The X-rays didn’t look good. In fact they made me cringe. My right hip ball and socket were scraping bone on bone. No wonder I was experiencing pain and walking like Grandpa McCoy. My surgeon, Dr. Bill “Spider” Webb, suggested that I needed Total Hip Replacement… the sooner the better.
The good doctor insisted that the procedure was a piece of cake and that I’d recover fully in a jiffy. (I assumed that he was crossing his fingers as he pronounced that seemingly incredulous statement with a straight face.) I shrugged my shoulders and agreed to the surgery of my own volition. Anyway, the VA would pay for the whole thing.
But would they pay for the funeral?
And then I found out exactly what this surgery would entail.
First: A four-inch, vertical incision would be sliced on the side of my right hip through layers of muscle tissue. Second: Dr. Webb would grab a saw and hack the end off my thighbone. Third: He’d drill a deep hole into the top, through the center of the bone. Fourth: He’d yank out the old ball and then grind out the damaged socket and cram the new cast iron socket in place. Fifth: He’d hammer the new prosthesis stem into the hole he had drilled. (I imagined he’d use Elmer’s Glue to hold it in place.) Sixth: He’d force the new ball into the socket (and most likely lubricate it with WD-40.) Finally (whew!) he’d sew the muscles back together and tack down the incision with dozens of little staples (sterilized, I would hope).
At this point I thought about calling the whole thing off, but I took a shot of Jack and decided to cast my fate to the wind. It’s only life; it’ll pass.
As it turned out, the surgery was the easy part of the whole ordeal. I mean I was asleep; didn’t feel a thing. The only little surprise was the fact that some miscreant had catheterized me!
They had me up wobbling with a walker right away, but I wasn’t tap dancing, I assure you. I was in the hospital for two nights. And then, in the morning, my cute little nurse ‒ without warning ‒ yanked out my catheter. Whoa! (Must have been her first time.) Later I was sent home with my wife who had been holding my hand ever since that vile incident.
A few days later, my pretty home Physical Therapist, Dana, showed up at our door with her little bag of tricks. She was an extremely sweet woman, but was a no-nonsense professional. A meticulous task master, she insisted that I do things by the book, safety first. She had lots of challenging exercises for me but nothing was too terribly difficult or painful. (She only made me scream in agony a few dozen times.) Dana, affectionately known as “Nurse Ratched,” put the fear of God in me emphasizing that I was not to do anything to dislocate my new hip. Oh my God, was that even possible? (Of course it is, you fool!) She would torment me for five visits and then I’d venture to Rocky Mountain Physical Therapy for the intense, presumably brutal work sessions.
Perhaps Nurse Ratched was lulling me into a false sense of security with her gentle, friendly ways. But at one point she gave herself away when she dropped her bag of tricks and an evil looking thumb screw rolled out onto the floor. Was I dreaming? (I don’t think so.) Giggling, she hurriedly scooped up the little torture device and popped it back into her bag.
But I had seen it. And it had frightened me. Now I was being carried away by my hyperactive imagination.
And then, at 12:30 on the thirtieth of May, two weeks after the elective surgery, I showed up at Rocky Mountain Physical Therapy. (The vultures circling overhead made me a bit apprehensive.) RMPT, near the hospital, was conveniently located just steps away from the morgue. Above the entrance was a grim sign: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.
Against my better judgment I took a deep breath and limped through the ominous portal.
A burly man, Jamie, the gatekeeper I suppose, led me into the the main chamber. He uttered one thing: “Nevermore!” To my surprise, the room was bright and spacious with pop music softly playing. Not at all what I had imagined hell to be. But looks can be deceiving and I decided to tread softly and keep my eyes wide open. Trust is not bestowed; it is earned.
The room had three racks that the minions called “tables” for some reason. Two of the racks contained two helpless victims with so called “therapists” working them over. But there was no screaming. On the contrary: laughter and good-natured banter echoed throughout the chamber. I had thought that PT stood for punishment and torture, but perhaps not. One of the minions, Ryan – fit as a fiddle ‒ who I would eventually call “the drill sergeant,” guided me to the third rack, laid me down and placed a hot pad on my aching hip. It felt like heaven. How odd!
There were an array of sinister looking torture devises scattered about and a few were in use. Again, no bloodcurdling screams; only determined clients going about the business of recovering from operations, nasty accidents or sports injuries. On the south side of the chamber were several small rooms. Who knows what the hell was going on in there? And then I was summoned to one of those secret miniature dungeons. I came face to face with the “Commandant,” a handsome young man with a winning smile. His name was Mark, and he was in charge. I was surprised – and quite thankful – that he had no horns! Mark worked me over as we chatted and chuckled. I was actually enjoying myself, but still felt an overwhelming feeling of foreboding.
Sure enough. When I returned a few days later I was set upon by two women: the “S & M tag team from hell.” The so-called PTA, the lovely Kim (de Sade), introduced herself and began working me over with her strong hands accompanied by a soft, hypnotic voice. But then she helped me over to the dreaded torture device called the upright bicycle. I labored on the stationary bike for ten minutes and was turned over to her young team mate, Lisa, the “Iron Maiden.” The energetic cutie put me through a rigorous workout, but for the life of me, I could not call it torture. At one point she gave me a scare when she introduced me to the “ball squeezer.” YIKES! As it turned out she simply put a soccer size ball between my knees and made me squeeze it on and off for 2 sets of 10.
Later I was introduced to the “Ice Pick,” a lovely, trim young woman who could be my body guard. Her name is Annie, and she takes no prisoners but is sweet as tupelo honey. And sweetness seems to be the name of the game…
All jokes aside, every one of these physical therapists are professionals and know exactly what they’re doing. Not only does Mark insist upon excellence in their work, he also has instilled an ethic of cheerfulness. Their smiling faces and positive attitudes are infectious. Even though we clients experience pain and strain at times, we all follow suit with our trainers and smile, knowing we are in good hands. Of course a positive attitude is key to a full recovery. There were many times when I showed up for my sessions feeling down-in-the-dumps, but leaving on top of the world.
My time at Rocky Mountain Physical Therapy has ended. Now I’m training by myself at home. I feel good and know that complete recovery from the surgery is just around the corner. A special shout out to my surgeon and all my therapists!
But in the back of my head, I hear a tiny voice: “Nevermore!”
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.