Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Back When I Was Young and Fancy-free
I have yet to talk about what actually happened to me during and after surgery, but I feel that I want to go back in time before returning to the ugly present.
I was brought up in a home where disability was the norm.
When I was around four years old, my mother had to stop working due to her arthritis. I remember vaguely when she got a cane. I was not happy having to walk around with a mom on a cane. But I got used to it. Better that way since it was just mom and me, my father having dropped out of the picture shortly after my birth.
Forty-eight years ago, life was not as scary as it is today for children. I always walked to school alone, rode my bike around the neighbourhood, hung out with friends, etc. Fortunately, I didn't need my mother's supervision because she could barely leave the house on her own. I think she always needed someone to help her get down the front steps and she couldn't drive so she was really housebound.
I did most of the housekeeping--vacuuming, dusting, laundry--but my mother could still cook. So, like many professional women of my generation, my home cooking skills are rather basic!
Growing up, I didn't quite realize how different things were for us. We didn't have much money, in fact we were on what was euphemistically called "mother's allowance"--a step above welfare. I recently found out that it doesn't exist anymore. Now, if you're not a welfare bum, you're on disability. Any way you cut it, nowadays people on social assistance are dirt poor. I guess we were lucky. Forty odd years ago, you could still pay your bills, the rent and eat on what the government gave you.
I loved my mother and really appreciated all the moral support and love she gave me. Her disability was secondary. It was the backdrop to my growing up but it was not top of the mind. I was fine. I could go out, run, dance and have fun with my friends. So what if I had to empty her bedpan because she couldn't get to the bathroom?
I was brought up in a home where disability was the norm.
When I was around four years old, my mother had to stop working due to her arthritis. I remember vaguely when she got a cane. I was not happy having to walk around with a mom on a cane. But I got used to it. Better that way since it was just mom and me, my father having dropped out of the picture shortly after my birth.
Forty-eight years ago, life was not as scary as it is today for children. I always walked to school alone, rode my bike around the neighbourhood, hung out with friends, etc. Fortunately, I didn't need my mother's supervision because she could barely leave the house on her own. I think she always needed someone to help her get down the front steps and she couldn't drive so she was really housebound.
I did most of the housekeeping--vacuuming, dusting, laundry--but my mother could still cook. So, like many professional women of my generation, my home cooking skills are rather basic!
Growing up, I didn't quite realize how different things were for us. We didn't have much money, in fact we were on what was euphemistically called "mother's allowance"--a step above welfare. I recently found out that it doesn't exist anymore. Now, if you're not a welfare bum, you're on disability. Any way you cut it, nowadays people on social assistance are dirt poor. I guess we were lucky. Forty odd years ago, you could still pay your bills, the rent and eat on what the government gave you.
I loved my mother and really appreciated all the moral support and love she gave me. Her disability was secondary. It was the backdrop to my growing up but it was not top of the mind. I was fine. I could go out, run, dance and have fun with my friends. So what if I had to empty her bedpan because she couldn't get to the bathroom?
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
A Recipe for Disaster (1)
I was diagnosed with osteoarthritis (OA) about 14 years ago while in my mid-thirties. The first surgeon I saw said that nothing could be done and that I should just take pain killers. The second surgeon acknowledged the situation and saw me for twice, at one-year intervals. He had the bedside manner of a python. The third surgeon I saw (let's call him "Dr. Oldtown"), after hearing about how wonderful he was from someone I met at the pool, told me that he would prefer to wait as long as possible before operating because I was much too young. He did give me hope though and seemed to be a genuinely caring person. I went to see him once a year and we tracked my slow deterioration.
Five years ago, at my annual "check-up", the doctor said he would operate whenever I gave the word. At the time, my youngest child was only three and my husband was worried that surgery would be too much to handle with two young children (my other son was six) so I did nothing. The following year, we moved to another city.
One of the first things I did after settling in to our new home was e-mail my beloved doctor and ask him for a referral now that we had moved. He replied with the name of his mentor. IMPORTANT LESSON THAT I LEARNED THE HARD WAY: Never follow a doctor's recommendation when it comes to finding the right doctor for you. Ask real people, people that he/she has operated on. People who've been there and done that.
While I had searched for several years in my old hometown before settling on a surgeon whom I felt was the right one for me, what with the stress of the move I put all my trust in "Dr. Oldtown". Why look any further when someone I respected--and more importantly--trusted had recommended his own teacher to me? Then, at my children's new school, I met a parent who was also a staff surgeon at the hospital where "Dr. Greatmanhimself" worked. In fact, he was Dr. Parent's boss! Well, Dr. Parent just couldn't stop waxing poetic over Dr. Greatmanhimself. Even the nurse I spoke to in the operating theatre just before I fell asleep said that she would choose Dr. Greatmanhimself if she or any of her family had to undergo surgery.
I had waited 2 1/2 years to be operated on by this doctor. In retrospect, I realize that I could have had my operation a lot earlier had I gone with someone "good" but not "godlike".
But I shall dispense with blaming the victim (myself) and sign off for now.
Five years ago, at my annual "check-up", the doctor said he would operate whenever I gave the word. At the time, my youngest child was only three and my husband was worried that surgery would be too much to handle with two young children (my other son was six) so I did nothing. The following year, we moved to another city.
One of the first things I did after settling in to our new home was e-mail my beloved doctor and ask him for a referral now that we had moved. He replied with the name of his mentor. IMPORTANT LESSON THAT I LEARNED THE HARD WAY: Never follow a doctor's recommendation when it comes to finding the right doctor for you. Ask real people, people that he/she has operated on. People who've been there and done that.
While I had searched for several years in my old hometown before settling on a surgeon whom I felt was the right one for me, what with the stress of the move I put all my trust in "Dr. Oldtown". Why look any further when someone I respected--and more importantly--trusted had recommended his own teacher to me? Then, at my children's new school, I met a parent who was also a staff surgeon at the hospital where "Dr. Greatmanhimself" worked. In fact, he was Dr. Parent's boss! Well, Dr. Parent just couldn't stop waxing poetic over Dr. Greatmanhimself. Even the nurse I spoke to in the operating theatre just before I fell asleep said that she would choose Dr. Greatmanhimself if she or any of her family had to undergo surgery.
I had waited 2 1/2 years to be operated on by this doctor. In retrospect, I realize that I could have had my operation a lot earlier had I gone with someone "good" but not "godlike".
But I shall dispense with blaming the victim (myself) and sign off for now.
Monday, May 24, 2004
First Post
Six months ago I took the big step I had been anticipating for about ten years: I had a hip replacement. At 48 (just yesterday!) I am relatively young by hip replacement standards and so I looked forward to regaining some of the physical freedom I had gradually lost over the years as osteoarthritis slowly robbed me of a normal range of motion in my right hip.
Like anyone going in for major surgery, I was afraid. I updated my will and made a list of everything my husband should know in case something terrible happened during surgery. Banking information, automatic bill payments--it was all there, just in case.
But while feeling this fear, I also felt an enormous amount of anticipation. At last I would be able to throw away my cane and walk down the street holding hands with both my children! I would be able to go to the amusement park with them in the summer and not be constantly searching for a place to sit down. I would be able to go back to Europe and explore the narrow, steep streets of little villages in France or Italy. I would be able to go for long walks with my husband as we had done when we first met fifteen years ago. The possibilities of a normal life inhabited my thoughts and helped to keep the fear at bay. And why shouldn't I have this normal life? Literally dozens of people had regaled me with their own total hip success stories or the stories of relatives or friends who were dancing up a storm, golfing to their heart's content--even wind surfing!
What happened on Nov. 18, 2003 has thrown my life into a black hole. Instead of gaining freedom, I am massively more disabled than I was before the surgery.
I do not know if I will ever be even as mobile as I was before. My only mobility is now on the Web.
Like anyone going in for major surgery, I was afraid. I updated my will and made a list of everything my husband should know in case something terrible happened during surgery. Banking information, automatic bill payments--it was all there, just in case.
But while feeling this fear, I also felt an enormous amount of anticipation. At last I would be able to throw away my cane and walk down the street holding hands with both my children! I would be able to go to the amusement park with them in the summer and not be constantly searching for a place to sit down. I would be able to go back to Europe and explore the narrow, steep streets of little villages in France or Italy. I would be able to go for long walks with my husband as we had done when we first met fifteen years ago. The possibilities of a normal life inhabited my thoughts and helped to keep the fear at bay. And why shouldn't I have this normal life? Literally dozens of people had regaled me with their own total hip success stories or the stories of relatives or friends who were dancing up a storm, golfing to their heart's content--even wind surfing!
What happened on Nov. 18, 2003 has thrown my life into a black hole. Instead of gaining freedom, I am massively more disabled than I was before the surgery.
I do not know if I will ever be even as mobile as I was before. My only mobility is now on the Web.
