Not really. But I imagine that’s what it would feel like.
On August 5th, I had surgery to address my deteriorating left hip joint. Years of dancing, running, rollerblading and pounding pavements coupled with arthritis’ sneaky grip had left me in constant pain and a miracle cure was promised by my new bionic state.
A month out, I’m walking short distances and while it’s not quite a miracle, I can see how when I’m fully healed I will be grateful, balanced, and pain-free. But oh those first few weeks!
Deep dual incisions lashed my hip, one for the robotic arms actually conducting the surgery, the other for the camera inserted to guide the doctor’s operation of those arms. Just thinking about it feels creepy; scary and futuristic. And the wounds themselves were epic, red, and angry. Then there was the swelling. I’ve had an hourglass figure most of my life, but my hips ballooned to huge Kardashian-like proportions causing a body dysmorphia crisis that only tubs of ice cream seemed to cure (If I looked like a freak, I might as well eat like a freak was my tepid logic).
Surgery is a learning experience. I learned dependency is not my thing. This hard truth was emphasized as I had to rely on help to do everything from taking a shower to putting on a sock. I couldn’t drive, couldn’t walk up stairs, couldn’t cook. This freaked me out completely. More tubs of ice cream were the only and obvious answer.
I tried to write, but in a morphine daze lost 75% of the work I had done on a new book.It took me two weeks to figure out I hadn’t really lost it at all, just saved it in a different application. I made other mistakes too, but I won’t enumerate them here. I don’t like making mistakes and so want to forget them entirely. Again, tubs of ice cream seem to be the solution.
Being more or less grounded at home (a flashback to Covid lockdown) and battling constant pain is tiring and frustrating on every level. And just as I reached a place where I thought I was ready to go out, take on the world (and stop mainlining ice cream), my husband came down with Covid and grounded us for Labor Day Weekend. So I leaned into it. I decided to welcome the immobility and just rest. Make my peace with the ice cream and reflect.
As I heal and my husband rebounds from what I hope were the worst of his Covidsymptoms, I realize we are always in the process of healing, whether from an immediate event or illness or from long-carried wounds, physical or psychic. That is, if we’re lucky, we’re healing. If we are less fortunate, those wounds fester and ooze, spilling out like black tar at inopportune moments. So I’m going to welcome my progress and process, even if slower than I’d like, use my observations in my writing, and remember I always have soft serve.
From the Cheerfully Dark Mind of Nina Sadowsky
My Anatomical Journal 