This Has Always Been Something of a Stretch For Me

So I've been post surgery for a little over a month now. I'm faithfully going to my physical therapy treatments and have found how badly I've been out of shape. I'm certainly not the ideal specimen of a 52 year old male but I don't think I've been neglecting my physical health these last few years. Still, I've come to find out I've been quite physically below par. My therapist is stretching and twisting and pushing me into shapes heretofore unimaginable to me. He's Brazilian but perhaps I misheard. He is more likely Bavarian given his obvious predilection for pretzels.

I'd like to blame all this pain and difficulty recuperating to my feeble and untrained adaptation to 20 or so years of hip problems. Certainly that's only part of the reason I am now in this sorry state. My therapist is pushing me into positions I wasn't able to get into before any of my surgeries! It boils down to just one painful word: S t r e t c h i n g.

Wait a minute. I'm no slacker. I've been going to a gym between 2 to 3 times a week with the occasional vacation break for years now. I think I'm relatively physically fit. I've mostly avoided the beer belly (but not the beer). My diet is relatively healthy, filled with vegetables and lots of water, a bit high in the protein and a bit low in the fruit departments.

After my first surgery I was very good about stretching, especially the IT band. This is a strap of connective tissue, a ligament that stretches from the hip to the knee, running down the side of the upper leg. I've been very good about stretching the right side IT band (good side) and also the left side as well (bad side) ever since I was allowed to do so post surgery number one. I would 3-4 times a week, lay on my back, flop my leg over to the opposite side with the leg about 90 degrees to the long axis of my body. My hip and midsection would twist and the IT band would stretch. I looked like an old statue of a Hindu god fallen over. Same facial expressions too, no doubt. I would do this to both sides, in fact I was able to stretch more on the left leg (bad side) than the healthy right side (good side).

Now post surgery number two, this band is giving me pain and problems. I had thought that my stretching this way well ahead of surgery would protect this part of me from being affected by the surgery, or at least bounce back quickly. WRONG. Granted, that's the only stretch I really did on a regular basis. Naturally, that was apparently the one that would help me the least post surgically.

I did do my homework, too. I scheduled the surgery months before and checked online, asked my orthopedic surgeon, went to preoperative orientations and asked questions. I'd always ask what I could do physically to prepare for the surgery and make my recuperation easier/faster. It boiled down to a series of strengthening exercises, all of which I was already doing at my gym for years.

Moral of the story? Go to a physical therapist before the surgery as far in advance as possible and get him/her to tell you what to do to prepare for the surgery. Not just exercises but stretches.

Does It Hurt?

I thought that taking a week or so off of blogging about my hip surgery would help me focus on something, anything else. It seems that this blogging has caused me to focus on my surgery and recovery almost constantly. My last blog was all about pain, constant and unrelenting pain. Well I still have that pain, constant and unrelenting pain. I think it might even be better but I really don't know anymore. On that pain scale of 1 to 10, 10 being excruciating, I used to be floating around 3 or so. This past week I think I've been at the same level but because it's constant I'm not sure anymore. It's been over 3 weeks now since the surgery and I still think I'm at level 3 but I could actually be tolerating more pain. I may be so inured of it all that it's become normal and therefore tolerable. That's one of the definitions of level 3 pain, tolerable.

As I see it, my pain tolerance is going one of two ways. I am either getting used to the pain and so it's not registering as high as it really is or I could be so burned out that any little discomfort is painful. I may not even be in pain at all, just a bit sore and I'm registering it as pain level 3. Nah, no way, it hurts too much.

There's Something Crooked About This Whole Thing

I've had several visits with the physical therapist already. The first visit involved an assessment of my condition. The therapist took measurements of every conceivable leg position possible that didn't violate any of my orthopedist's restrictions. As she took the measurements on the right, surgerized side, she took corresponding measurements on the "normal" side. The results were startling for me. She could tell I was both interested then surprised so she was kind enough to talk me through the process, explaining the what and why of the numbers. In a nutshell, I've been compensating for the right hip for so long that I'm almost the hunch back of Notre Dame, without the cool digs, french flair for food, and the view of Paris.

I'm basically twisted, physically. I've been walking incorrectly, standing crooked, and bending asymmetrically. I want to fix it all right now but, guess what, my freaking hip hurts. So I move like a spaz so it doesn't hurt even more than usual which is all the time, with or without medications. I have been compensating for this hip for 17 plus years. How do you right that wrong?

Will it take another 17 years to fix it? By then I'll be bent over and crippled with years and then being crooked like I am now will be the least of my worries.

My second appointment included my walking with and without my cane. All the while, the therapist was commenting on how I moved, correcting this and suggesting that. As he was giving me hints on how to hold my hips, I flashed on that TV reality show, Make Me A Supermodel. There's no way I can do that attitude, show off the designer clothes, own the runway and still keep my balance. Well maybe the attitude, after all lots of the models feign a pained indifference to the whole thing. I've got that pained look down pat.

Now I'm doing a series of exercises to get my muscle strength back and stretch the ligaments and tendons. Apparently, without my being aware, they've been contracting and shrinking like slug in salt water all this time. Yes, it hurts. Yes, the therapists ask if it does but offer no solutions or relief from the pain. Yes, I still do it. Yes, I'm paying for this. Yes, I know it makes no sense. But No, I won't quit now, not if there is a chance that I can walk among the normal, normally. That may be a neat trick since I'm not sure I was doing that even before all the surgeries.

Chronic Pain

Last night I realized that since my operation, I haven't had my usual nightly sleep through. Pre-surgery, I mostly slept right through the night, some nights heeding nature's call but falling right back to sleep once safely back under the covers. Even in the past year, starting mid autumn with my hip pain escalating enough to make me consider and then agree to last week's hip surgery, I was never bothered with chronic pain. Once I stopped using my hip, it stopped hurting me. Lying down, taking a load off as it were, relieved my pain enough that I fell right to sleep. Now, the pain is unrelenting.

Now don't go on thinking that I'm writhing in pain, my face does have a pained look on it but that is pretty much normal for me. On the Graphic Rating Scale of pain measurement, using the scale 1 to 10, with one being pain free and 10 being tear inducingly excruciating, I'm at a 3 or 4. During the day, I can ignore/compartmentalize the pain by keeping busy such as blogging. (That way you get some of pain, too). But at night, the story is quite different. Since I am only allowed to sleep on my back and my right leg can only bend partway, not move to the left but only a little to the right, I just can't get comfortable. Now, there may be a position which would be comfortable but these restrictions don't allow me seek them out. Within this small envelope of allowed movement, there is no position into which I can maneuver that would alleviate the pain. So I hopelessly spend all night just slightly twisting and bending trying to get into that magic position, like a hatching pupae.

I had hoped that the Vicodin would help with the comfortable/pain portion of the sleep equation but in the last 4 nights, taking two just before bedtime gives me about 5 minutes of pain free bliss. Taking anymore to get a full night's rest just doesn't add up.

So, each night I'll take the Vicodin, afraid that without it I won't even get that 5 minutes of pain vacation. I swallow the pills, hoping that this night will be different, the Vicodin will last for hours and I'll awake refreshed and alert. Instead, I lie there each night, like a living mummy, struggling this way and that, trying to wriggle out of my linen wrappings, over and over, only to fail each time. I lie there and wonder if the surgery was worth it.

On a hip and a prayer

While in the hospital for my surgery, I was, for the first time in forever, bombarded with religion. Pretty predictable since I went to St. Mary's Hospital for the surgery. I had forgotten just how secular my life truly had become. I believe that the majority of my fellow urban dwellers are also mostly secular. I and my 4 siblings grew up Southern Baptist, even though my mother, and therefore my father, were United Methodists. This is because, being the pragmatic Wesleyans they were, they sent us to the the Southern Baptist Church not just for the scarier hell fire and brimstone, but we could make the short walk there unattended. As an added bonus, we could be shut away during the summer break at their Vacation Bible School. None of which we could do if we were to go the their church. Naturally, you take to Southern Baptism either a duck to water, swimmingly or alternatively like a lead weight, plunk into the water and quickly sink to the bottom. The water allusion is no accident. I recall sitting after Sunday services with my brother and sisters watching them take off the floor boards of the sanctuary. We'd snicker then ohh and ahh while the pastor, in his special white robes, dip the similarly dressed parishioners fully into the holy blue water, baptizing sometimes the same set of folks week after week after week.

I was one of the lead weights. I'd undoubtedly sink and drown if I were baptized. The whole spectacle was a real turnoff. The last thing I wanted was to take another cold and watery dip after taking my weekly bath just days before. I wouldn't so easily be fooled. Not me.

So given my history, my secularity is not so surprising. You then can understand the strange land I entered called St Mary's Hospital last week for my hip surgery. It was subtle at first. Each elevator had a small crucifix on the back wall. At first I thought is was a logo or design. Then I noticed in my wanderings through these hallowed halls, going for pre-surgery radiology and lab tests, a habit robed nun here and there, not too obvious. The pre-surgery room has very large and noticeable crosses on the walls. I thought, now is the last time to use them if you must. After recovery, on my 7th floor aerie, each of the nurses' stations had a even bigger crucifix. Maybe the post surgery morphine made them appear life size. Some of the staff were addressed as sister instead of nurse. In my room the television options included "chapel" between the welcome station and CNN. There was a couple of priestly visits to my bedside during recovery, each friendly and solicitous, carefully asking after my religious affiliation and making sure that I knew that having none was just fine and dandy. Still, if I needed anything, to talk, pray, etc, don't hesitate. A note on my room bulletin board mentions Sister Mary Timothy is the one to contact should you find anything inadequate during my stay. And lastly, every morning at 8 AM, there was a PA system that rang throughout the rooms and hallways, with the daily inspirational talk with a Brother or Father. Then a chirpy invitation to mass down in the hospital chapel where communion could be had. If you were to ill/indisposed to attend, feel free to turn on the chapel station and you can watch the Holy Eucharist live and uncensored.

Now I am certainly no enemy of religion. If anything, just before my surgery, I felt quite compelled to become desecularized, get baptized, make a sizable donation, maybe for an eponymous pew, very quickly. But I resisted. No doubt much solace and comfort can be gotten from a individuals religious beliefs. And many a patient and their family and friends felt especially blessed to have the best god fearing surgeons in a place where their hands and minds can't help but be guided by the wisdom of the the greater power made manifest within the very walls of the hospital.

I didn't consciously choose this hospital for religious reasons, it just happens to be the hospital in which both my primary care physician and the orthopaedic surgeon were affiliated. I wasn't going to not go there because of it's religious affiliations either. I just felt pretty neutral about the whole thing going into the surgery. Now, on the other hand, even if I didn't sub consciously pray for a good outcome, maybe having had the surgery done there brought in just enough mojo for the prayers given by my partner, family and friends did make a difference.

And to that, I say, Thank God.

The D.L. on the Lag.

I'm back. Like a bad penny that keeps returning. Not worth anything but still legal tender in this land of the 99 cent deal. Anyway, I awoke this morning with the sound of twittering and chirping birds. I had managed to break the 20 winks barrier. That is, I slept for just a bit more than the required 40 winks for a good night's rest.

That is so much better that my sleep at the hospital. At the hospital, my internal biological clock was squelched by the hospital time schedule, also called Greenwich Mean Nurse Time. Days flowed into Night with no division. There were no boundaries between the hours or minutes. Time was divided by patient chores that ignored the rising or setting of the sun. Time was divided by a succession of vital sign checks, various medicine dispensing, blood-letting donations, checking for BM's or urine output. One after the other, switched around depending on each individual department staffing situations.

When I got home, my recovery wasn't just about healing the huge swath of the surgeon's sword, it is also getting over Hospital Lag. No one ever talks about it. You hear often about Jet Lag, the more glamorous cousin. And why not? Who wants to hear about Hospital Lag when you can hear about Jet Lag, an excuse to launch into the trip to Bali to pray for the peace of the world, Cartona to talk about that impromptu olive tasting, or the sheep shearing experience just outside Alice's Station in the outback. Who wants to hear about someone's duel with death at the operating table? I'm sure I'd rather hear about letting Nicole Sheridan cut in line at the salad bar at that chic little spa just across the water from downtown Nice, just like you. But there it is. Hospital Lag.
I thought when I got home to recuperate, I'd have tons of things I could and would do. The lag would be banished by the continuous and frenetic activity I had planned, none too rigorous to impede the healing process, of course. I have so much reading I planned to do. I haven't read a word. I hoped to get my computer organized. I haven't figured out how to access those files yet. I was going to watch all these great movies on the telly. I haven't seen any listing worth sitting thru. I got a "going to the hospital gift" from some of my office staff. It's 2 sets of flashcards for learning slang. Yes, slang. I straight got game to cold kill it, by the way. (For those of you who are "nerds, uncool, or simply suburban" like I was not so long ago, the "D.L." in the title refers to the down low, which means the confidential secret). Okay, so I go to that stuff. I also got to one other thing. I had planned to write about my experiences with hip replacement surgery and recovery. Unfortunately to you, I did get to that.
Did I banish the Hospital Lag. No. After only 3 days and 2 nights at the hospital you wouldn't think my internal clock went dead but it did, it is, and it's still there. I still can't tell what day it is off the top of my head. I often get mixed up when I actually gave my self injection of the anti-coagulant.

Hospital Lag. I wonder when I'll catch up.

It's lonely out here in Hipsville

I was just surfing through the world wide web of the known google universe to see what other blogs are floating out there (see link). There are precious few blogs, considering how many people must be getting hip surgery. Lots of techinical stuff that I went thru but technical and therefore cold. The truth is, the real meaty literary stuff is before the surgery. That's when you're wrestling with momentous decisions like: Whether or not to do it. What types are there, who to go to, what does it involve, what's the success rate, what was that about a parts recall? There are thousands of questions. It can all be confusing, challenging and all consuming.

Recovery is just, well, recovery. Kind of painfully boring, literally. After all, the big decisions are all made. All that remains, questions are what to see on the telly. Questions that now occupy one's time are, should I blog now or later? Let's see, Valium, ibuprofen, Tylenol, Aleve, hmmm, which color pill today. Should I nap now or later this afternoon. That sort of thing. Not particularly exciting. Not quite up to earth shattering, blog worthy, audience captivating, can't put down the book sort of stuff, eh?

There are other blogs I found, Sigrid's for one. She's selling a book. Not really interested in paying to read how someone else is dealing with this. I don't fault her for trying to make a dime from the suffering she may have had to live through. But I plan to get payback via family and friends. That's a different kind of currency, one that won't shrink while the euro swells, if you now what I mean.

Another blog site popped up, http://www.francine-hipreplacement.blogspot.com/, a quick read but not lots of musings and humor, the diversions I really need right now to get me through this. Another one : http://hipsurgerycoach.wordpress.com/2008/05/29/my-story/, took seconds to read, need to sign up and I am sooooo tired of signing up for stuff. Anyway she's done. And finally, a self described club: http://hipsterclub.com/blog.html which appears to have only a couple of members concentrated in the Los Angeles area. They may have more but, damn, I am not websmart and may be wrong. By the way, did you notice, ALL WOMEN! What's up with that? I am not a misogynist at all by the way, it just seems noteworthy. I absolutely do not intend to cast a shadow on what these people have done or are doing, Brava to them and their friends, families, and to the lives they have led, overcoming the whole hip surgery nightmare. I just don't feel connected with them at all. I don't want to be lonely in the blog sphere, but I am.

Maybe it's because hip surgery is more a phenomena of us old farts, not the younger, with it, Internet savvy world of today.

Or maybe the smart ones who are undergoing this experience are smart enough to stay on medication the whole frigging time and are just happily spaced out.

Where did I put that bottle, anyway?

The Tripod Theory and Me

I just talked to a dear friend, Jim, on the phone. I've known him for years, pre first surgery in fact. Time henceforth will be measured this way for us: BCE and CE. (Before contortion era and during contortion era, for explanation see my blog on Raison D'etre) He called to see how I was recuperating, he being more close to the situation having had the full monty done, same side, just over 1 year ago. He had a while ago written a piece on a blog of his therapist friend. It was about spirituality and his own tripod theory, (http://theawareself.wordpress.com/2008/02/11/what%E2%80%99s-in-your-tri-pod-by-jim-kennedy/) Check it out, it's a short but potent read. My interpretation of what he wrote is that the foundation for his spiritual focus and stability is based on three "legs of a tripod." They are the acceptance of change, the feeling of gratitude, and the concept of living in the moment.

I thought of what he wrote as rather symbolic for my situation. Now that I'm no longer using crutches to get around (I'm keeping the emotional ones for now), I use a cane. Not the dapper, man about town, Astaire model with the ivory or gold figamajig at the top. No, this is the standard issue canes given for drivers of those Lark brand three wheelers zipping down the Depends aisle in the retirement village Safeways. The kind that are metal with adjustable lengths to adapt to your shrinking as you age. Yes, that kind. Anyway, I'm now a tripod. Each of these legs of my tripod have a specific function. The "metal" leg represents a temporary situation, to be gone when my health situation improves. Like the concept of living in the moment, it represents a moment in time-once used, it will be gone forever. I need it now but not forever. The other leg, my good one, is all about gratitude. At least I have one good hip that's not causing me grief either medically or financially. The last is the trouble maker. This puppy is all about change. 20 years ago I was running 5 miles a day. 17 years ago I couldn't physically walk after partial hip surgery. 15 years ago I could walk but not run after recovery. 10 years ago I could walk with no pain at all. Last winter I could barely walk now that bone instead of cartilage was supporting my metal hip. Last week I couldn't walk at all after the 2nd surgery. Today I could walk with a cane. I'm now a tripod.

Right now my tripods talking to me. The metal one is calling me to get up on all threes, the surgerized one is calling for more drugs and the good one is kicking my butt for waiting so long.

To Pill or Not to Pill, That is the Question.

I'm still here. I thought I would give up by now on spewing out my mental musings. I am surprised and disappointed that I have still some synaptic activity not yet suppressed by the Vicodin from last night. I've finally taken something during the day today. I was avoiding it, wanting to listen to my body tell me how it's doing. It told me: lousy, take some damn pain meds, fool. I finally decided to listen and obey. As luck would have it, my mind was still stubborn so I took only 800mg of Ibuprofen. It has been enough to take some of the edge off but I am still feeling the pain. I have an ongoing internal conflict, a war if you will. Do I take advantage of modern science's pharmaceutical horn of plenty? Or, should I be stoic, take it on the chin, be a man, buck up, stiff upper lip, what, what? On the one hand, drugs are a gift, accepting them would be gracious, and easy. On the other, toughing it out would be better for my self worth (thanks be to the protestant Jesus), and I would be more in tune with my healing, learning more about myself and who I am. (That may be more than the hip would be worth and scarier than the surgery).

I wrote that yesterday. Funny, today is starting out almost exactly the same. This morning I awoke from a very similar night, decided to take 800 mg of Ibuprofen and realized that I never published what I wrote the day before. I just reread that blurb and realized, deja vu style, that today is very much starting out like yesterday. It's the same internal battle: should I or shouldn't I take those pesky happy pills. Now the Ibuprofen is not the happy pill the Vicodin is reputed to be. Naturally, my protestant mind said, take the anti-inflammatory not the happy pill, suffer like a man. So, of course, being of more mind over matter, I chose the former. It just seems the body doesn't matter and I shouldn't really mind.

We'll see what/who outlasts what/who, the drugs or the pain. It's anyone's guess.

Hip Pain and Holiness

Well I woke up early this morning because I didn't sleep well but still better than the night before. Most of last night was spent dancing with pain. I'm a lousy dancer. All night, sometimes I would lead, sometimes I couldn't. I wouldn't mind that so much if I only got a chance to sit a couple out now and again. Especially the slow ones.

Chronic pain is what it's called, though it usually refers to a state that would be more ongoing than my situation (I hope). For instance, last night I really couldn't find a position in which I was totally comfortable. Of course I was positionally challenged by doctors orders. I could only lie on my back, my right leg could not be rotated, and my right hip could not be bent more than 90 degrees. I think I must have fidgeted all night. I bet I looked like a worm that just went through shovel mitosis (I was a mean and nasty little child in the garden) to that big spider in the ceiling corner.

There's more to pain control than pharmaceuticals. Last night I began to meditate. I tried to rise above my earthly plane and get onto a loftier plane. Perhaps not eliminating the pain but being outside of it. I half hoped that I would reach that Zen state of total acceptance, rising above my concerns and pain, feeling my transfiguration into a spirit without any bodily cares or worries. That's what all those Japanese and Southeast Asian Buddhas promise. You can see it there in their expressions and poses, the ease in which they inhabit their temporary earthly visage. The best I could do is the Chinese Buddhas, You know the ones. They are way overweight, mostly naked and bald, just smiling like they just the joke about the priest, the construction wok er and the prostitute. They are the people's Buddhas, not some light emanating ethereal being but just like us. They seem really happy for some reason, just like we are capable of. What they don't show is that other face, the one lined with pain and sadness, careworn and starving, the Buddha of hopelessness and defeat. Last night I found my personal Buddha. At least for last night.

What is it about pain that is so universal yet so reviled? When I was a wee tot, I remember watching an old black and white movie on our black and white TV. It was the inspiring story of Saint Bernadette. She saw the Virgin Mary in a vision and heard her say among other things, "I am the immaculate conception." Of course that was way canonically wrong. Mary wasn't any conception at all, really. All the church hierarchy tried to re-instruct and correct the little peasant girl but she persisted. They tried to make her recant. She would not. She stuck to her faith and eventually was placed in a convent. After she was older, I recall another, jealous nun (are their a lot of those, I wonder?) much older and world weary, worn from prostrating herself before her God, bent from the selfless and endless chores that harshly stole the youth and beauty from her finally approached our young heroine. In the past this same nun would give Bernadette the poorest and meanest of chores, scrubbing the stone floors on hands and knees, cleaning toilets with q-tips, slopping the pigs, cleaning the horse stalls, that sort of thing. She confronted Bernadette as a liar and prideful in that the young nun would claim that the most Holy Virgin would appear to such a selfish child rather than herself, a true sufferer for the faith. Good old Saint Bernadette, unfazed, said that she did not care what the old bag thought. But being a saint and all, she knew her obligation to relieve as many as she could of the demons that wrack their unilluminated lives. She told the green eyed nun to check out her legs. We never see it but the old nun just fell down in shock and tears. It appears that for the last few years, never complaining once, the future saint was suffering from some withering horrifying disease like polio or worse. OK so here's the point so wake up: All these years she bore her pain and infirmaries as the cost of having communed with the Holy Virgin. She rose above the daily mortal plane, beyond human suffering and become something better.

I have no immediate plans to do so.

That movie may have been formative for me in my early years but I learned to be okay imperfect, at least sometimes. I've learned that pain is a teacher, not an enemy. It is, for me the surest and often the only way to get my attention and my old, tattered, and beat up body is telling me something. I could ignore it and aspire to Buddha or saint hood or just be human and bitch about the pain.

Somehow the later makes the pain a bit more bearable. Go figure.

Hips, Healing, and Humor

Okay, so here I am trying to get better from my hip surgery performed 4 days ago, now 2 days out of the hospital. I'm trying to do all the things I'm supposed to do like put weight on it, OUCH, move around, OUCH, do excercises in bed, OUCH, lie in bed really still, OUCH, sit up for only 45 minutes at a time, OUCH. You get the idea: OUCH. Now I knew from the start that it would hurt, this is round two for the old right hip after all. I'm no hip replacement virgin, but after 17 years, I kind of forgot.

The first 5 years after the initial partial hip replacement surgery were like prolonged recovery, it hurt physically and emotionally, but got better. I was young for this type of thing after all, 35 years old. I got used to the limitations imposed on me physically. Like no basketball (everyone on my team gave me a party they were so happy). No tennis (I always wanted to play). No running (I loved running, physically, too). In short, no sharp sudden pressure on the hip or quick lateral movements. So the first 5 years I milked the limitations for all it was worth. Of course, all good things come to an end. Then came the next 8 years or so. Barely any pain or discomfort, settled into a nice non-impact life. Not very remarkable really, often had to remind myself (then quickly, others within earshot) of my hip situation. Got some sympathy but given grudgingly, since I was basically symptom free.

Then what started the ball joint rolling again, pain, intermittent at first, then becoming more common, persistent and sharp. My cartilage was all but gone. This was all happening the last 4 years or so. Not that I knew it, symptom wise. It was only since the end of last year with the return of the pain did I resolve to go finish the job (see previous post: Raison D'etre). Given that at the time, there was no real rush, I postponed it for several months, making it fit my work schedule. Mistake. While waiting the pain got progressively worse and more frequent. I found myself limping painfully everywhere. People noticed. Then God laughed. One month before the surgery I was practically pain free. I think my mobility decreased but I was almost pain free. How's that for being pain jerked around?

I have learned at least one thing. I am sure my sense of humor, however meager, has grown out of the suffering I've endured. I'm not referring to all the pain drugs and alcohol that could loosen me up to belch witticisms to all and sundry. And I don't mean that my trials and tribulations have honed a comedic genius. What it has done is made me look at life differently than many. I can sometimes, without thinking (dangerous) blurt out clever little riffs on what's happening in a conversation. Sometimes it's funny and witty. At rare times its funny and absurd. Very ocassionally it's hilarious. But I think that at all times it comes from a place where having lived a life of pain, not continuous but unpredictable, makes me see and feel the hilarity of it all. For me, there is always that element of sadness that comes from suffering that makes something both human and humorous. And let's face it it's much more funny and fun looking at life that way than from that dark corner that I could have backed into. Humor no doubt heals. Given my level of pain right now, I'm going to have to switch on the Comedy Channel right now or better yet watch CNN election watch.

Hip hopping off subject

Well, I just got whacked on the back of the head, metaphorically speaking, by my partner who said something like, "What was that all about?" after reading my second posting. He's right, I have to admit, because it's way off topic and a bit unfocused. I could blame the drugs but that would be unfair, (it's a poor carpenter who blames his tools) and thanks to my surgery, I've got a load of them, tools that is. Since I can't bend my hip (actually, it's not my hip, I really haven't paid for it yet) to even near 90 degrees for fear of popping it out, I have a gadget that extends my reach for at least 3 feet. It's a grabbing claw thing that I could get really addicted to. I've also got a sponge on a stick for cleaning in the shower. No excuse to shower, damn. A shoehorn thing that looks like a small rain gutter with a handle. Got a very clever sock installer that helps you slip your socks on your feet without bending or twisting at the waist. It looks like something Native Americans used to funnel fish in their nets, what with a shovel like scoop and a long rope for dragging.

I love gadgets.

Oh, and I love Vicodin. Please don't take this as my endorsement for using addictive drugs for fun and fashion. I only take them at night to get me to a place that either I feel no pain or I just don't care about the pain. For me, it's different each night. Previously, it was about sleep and rest but last night it was different. Perhaps I'm developing new mental pathways to utilize the drug more effectively, sort of evolving with my environment, the new pharmaceutical environment of the 21st century. Maybe I was just highly receptive to the drug's ability to activate different portions of my brain. Whatever it was, I don't think I slept much at all last night. I believe I was in a sort of semi-conscious dream state. I was strangely aware of the traffic noise and my hip pain, (reality) and was imagining things happening with my blog, surgery, house remodel (more on that later) but also aware that I was asleep, all at the same time. It was almost like being able to use multiple parts of my brain simultaneously. Now, those who know me well enough are well aware of my tenuous abilities over just a tiny part of my brain and I can hear them in concert saying that it must have been all a dream. But that's the wonder and magic of addictive drugs, it gives you the feeling that you are greater than you really are. Who doesn't need that, at least sometimes? More on the remodel later. I'm starting to feel the vicodin wear off. Where is that damn bottle?

Hubris or is it the drugs?

Okay, so now I've started and am having second thoughts. How come I don't get second thoughts before other past actions that eventually get me in trouble? Anyway, I know I just posted hours ago but the Vicodin I took for the hip surgery must be wearing out. I've tried to be still so my body wouldn't metabolize it so quickly but what can you do?

I'm pondering whether my blogging is all pride and hubris. After all, what can I write that would be so important that someone would want to read it? Of course I'm forcing my partner to read it but what if that's it? Will I be crestfallen and depressed should my ramblings be totally ignored, my whole delicate facade of self esteem crumbling under the weight of my self doubt and psychotic upbringing? (more on that later, maybe a whole new blog site). Will I need years of self evaluation and soul searching with a therapist with a beard? Hmmmm, I just read that over, seems the Vicodin is still doing it's job, except I do feel the pain of having had read that. Beard?Back to the subject: Worse, what if my musings trigger other similarly disposed individuals to appear and try to contact me? Do I need to know that I'm not alone and not special, like my therapist promised? (more on that later, too) and confirm that I'm, omigosh, common?

I thought of telling all my friends about this blog so they can read and even comment on it. But do I want that? Being relatively anonymous is freeing. I can say things that would upset, freak out, annoy, insult my friends without suffering the consequences. On the other hand, I could write things that would enrich, elevate, astound and invigorate my friends. You're right, who am I kidding, more than likely it would be the former over the later. I do have one friend who already knows of this blog, she's my blogmentor, so feel free to visit her at: http://retiredsyd.typepad.com/ to comment on the menace she has set upon the world or just pity her for having associated with me.

I just got up and hobbled to the facilities to take care of some pressing personal matters and picked up my laptop and realized that I had completely forgotten where the heck I was in writing this. Confirmed: vicodin still in bloodstream, mostly in head. Must sense where needed most.

Oh yes, I was writing about hubris, blogging, getting read or not read, blah, blah, blah. As I recall, there are at least 2 people who will read my blog not accidentally. At least my partner will (I'll make sure of that) but of course retiredSydney will eventually find something else to do, wash her hair, volunteer for jury duty, take up fly fishing, whatever. She's married to a great guy, maybe she can find something to do with him. He doesn't have a blog that I know of so he's got plenty of time.

Actually, writing about hubris in regards to my own writing is hubric in and of itself, isn't it? Writing scads of words strung together to ultimately say nothing at all is pretty prideful as well. Expecting someone to plow through the detritus of my mental machinations (whoa what was that? a vicodin spike?) and come out the far end better for it would be the epitome of hubris. Well, my mother always said if I was going to do something, do it well, and finally I think I've done it. She'd be proud. Of course, she'll never know, she won't get to read this blog, I'm prideful but not crazy.

Raison D'etre

Well here I am, a blogger neophyte so bored and afraid of doing any chores that I've started to blog, post hip surgery. Perhaps some history is in order. But not too much. I had a partial hip surgery in 1991 post bicycle accident on the streets of my hometown, San Francisco. I'm sure it was with a tourist trying to beat me around a corner on Lake Street, a beautiful street with a dedicated bike lane-which I was using. Anyway, it was partial because I was deemed too young for a full hip replacement. I guess now I'm old enough to get a complete one and that's what I got, 3 days ago, June 30, 2008. It wasn't as bad as the first one (WARNING: SOME GORY DETAILS TO FOLLOW) where they basically cut off the ball at the top of my femur then hammer in a metal ball and stem piece down the shaft of the bone. Blood splattering across the room, splinters of bone flying every which way. Messy. All this while my right foot is resting next to my left ear. Sort of a mega yoga position. THIS time it was the same yoga position but no hammering just getting a cap placed where the metal ball has over lo these may years of walking, standing, bending, twisting, worn the old cartilage away to painful exposed raw bone. Hence the title "Hipster." I thought since it was my right hip in question, Righteous Hipster would be a great title but I certainly can't claim to be right even some of the time so being righteous would not only be false advertising but rather hypocritical. I should be saving that for the posts and not blowing it all on the title, don't you think?

Sooooo, 3 days post surgery, I'm at home and having talked to blogger friend Sydney, http://sydney821.vox.com/, whose been blogging about her retirement (I'm not retired so I'm tempted to change that blogging to bragging but she really doesn't brag about it, it's my internal green eyed monster controling what little brain cells that have recovered from general anesthesia, please ignore). She's showing me the ropes and, if I don't hang myself from them, it'll be my recovery journal. Not just from surgery either.
Onward.........