And What's Denny Been Up To Lately?

So I had hip replacement surgery on Tuesday. My right hip has been giving me grief and misery for years, despite my otherwise perky youthfulness. It’s gone downhill fast the last couple years (hmmm, have I recently become more active? Been lifting 25 pounds or more? Twisting? Turning? Going down slides?), so Joe and I decided the time was now, after Emma has settled in to being home but before she’s a teenager and doesn’t want me to push her on the swings anymore, to have the deed performed.

Surgeons have made mighty strides in the hip replacement arena the last few years. My surgery was called a DASH (Direct Anterior Surgical Hip). Spiffy name, no? Instead of making a long incision on the side of the offending leg, cutting through muscles, etc., the surgeon makes a much smaller incision on the front of the leg, kinda scoots the muscles over (“outta my way…”) and slips in the new Kryptonite ball and socket. Recovery time is greatly reduced with the DASH because muscles don’t have to heal, and there aren’t any of the old movement restrictions of former hip recoveries (“Do not under any circumstances bend the operated leg more than 43.7 degrees to the upper right or the new hip will esplode and you will be left a quivering mass on the bathroom tile.”)

They performed the surgery on a high-techy looking machine like this.

I was unconscious before they strapped me in, so I can only hope that I got to wear the sporty yellow leotard, but I was awake when they put the ski-boot things on me. After they put the boots on, they said, “Everybody wears a party hat!” and put my hair in an industrial-strength shower cap. What a fun group! Then they said, “We’re going to shoot something in your IV to relax you a little bit,“ which I think is their way of saying, “So long, suckah.” I remember the pleasant sensation of revolving slowly on an air mattress in the swimming pool and chirpily announcing, “Wow, I can really FEEL this!” (I wanted to assure them that if their goal was to relax me then, yes, I was indeed relaxed. Well done! All of you!) And then the lights went out.

The next 36 hours were not as kind. I’ll gloss over the sorry details of throwing up (twice), crying like a little girl, being imperious and whiny with the night nurse (Jeremy), and downright crabby to the defenseless young food services worker who brought me breakfast and then tried to make a quick getaway (“Hey! How can I eat if I can’t sit up, move my table around or make my bed go up and down? No one showed me what to do!”)

But my, by Day 2, after I was released from my tangle of tubes and was able to get up and give the new joint a test drive, I felt ever so much improved. I can now stand up straight with both feet flat on the floor, which I could not do pre-surgery (I listed to port). If any of you take this ability for granted, I urge you to stand up straight right now and relish the sensation.

Now I’m home and feeling quite good. I’m using a walker, which makes me think of the old ladies dancing in “The Producers.” I expect to graduate to a cane before too long, and then to vigorous backward hand springs by Halloween. Hip hip hooray for E. Marc Mariani, M.D., who wears such attractive suits and also is a whiz of a surgeon. I highly recommend him. Joe has taken stellar care of Emma. He makes her fabulous breakfasts (sausage, homemade biscuits, fried eggs), buys her new clothes, and takes her on fun outings. And my mom and dad and other family and friends have been extremely attentive. I am most grateful!