cry.

So, this is what happens when I dig into my present—an uneventful present that fills my mind with thoughts of walking aids and squirrels.

In the early days of this blog, there was lots to write about. Every day was an adventure that involved doctors, nurses, rubber hoses, and narcotics.

But now, there is less to write about. My day is centered around three 45 minute physio exercise sessions, which I’ve been doing religiously. Each day is much the same as the one before, but the hip is steadily getting stronger and less painful.

I become exhausted and fall asleep every afternoon. I said to my son Matt that the fatigue is the result of the surgery. Matt, who likes to challenge everything that I say, suggested that my fatigue is more likely the result of a lack of purpose in my life. Of course I disagreed. My purpose is clear—it’s to recover from surgery and get into shape. So, I asked my smart phone, who knows everything, if fatigue can result from surgery. My phone told me that fatigue is normal after surgery, and is the result of the general anesthetic, blood loss, narcotics, and healing process. My phone told me that the fatigue will dissipate over time.

Now that the hard part of the surgery is over, I’m increasingly excited about the results. I’m excited about having two legs that are the same length. Before the surgery, my right leg had become an inch shorter as the old hip replacement deteriorated. Now, as I do my exercises, I feel a stability that I didn’t have before. My back and knees are coming back into alignment. It’s very exciting.

At the beginning of this adventure, I questioned the 20/80 rule—the rule that a positive outcome of this surgery is 20% the surgeon’s responsibility and 80% my responsibility. But now I understand it. Rehab is my full time job for the next couple of months, and I must continue to dedicate myself to a successful recovery. The surgeon did a great job of his 20%, and now the 80% is up to me.

It’s been a couple of days since my last post, and there have been some milestones.

On Wednesday, Claudie, my nurse, came to the house and removed the 73 staples. She’s very good at it, and it wasn’t bad at all. The pain level was similar to when Corinne plucks my eyebrows. Today I was allowed to get rid of my compression stockings, and I was also allowed to take my first shower. I stayed in the shower for a long time, singing. It felt wonderful.

Yesterday my physiotherapist, Claude, came to the house to check my exercise program and give me more exercises. Claude is a caring and knowledgeable physiotherapist, and she’s really helping me. Until yesterday I did most of my exercises lying on my back in bed (that sounds more exciting than it really is), but now I have many new exercises that I do sitting or standing. There is pain involved, and Claude explained to me that it is because my muscles are angry. And why shouldn’t they be angry. They’re angry that a surgeon cut them and manhandled them. They’re angry that I treated them badly in the past—angry that I was a careless cyclist. And now they’re angry that they’re being forced to do things that they don’t want to do. I understand their anger. Anyone would be angry.

Dealing with angry muscles, Claude explained to me, is a balancing act that requires patience and love. I need to reassure my muscles, encourage them to get strong, and then sooth them with ice. If I push them too hard, they’ll get angrier, and then we’ll all be in trouble. As my daughter-in-law just explained to me, the expression is “don’t poke the bear.”

Now I have a physio program that takes 45 minutes and must be completed three times per day. Next week, Claude will check to make sure I’ve stuck to the program, and she’ll add more exercises. I’ll soon be doing three hours or more of physio exercises every day. I’ll do them in a gentle, loving manner, just like Claude told me. I’ll avoid making my muscles angrier than they are, and maybe someday they’ll forgive me.

Tomorrow (Wednesday) is a milestone.  It will be two weeks since my surgery. Nurse Claudie will be coming in the morning to remove the 73 staples from my incision (we counted them). Each staple will be removed with a staple remover–not unlike the ones we use at the office. On Thursday, the physiotherapist will come to the house and give me a new exercise routine, and then after Friday, I can stop wearing compression stockings. So, life is gradually becoming more normal, and I’m feeling a bit stronger every day.

I’m very pleased with the new hip. It already feels better than the last one ever felt. Maybe it’s the titanium. My last hip was stainless steel, and I think titanium agrees with me.

I found a YouTube video of Steve Carell on the David Letterman Show talking about his hip replacement. You might find it amusing.

https://youtu.be/eAlt6z8Dhzo

One of the things that I was told to acquire before surgery is something called a grabber. A grabber is a three-foot long aluminum shaft with a handle at one end and a claw at the other end. It lets me grab things that I wouldn’t otherwise be able to grab. Here’s what it looks like:

This is not my first experience with a grabber, and when I feel that grabber in my hand, it takes me back to another time in my life.

When I was a landscape architecture student at the University of Guelph, I took a year off school and got a full-time job working as a groundskeeper for the university. One of my first tasks as a groundskeeper was to collect litter from the grounds of the school. I was given a canvas bag with a shoulder strap and a grabber. With the grabber in my right hand, I picked up the litter and slung it into the bag that hung by my left side. Many people didn’t want this job. They thought that garbage picking was demeaning. Since I was the new guy on the grounds crew, I was given the job often. I didn’t mind because I loved the job. With that grabber in my hand, I felt cool and dangerous. As I strolled across the grounds of the campus looking for litter, I twirled my grabber in the way that a gunslinger from a western movie twirls his six shooter. That grabber became an extension of my body. When I spotted a piece of litter I would sometimes walk past it and then reach behind me with the grabber to get the litter and flick it into the bag all in one smooth motion. Every piece of litter was different and required a different approach. I developed lunges and other dramatic moves that I borrowed from martial arts and fencing. I felt cool and I imagined that the students on the campus admired me.

But the garbage job didn’t end with picking. It got even cooler than that. Every couple of days, the trash barrels on campus needed to be emptied. For this job, there was a small flat bed trailer with a large garbage can mounted on it and a platform for me to stand on. It looked remarkably like a chariot, but rather than being drawn by two horses, it was hitched to a John Deere tractor. My job was to stand at the back of the chariot, like a Roman soldier, and hold onto the garbage can. We drove across the campus stopping at every garbage barrel along the way. At each stop, I jumped from my mount, emptied the garbage barrel into the chariot, jumped back onto the chariot, and commanded the driver to continue. Once again, I felt cool and imagined that the students on the campus admired me.

So now when I have a grabber in my hand again, it feels good. This time I’m not picking litter with it (although I will pick up any litter that I come across). In the morning after using my grabber to put on my underwear, I give it a couple of twirls and for a moment I travel back to my glory days as a groundskeeper on the University of Guelph campus.

For the past couple of days, I’ve been living the life of a house cat. I get up and wander around the house with my walker and then I lie down and fall asleep for a while. I repeat this throughout the day and night. I’ve never had a cat, so I’m not sure that this is a good analogy. I suspect that house cats do a lot more than I’m doing. Anyway, I think I’m gradually spending more time awake and less time asleep during the day.

Yesterday, my physiotherapist, Claude, came to visit. She asked me a lot of questions, measured various angles on my body, and put me through a series of exercises. She spent an hour and a half with me, and I felt quite encouraged by the end of of our session. Naturally, I was exhausted and went to sleep again immediately after she left.

My friend and neighbour, Steve, dropped over for a visit in the afternoon and brought a couple of beers. I explained that I didn’t really want to mix beer with the pain pills I’d been taking, so we had water instead. We sat outside in the sun and chatted for a while. Naturally, I was exhausted after that and fell asleep.

In the evening our dear neighbour, Theodora, visited and brought me a Dutch Treat. When I say “Dutch Treat” I don’t mean that I had to pay for half of it. It was a package of special cookies from Holland. After Theo’s visit, I was exhausted and fell asleep again. That was pretty much my day.

Today I stopped taking the pain pills. The pain isn’t much worse, and I’m feeling much clearer in the head. I’m hoping I’ll be able to stay off the pills now. I had a new nurse come to see me today. Nurse Sylvie was a fast worker. She had the old dressing ripped off and the new one on in minutes. Sylvie was impressed by my incision–not by its size this time, but by its beauty. Several times she mentioned how beautiful it was. I think she was referring to the craftsmanship of the surgeon. I’m glad that everyone seems to admire his work and I will pass on the complements to Dr. Richards when I see him.

I expect that my recovery will be gradual from here on in. The dramatic part is over. I’ll have to think of something meaningful to do and to write about for the remainder of my recovery time, but for now I’ll live the life of a house cat.

 

I just need to do one more set of my physio exercises, and then I’m taking my morphine tablet and falling asleep. A physiotherapist is coming to the house tomorrow morning to put me through my paces, so I want to be up for the challenge.

I was outside on our deck today for a short time to lie like a lizard in the sun. It felt good. And my good neighbour, Bertrand, dropped by for a visit. We talked about sailboats, surgery, wine, and the other things that Bertrand and I talk about.

The real adventure today was the changing of the dressing on my incision. This was Corinne’s first attempt and she did well. I didn’t contribute much. I just lay there and gave the occasional yelp as the old bits of tape were pulled from my tender, shaved butt. I thought it best that I stay quiet and not contribute advice. Corinne brought out the notebook where she had carefully documented the instructions from Priscilla the nurse. Corinne, being a perfectionist, was critical of her own work, but I’m happy with my new dressing. Maybe it has a few wrinkles, but that just gives it character. On Thursday, another nurse, Claudie, will be here to examine me and give Corinne another lesson.

Yesterday, our friend Graeme Webb asked if I can play trumpet lying down. Yes, Graeme, I can.

The poster that is farthest to the right in the picture reminds me of a story. The caption is “Miles Davis at Birdland.” A couple of years ago, my mother-in-law, Fran, was here for Christmas. She looked at the poster on the wall and said, “I was there.” Fran was in her 90s and exhibiting some confusion. “Of course you were there, Fran,” I humoured her. I had known Fran for 40 years, and in all that time she never mentioned Miles Davis. I didn’t believe her, but questioned her further. She told me that in 1954 she visited New York City with Earl (“Earl the Pearl” as she referred to him after their divorce). Earl’s friends had told him that he couldn’t visit New York without seeing Miles Davis at Birdland. Fran just remembers a smokey place with lousy food and some guy  playing the trumpet. It didn’t make an impression on her, and she only remembered it when she saw the poster.  I went online and learned that Miles was indeed playing at Birdland in 1954 during the time of Fran’s visit. She really was there!