best laid plans

Post-op day 57 / week 9.

Left hip at eight weeks.
I had a great eight-week post-op visit. Everything is fine and I'm healing really fast. Two of the bone cuts are almost healed (preliminary healing; the bones will continue healing for about two years, but I should be able to walk in four to six weeks). Only the cut in the ischium, also known as the sit bone, remains noticeably open. "Does your hip ache at the bottom?" I was asked, and I nodded. "That's why." Still, I was promoted to 50% weight bearing, which is a relief for my hands and wrists.

I have no complications and no major complaints so far. I have one very common side effect: my left leg now feels longer than my right leg, which is a strong sensation but all in my head. The hip team tells me that every few months, a patient will literally make them measure their legs to prove that they're the same length. It's incredible how strong the feeling is, but the more I walk, the more normal it feels. The doctors don't know why it happens. They think it has something to do with the brain being confused by the joint suddenly being solid instead of unstable. In any case, it's fascinating and amusing and getting better every day.

So much has happened since last I wrote. My father's mother died on her birthday at either 104 or 105, depending on whom you ask. She was my last living grandparent. She had told everyone that she was ready to go and didn't understand why God was keeping her alive for so long. It's strange to be relieved that someone I love has died, but it's what she wanted, and she had a long, full life before going peacefully in her sleep. I hope she's partying with my grandfather somewhere now.

We took a day trip to the funeral. My sister is buried in the same plot. I left a stone on her grave and crouched there with my hand on the headstone for a long time. I know she's not there, but a grave is a powerful symbol, and it was hard to leave. I always want to sit down and stay with her for a while when I'm there.

Seatmate and I had our picture taken with the Stanley Cup, which was a brief but awesome experience. Nothing really prepared me for the immensity and intensity of the trophy. It didn't matter how many photos I'd seen; it was bigger and more amazing in person. In our ninety seconds or so with the Cup, Seatmate pointed out the new engraving, and I managed to get my fingers on it, and over my favorite player's name, before we were escorted out.

The Bruins' opening night was (mostly) wonderful. The new Stanley Cup Champions banner was raised to the rafters by members of last season's winning team and of the 1972 team, the last Bruins team to win the Cup. Along with the other presentations, a video montage of fan photos from the Stanley Cup parade was shown on the big screen at center ice, and two of my photos were in there. One of them got a good three seconds of screen time. (Here's the other one. It's only onscreen for an instant, but I'm glad they liked it and included it.)

Then the Bruins lost, but what the hell, it was a good night anyway.

I'm still tired from recovery, but I'm getting stronger. I was able to manage both a post-op visit (x-rays first, then waiting, then finally meeting with the team) and a Bruins game on Tuesday night, though I slept through half of Wednesday. The Bruins are home tonight and Saturday. I'm so grateful hockey is back. I can mostly forget about my hips when I'm in my home away from home and watching my team.

And for an extra touch of awesome, World Cup skiing starts again this weekend. I already have the DVR set. So psyched.

I had an amazingly vivid dream on Tuesday night. I couldn't remember which hip was the bad one and didn't know which to favor. I leaned my crutches against a wall and took a few steps, assuming that one hip would feel weak, but they both felt normal. I felt terribly guilty for walking without crutches, knowing I was putting too much weight on healing bone, but I couldn't figure out which hip needed the help. When I woke, I couldn't stop smiling. I'll get there.

I dreamed that I was skiing.

The trail was wide and lined with deep evergreen forests. There were a few inches of loose snow on top of the packed-powder base. I took gentle, lazy turns, glancing back occasionally at my curving tracks. I heard only the soft sound of my skis and the wind rushing past. The air was cold and clean, the quiet was deep and perfect, my movements were effortless, and nothing hurt.

I was about three when my parents first put me on skis. I was 23 when I stopped. The pain in my feet and lower legs was incredible. Worse than that, I was losing some basic skills, like keeping the tips of my skis from crossing. I was working harder and skiing worse and courting disaster with my decreasing control. I was confused, embarrassed, and afraid. When I left Vermont, I sent my skis to my parents' house and quit.

I didn't know it yet, but it wasn't my fault. I couldn't steer because the supporting ligaments in both ankles were torn, and the compression of the ankle joints was cutting off the blood flow to and from my feet. I learned this too late. My physical therapist says that I should never ski again; my joints are too easily damaged.

I was so sad to wake and find that I had been dreaming. But I'd rather ski in my dreams than not ski at all.