Wednesday was a nice day for surgery. The sun was out, the flowers were blooming, and my surgeon Dr. Swenson was going to listen to his reggae music. Bob Marley would be a good companion in OR 7, as long as Bob’s relatives didn’t provide Dr. Swenson with ganja leaves. Due to risk of infection, the doctors like to get everyone out of the hospital quickly. Though the staff was competent and caring, I was glad to go home on Friday afternoon. Even though the time I was there was short, people bond in a crisis, even if it is a planned one. Some of the staff I liked a lot came in to say farewell, and you could tell their end of shift was bitter sweet.
I liked Randy, my physical therapist. A ex army man, he was direct and kind. He grew up in Chicago and liked to learn about people. We talked, joked around, and worked on walking and climbing stairs. I have a new PT, who comes to the home 3 times a week, and she is very nice. I am not in much pain, but rather the problem is that all moves need to be choreographed. You have to move in such a way as to keep the new artificial hip in place. Go south, and you are back in the hospital.The first morning home I was full of energy. I took a shower and briskly pushed my walker to the breakfast table. I was eating well, when my energy balloon punctured itself, and I started nodding a few inches from my meal. Like a heroin addict I was done, as I slowly mad my way back to the bedroom. Lesson learned. Energy doesn’t follow motivation.
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