The Replacements

I have written about this before. But here I go again.

A little background about my hip surgery. About five years ago when I finally saw the handwriting on the wall, I researched the internet and discovered anterior hip replacement surgery. To make a very long story short, it was brought into this country about thirty years ago from France by an American orthopedic doc named Joel Matta, whose practice is in Santa Monica, CA.

He actually listened to a Frenchman living over here who came to him needing a new hip. Monsieur Le Patient asked Dr. Matta to learn how the French did their total hip replacements, because he thought their method was better. He'd already had one hip done the French way and Matta must have been impressed by what he saw, because he went across the pond for a couple of years to study with the frogs.

Google him.

It is worth noting that the French and Germans have been doing anterior surgery since the forties. For some reason [because we hated the Germans and don't trust the French?] most American hip docs use the English total hip procedure developed in the sixties -- a posterior incision with a big, sometimes foot long cut, longer recovery, and a risk of dislocation so high you are forbidden to cross your legs, turn your leg certain ways or bend your knee more than 90 degrees for the first six weeks. And in some cases, forever.

Since Dr. Matta learned the drill, he has trained a multitude of other docs to do this operation. One of them is my surgeon, Michael Stover. With true anterior hip surgery, which requires a specially designed table, a small incision of approximately four to five inches is made at the top of your thigh in front of your hip. For those of you keeping score: anterior = front; posterior = back; lateral = side. Instead of cutting across major muscles, the surgeon spreads them apart. This procedure helps prevent dislocation afterward, helps insure that one leg won't be shorter than the other, and it means I have no restrictions on movement while I rehab. Did I mention that you can also expect faster healing?

Having no restrictions means that I am the only person in re-hab with new hips who is allowed to use the NuStep, a machine which is similar to riding a bike. Unlike the the other total hip patients, I am allowed to bend my knee more than 90 degrees. A couple of people here have had a newer, less invasive, lateral or antero-lateral surgery. Their incision is on the side of the hip and smaller, but patients still have all the old precautions to worry about. And just what is so good about that?

In the rehab gym, the other old folks are puzzled when they find out that I have no restrictions. Na na na na na. They wonder out loud why their doctor didn't do my kind of surgery. I've also learned that uninitiated orthopedic docs in this country think anterior hip replacement is new surgery. Untried and untested. Can't they read? Don't they go to conferences? You'd think they'd at least be curious enough to find out about it.

You can actually watch Dr. Matta perform the surgery online. The docs can too, but I've never met a more insular, not-invented-here-group in my life. They close ranks any time someone is doing something they aren't.

I also wondered why more docs weren't doing this surgery, because it sure seemed to promise a better result for the patient. One of my surgeon's residents told me, "Because it's more difficult surgery." Aha. No wonder. Usually if a medical center offers anterior surgery only one or two of the docs are qualified to do it. And the farther east you travel from Dr. Matta, the less docs are doing it. There's a Dr. Nakasone who is doing it in Hawaii, if you want a great place to rehab.

This time around, I have had two other doctors, one a radiologist and one an internist ask me about the surgery. One of them even wanted to see the scar and exclaimed, "It's so small!!" BTW -- eight weeks ago when I had my first surgery, I was explaining the procedure the best I could to a different internist who was curious. As if to pay me back for describing what I knew, he told me about the new, way less invasive gall bladder surgery -- no, not the laparoscopic version. That is so 2002. For this new procedure they remove the gall bladder through your esophagus -- not your abdomen. So no gut cuts at all.

At one point I wanted to videotape my before and after hips. Unlike most people who have one hip at a time go bad, both my hips were frozen at an angle, making walking normally very difficult. I also had severe ossification [extra bone growths], making things even worse. Plus a bad back. So I wasn't a really good candidate to do a before and after, since you don't want people with complications that could make a doctor look bad. Now I wish I'd done it. Dr. Stover had made it look easy.

I'm still not 100% -- but it hasn't even been two weeks. I'm almost off all my pain meds -- one 50 mg. Darvocet three times a day. It takes time, but I get used to my new body parts more and more every day. Balance is my biggest problem. I was used to being lopsided. But I got my sense of balance back about five weeks after my first surgery straightened out my left leg. I'm curious to see how long it takes now that both of them are normal.

Of course, I won't be normal. But there's no surgery yet for that.

Kris King

On the first day of my freshman year in college I met one of the most accomplished and beautiful women I will ever know. One thing was abundantly clear at the outset -- she was stunning, a Scandanavian-inspired beauty, with long blond hair and blue eyes, accompanied by a body [all her own] that caused men to walk into trees [I was there]. Women stared at her in disbelief. Soon I discovered she could also cook like a chef, sew like a tailor, sing like an angel, and garden like a horticulturist. 

While we were in school together, I watched how her beauty, combined with her graceful presence, caused men she barely knew to offer proposals of marriage. But she never took advantage of that power. Thankfully she has always used her extraordinary gifts for good and not evil.  

After school, I always wondered what direction her life would take. At first she seemed to be following a traditional 60's path -- starting out as a secretary, then becoming a flight attendant, followed by marriage and kids. But when we were thirty-six she was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. When we were barely in our forties one of her sons died.  And then the integrity of her marriage was tested. 

Those challenging events were the catalysts for change that have defined the rest of her life. After taking a seminar on personal growth when she was struggling with breast cancer, she found her life's direction as a facilitator, inspiring others to make change.  

She now owns her own company, offers seminars in her own building and, shortly before her mother passed away a year or so ago, she finished her first book -- the one we've all been asking her to write for years. You can read more about Kris and the book she wrote here: 

http://www.krisking.org/index.php

It's easy to be cynical about self help. The "gurus" seem to appear out of nowhere, with murky pasts and questionable skill sets.  I feel so lucky to have known Kris from the beginning of her journey, when anyone could see that all the ingredients were clearly in place for her to lead an extraordinary life.  

And I have been privileged to have a front row seat. 

Just When You Thought Getting Old Couldn't Get Any Worse

During the late Jurassic period, when I was in high school, there were times when I would hang out with people not in my ordinary group of friends. For instance, when I was in a school show, there were actor types who became my best pals for the weeks of rehearsal and performance.

After the show was over we would revert to our regular cliques until we were thrown together for another round of high school show biz. I had sports girlfriends, brainiac girlfriends, singing group girlfriends, student council girlfriends, and motorcycle/muscle car girlfriends who were actually boys that thought I was funny, but not fast enough to date. Okay, too flat-chested.

Junior year there was a senior boy I had a crush on. His name was John and that's about all I can remember about him. He ran track and I started loitering around at his home meets, something I could do unobtrusively for the most part, since I was not on his radar at all. At a huge multi school competition, I ran into Alice, an acquaintance in my class who had just started going out with a sprinter named Herb. She was complaining because she had to sneak out to see him. Her mother was old school about dating. She didn't approve. Dating was something for bad girls who had lost their virginity.

We got to talking about the lies Alice had to tell to get out of the house to see Herb. So we hatched a plan. I would become her beard. I would arrive at her place on the pretext that we were going to go shopping together. Then we'd go to his track meets instead. Fine by me. I got to watch lots of boys in short shorts, especially one in particular, and she got to spend some quality time with her guy. Unfortunately, it also meant I had to be willing to sit in the back seat alone on the way home. Like I wasn't there.

Alice was bright and bouncy and always smiling. Herb was taciturn most of the time. But he would sure light up when he saw her. They'd talk and kiss and who knows what else in the front seat as we rode home, so lathered up in hormones that they were oblivious to my presence. In the end, I was happy I had helped to get them together. This arrangement lasted until my crush on John finally faded away, primarily because he was just not that into me. Also I was this close to becoming a stalker.

We went our separate ways. I went to college and moved downtown. Herb and Alice got married, had kids, bought a house. He became a police officer and eventually the police chief of the town where I grew up. From time to time I would see him at one of the restaurants in our little village. "Hey, Herbie, how are ya?" Yep, he loved running into me. He would just grin and bear my greetings. He even enjoyed some national acclaim when there was shooting at a local elementary school. He was one of the first suburban law enforcement officials who had to deal with crazy people who walk unchallenged into a previously safe environment for children and start shooting.

Over the years when I've run into him, I notice he's gotten a little heavier, but not fat. After retiring from the police force here, he took a different top cop job in another suburb, but he didn't move, he just commuted. Alice still looks as pretty as she did in high school -- a major accomplishment for someone over sixty, but I have to say she sure looked good when I saw her last at the local Chinese/Korean/Thai/sushi place.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was riding the NuStep machine during my afternoon rehab when I saw some guy about my age walking into the gym with a death grip on his walker. I could see he'd just had knee surgery, judging by his bandages. He sat down to rest while his therapist set something up, just as I was getting off my machine to toddle over to the parallel bars next to him. As I got closer, I suddenly realized that the old guy I'd seen on the walker was Herb.

"Is that you?"

"Hi, Mrs. Linklater." Apparently he had already recognized me, but hadn't said anything, probably hoping I was now blind and couldn't see him. There was that old smile of his again with a look on his face that begged, "Please oh please don't embarrass me by talking loudly or saying Hiya Herbie, okay?"

"Funny meeting you here, Herb." We both smiled.

"Sure is." End of conversation.

Oh, Lord, this whole circle of life thing is getting repetitious. Herb is the second person from my long ago past that I've run into, here at the facility-for-people-who-need-to-have-new-body-parts. Creeps me out.

But part of me thinks that things like this aren't just a coincidence. There's some higher purpose involved.

Like, say, a discussion about wellness checks.

Never A Dull Moment

I had to go to the emergency room a couple of days ago. I was attacked by something that causes abdominal cramping strong enough to birth a baby, a sudden stomach spasm that came on like a donkey kick, and unpleasant chest pains -- all of which started about twenty minutes after a lunch of mostly bean-filled enchiladas. So I got transported to the hospital. Paramedics, the whole nine yards.

Heart attack? No. Gall bladder attack? No. Pancreatitis? Perhaps. Something I ate? Maybe. A bug? Could be. We'll probably never know. The last time I had pain that bad, I ending up spending six days in the hospital for food poisoning. Not this time. They tossed me back like a dead carp.

Luckily I didn't eat much lunch. So after six hours of IVs, x-rays, ultra sounds, and throwing up, it was a return trip to re-hab. Their professional opinion? Something I ate most likely. Some kind of gastritis. Which is what they call anything they can't figure out.

Fortunately, I only missed one physical therapy session because here at re-hab they don't care if you're sick -- they'll come to your room. Bet you didn't know you can lie in your bed with a barf bag by your side and work your quads and hammies until they burn baby burn.

Needless to say, it wouldn't be a Mrs. Linklater story without somebody getting themselves ripped a new body part. At the hospital, when I began to vomit so much that the room cleared, I asked a paramedic loitering out of harm's way to get me some water, please, after things had subsided.

He disappeared and returned to tell me that "The nurse says you can't have anything to drink."

"I don't want to drink the water; I just want to wash out this terrible taste in my mouth, for crying out loud. Get me some water!!"

He left and never came back. However, someone did appear shortly thereafter with a glass of ice chips.

Last week, on the day I was scheduled to leave the hospital for rehab, a social worker who coordinates these things came in to have a last chat. She asked if I would consider writing a pamphlet for patients about self-advocacy. She thought it could be really helpful. Haaaa. And I thought I was just another bitchy patient.

While I was wallowing in this love-pat to my self-esteem, another social worker came in to take it away. She was from the state's agency for people who make the mistake of reaching 65 -- still alive. She claimed that her agency visits people who are going to rehab instead of going straight home from the hospital. Basically, if you're old and live alone, you'll get a visit. Two months ago, the social worker who came by was a woman my age or older. She handed me a bunch of papers and phone numbers to call if I needed anything and left.

Not this time. This time the social worker was much younger. So she gave me an Alzheimer's test. It's a stupid thirty point quiz they give to seniors to get a rough idea of what shape their mental faculties are in. She couldn't talk to the nurses?

After questions about the day, date, and year, she handed me a piece of paper that said: WRITE A SENTENCE HERE:____________

So I laughed out loud and immediately wrote: Write a sentence here.

"Nobody's ever done that before," she said. Because nobody was smartass enough to do that before. Unfortunately, most people will do anything to please someone who could use a test like this to fark up their lives. Except me, of course.

Later, she gave me three words to remember, then distracted me with spelling "WORLD" backwards along with some other things, after which I had to repeat the words back to her -- HOUSE, BUS, DOG. I may never forget them out of spite.

She asked me if I knew what hospital I was in and the phone number. I included the direct line to my room as a lucky strike extra.

My favorite part of the test came next. She handed me a piece of paper and said, "Read this." She didn't say to read it out loud. So I read it to myself. It said "Close your eyes."

Remember the game, Simon Says? Simon says put your hands on your shoulders. Simon says put your hands on your ears. Simon says put your hands on top of your head. Close your eyes. Tsk. Tsk. Nobody said Simon says.

She didn't say Simon says, so I read "Close your eyes" to myself and did nothing. Meanwhile, she looked at my face, waiting for my eyes to close. For a moment I could see some alarm. Then she corrected her mistake. "Read this and do what it says."

I closed my eyes.

Her final parting insult? She wouldn't tell me my score.

Fark you, Beyotch.

Nurse, Nurse, Bring Me My Drugs! Now!!

Oh, hello. It's me again, living the high life in re-hab, six days after surgery.

Lalalalalalalalalala. . .

Lessee, which story do I want to tell? How about my latest plans to entertain the local constabulary? Yes, it's all I think about. Since this third wellness check, when the officers went in, didn't find me dead, and then locked my house up tight with the keys inside [always an inconvenience for anyone going to the hospital for surgery], I've spent [almost] every waking moment -- from my first glimmer of consciousness in the recovery room, to my reflective moments of evacuation on the commode, to my respite on the patio of this human depot for new hips and knees -- thinking of legal things I can do to make a FU statement to any squad car that cruises by my house.

My street is off the beaten path, so there's no reason for cops to drive by unless they're on a call. But lately, since the last wellness check, they've been driving by more often than a Paula Abdul stalker. So why disappoint them? Also, a woman who is employed as a clerk at our police station lives just across the street and a couple of doors down from me. She will no doubt keep them apprised of any artwork I come up with. I'm counting on you, Patti.

FYI: Patti is not the woman who called in the "wellness check." That woman -- a woman I never speak to -- lives two doors down on my side of the street.

Speaking of which -- the woman, not the street -- I had a conversation with one of the neighbors I actually like talking to, offering them the use of my driveway while I was in for my second surgery. They have to park one of their extra cars on the street, in front of annoying-neighbor-Victor's driveway, which, duh, annoys him. He, in turn, parks his enormous black hemi Dodge pick up in front of my driveway, which annoys ME. [For those keeping score here in the neighborhood from HELL. . .oh, nevermind.]

They accepted my driveway offer, but I also warned them that I couldn't be responsible for the safety of their cars during another attack on my place. We laughed. But, she knew I wasn't kidding.

As for the "wellness check" beyotch -- according to the neighbor who will be parking in my driveway -- Mrs. Busybody has been telling everyone on the block that she tried to call me several times to talk to me. [About what? The time a guy from Playboy asked her if she would pose nude for them because she has ginormous breasts? Which only made me wonder how they were going to bag her face.] Meanwhile, after supposedly making those alleged calls to me regarding my safety, she contends that she had no choice but to call 911 because she couldn't get in touch with me. Liar liar pants on fire.

Okay, the whining portion of this entry is ended. Here's my art concept. I have a new asphalt driveway, very black and fairly wide. Plus a new cement sidewalk, very white, and each square is about 30" x 36" wide.

I think I'll have the outline of a dead female body whitewashed on the driveway a la Keith Haring, with some artistic accoutrements, such as curly hair and boobs. PLUS a matching female body painted in black on the white sidewalk. I also want to wrap my home in attractive, yellow CAUTION tape as an homage to Cristo, but I haven't figured out the most artistic way to pull that off yet. [Suggestions welcome.]

For anyone I've offended with this idea -- bite me.

Gotta go. The dope just kicked in.

New Picture for My Profile, Whaddya Think?

Cops In My Attic Part Deux, Short Version

I went to the police station to fill out a complaint against the officer who executed the wellness check the other day. 

His commander came out to meet me.  "I'm Commander [Overweight with an Irish Name]", he said introducing himself.  

"I'm Mrs. Linklater," I replied.   

I could have sworn the look on his face said, "You're Mrs. Linklater?" I wasn't sure why, until we'd chatted for awhile.

After five minutes, he said, "You know, you seem pretty normal." I think he also meant that I looked normal too.

WTF was he expecting?  

This just gets better and better. 

The Big Sleep

I spent the night in a sleep lab wired up like a cyborg.  I was diagnosed with apnea about ten years ago, but it's time to be reevaluated so I can trade in my old worn out equipment for the fancy new stuff.  

After sleeping for two hours and determining that YES, it's true, I really do have sleep apnea, the techs started trying out different masks and airspeeds to see which one best alleviates the symptoms. I think snoring like a freight train is the technical term.  

The people running the test get paid to monitor you like air traffic controllers from another room -- with wires that record eyes open/closed, mouth open/closed, nose breathing, jaw clenching, brain waves moving, heart rate, number of respirations, legs kicking, etc. 

They tried three different kinds on me -- two for over the nose, one for over the nose and mouth. They tried steady air at different pressures [CPAP] as well as higher pressure when I inhaled and less when I exhaled [BI-PAP]. 

 

If you have any claustrophobia, you may have some issues with anything covering your nose.  I ripped off the nose and mouth combo mask within two minutes of letting them put it on. I can deal with my nose covered. But not my mouth.  

Wearing a breathing mask on your face, aside from how quickly it can kill your sex life, is a little like trying to breathe inside a coffin, lid closed, buried underground. There is a new, less ghoulish, and easier to wear option, but last night it wasn't available.

As for the sense of impending doom which can overtake you as you try to sleep with your face tucked inside a Bozo nose, some of that fear goes away when the person with her hand on the controls remembers to turn up the air pressure so enough oxygen gets to your lungs.  I think I yelled, "MORE AIR PLEASE!" at least ten times before I didn't feel like I was trying to breathe with a pillow over my face.  

To add to the attractive robot configuration of the mask with the hosenose coming of out it like an elephant trunk, it turns out I needed yet another hideous device to keep my mouth closed.  And I wonder why I live alone.  

The good news is maybe next time there's a wellness check at my place I can scare one of the responding officers to death when they tear back the covers on my bed. 

If that could happen, there would be no bad news.   

Remo -- This One's For You

Friday I got a call at work. The cops left a message. They were at my house for a wellness check. Pardon me, but WHAT THE FREAKING F**K!!!!!!!!!!!!

This time the police identified the busybody neighbor who called them. I haven't had contact with this woman since last year when she thought it was okay to rifle through my mailbox to see if there was any of her mail in there. I wrote her a letter to tell her that going through my mail was not okay.

This woman, whose drunk first husband used to shoot a .357 magnum through the ceiling after beating her up, is someone with whom I am no longer friendly. Someone with whom I no longer have contact. Someone with whom I share absolutely NOTHING except a sidewalk and a street.

For some reason, she couldn't pick up the phone to call me to find out if I was okay. Nope. That would be too neighborly.

Apparently she was in a tizzy -- overcome by a severe state of anxiety so great that she had to call the cops because there was STILL a note on my front door from the gas company about replacing our gas equipment. It had been up for two days. Two days.

The geniuses on my local force are idiots. There I said it. They've had two years to get procedures in place to prevent this wellness check stupidity and yet, they still keep f**king up. Time to sue somebody. They race out to my house on the word of someone who isn't my friend and hasn't spoken to me in over a year.

Here's a question for CSI fans. What is it about finding no car in the driveway that makes cops think I've fallen and I can't get up? What is it about somebody not answering the door on a workday that makes them think I'm incapacitated.

Hello, you dildoes, I'm at work.

There was also a huge bouquet of flowers on my back stoop. Did they think that was for my wake?

I called the cops to confirm that I was alive and well. The officer on the call said a concerned neighbor had called. I pointed out to the officer that any of the neighbors I was friends with knew where I was. And would call me first.

"What should we do with your flowers?" What do you mean 'What should we do with your flowers?'" They're for me. They're for Mother's Day. Leave them right where they are.

Unfortunately, my tone of voice was dripping with sarcasm and impatience. To say I wasn't suitably grateful enough for the attempt to rescue me would be an understatement.

I got to my house late that night and discovered that the mail was gone. And the flowers were no where to be found. I called the officer who told me he hid the flowers behind my garbage cans.

I reminded him of our previous conversation -- remember how I asked you to leave them where they were? Well, he said, you don't want to attract burglars.

And where's my mail by the way? 

Here comes the big payoff -- wait for it -- IN MY HOUSE!! He said he went into my house and put my mail on a table as a courtesy. Excuse me Officer Dickbreath, there is no such thing as entering my home without my permission AS A COURTESY.

Time to get a lawyer.

One thought at a time

I started drinking Lipton Pureleaf iced tea recently because, unlike other bottled teas, i.e., Snapple, the first ingredient listed on the label is BREWED TEA, not high fructose corn syrup. Is that too much to ask?

Twittering

I have the attention span of a fruit fly lately. And the memory of cake frosting. I start to write something and get sidetracked and then forget what I wanted to say. Of course, that can happen in the middle of a sentence, too.

So I thought I could turn this space into a bit of a twitter and write short, sometimes ungrammatical sentences like, i just had a blueberry muffin that was larger than my head.

Okay, that's it for now.