Major surgery means a major shift in your everyday schedule of events.
Forget setting the clock to get up for work. Now it’s set to correspond with taking medicines, checking wound dressings, having injections and removing or putting on surgical hose.
In between, there’s plenty of time in bed, reading books, watching TV and observing birds and squirrels. One constant is the effected hip, for which surgery was deemed preferable to spending a lifetime of being called Hopalong.
The day generally begins with wake-up call, that strong urge of nature that sends me reaching for my walker to trudge the few steps to my specially-made latrine raised high enough so I don’t have to break the “90-degree rule,” which tells me to never, ever, bend so that my body and legs create an acute angle.
Closely related rules tell me not to cross my legs or turn my toes inwardly. To do so can pop my new hip out of joint, thus requiring a second, and much less desired, surgery.
Next order of the day, depending on one’s schedule, is taking a pain pill. For me, that means every four hours and it’s gotten to the point that I automatically awaken at four-hour intervals during the night – much like a newborn.
Once a day, I’m required to have an injection of blood thinner. The pre-filled hypodermic needles come in a packet with instructional DVD, daily log, alcohol swabs and a disposal can.
I’ve become pretty adept at injecting myself. Just swab an area to either side of my belly button, pinch an inch, insert the tiny needle and push the handle. It doesn’t hurt – honest.
Checking the wound is something I have to depend on others for. It’s all I can do to see a sliver of the foot-long, staple-lined cut by contorting my body as much as I feel is safe.
I have seen the ugly gash with the help of a mirror. That’s enough for me.
The one doing the wound, usually my wife Ginny or cousin and helper Tom, has to yank off the old bandage as I grit my teeth and ball my fists. The first few days, the wound weeped quite a bit as my body released fluids. It’s gotten better as everything heals.
Hospital instructions say to remove the surgical hose, used to prevent blood clots, twice a day for an hour each. That means tugging and pulling by my helpers as I strive to keep my affected leg attached to my body.
For the first couple of weeks, until the staples are removed, I can’t take a bath or shower for fear of wetting the wound. Instead, I have to give myself sponge baths while standing in front of the bathroom sink.
Try doing that while maintaining your male pride.
Ginny wondered how people made it before showers were invented.
As one recovering from hip surgery, I can say after five days, that you have to endure achy pains, learn to ambulate with mechanisms associated with nursing homes, be aware of every movement you make and wonder about those funny sucking feelings inside your hip.
Most of all, you have to be patient. This is something that doesn’t work itself out overnight.
