Hipster

Last week, I underwent my long-anticipated hip replacement surgery. I doubt that this is of interest to readers, but it’s my fundamental reality right now, and this blog cannot escape it. I feel as though I have entered a tunnel, no turning back, and crawling through to the other side is going to take a little longer and be a little harder than I expected. I know many people who have been through this and are delighted with the outcome. I hope to be a success story too. But when you first enter the tunnel, and it’s happening to you, not someone else, it feels a bit daunting.

It is a mechanical, hardware fix, but a major assault to the body, nonetheless. And at the risk of being breathtakingly self-absorbed and boring you to tears, I will try to describe how it feels. Except for a few stupid moves that incited agonizing jolts of burning pain, I would mostly use words like soreness and tightness. If stolid Miss Muscular Ache uncharacteristically married the reckless suitor Tingle in order to avoid spinsterhood, this feeling would be the child that resulted: a stinging tightness that sits beneath a soreness, and you don’t want to wake it up.

All the experts urged me not to let the pain get ahead of me, and to take the meds preemptively, so I have allowed myself a half-dose of a narcotic every six hours, at least until today, when I so far have not needed it. Will I regret this? There is a constant dance of discretion and assessment here. I also have to remember to move about sometimes, bracing myself for the brave rising from the chair, and the tentative, tedious steps that I hope someday will transform themselves back into walking. Or the elementary exercises, with their kindergarten names like “marching-in-place” and “heel-and-toe raises”, prescribed to me by an affable physical therapist who will be visiting me three times a week. (And isn’t that an extraordinary service?!)

Meanwhile, I’m weak and have no appetite, my head is filled with vague anxiety but no lucid thoughts, and it’s crazy hot outside, but what would I do out there anyway?

So I’m just sort of floating.

And I am very aware that floating is not suffering. I am fortunate.

In fact, it’s time to focus on how fortunate I am, because as I sit here in suspended animation, I am acutely aware of the many dear friends who have looked in on me, coming to visit with food and books and company, sending cards, or texting me with encouragement and distraction, and it is truly humbling, a bounty of love and community. Crazy things happen too while I’m sitting in this limbo place. A fellow I knew in junior high and had not seen since 1966, called me unexpectedly, and we talked breezily for an hour, revisiting our youth with new understanding. A note and a vintage post card arrived from my favorite Texas poet. A stout little hand-delivered pumpkin sits on the shelf announcing October. Monte, meanwhile, is the most dutiful and diligent caregiver imaginable, and I will never forget how patient and wonderful he has been.

Out in the field, a mind-boggling array of constructive and hopeful endeavors are taking place: Diane and Kelley are registering young voters, Jan is leading the resistance singers and spearheading the creation of a democracy quilt, plans are in place for rallies and protests and getting out the vote. Monte hosted a workshop to demystify the ballot and help folks to navigate the weirdness and become more informed and effective participants in democracy. I am temporarily sidelined, unable to contribute, and I don’t like that feeling, but I will try to inhabit this period with patience and acceptance, getting strong for my return. The ongoing lunacy and corruption are exhausting, but we will not succumb.

The writers I have always loved offer solace too. Brian Doyle reminds me:

“But you cannot control everything…All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference…You must trust that you being the best possible you matters somehow…That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling.”

I trust in this. I do.

And when I stiffly rose and went outside just now pushing my walker, the pattern of sunlight on sidewalk lifted my heart, and the leaf shadows trembled, and the ground beneath my bare feet felt warm and reassuring.