Of A Shattered Hip

Waiting on the X-Rays.

Around 12:30 pm

I don’t like going to the doctor. It’s like going to a place to see what you’re going to die from. At least that’s how I thought about the trip yesterday when I made the appointment to see a physician. I don’t expect this to be all that serious. I expect they’ll ask me questions and either take pictures or set me up with an appointment at a hospital to take pictures of my hip and leg. This is the first time I’ve been to Banner Health Care, so I don’t really know what they do there.

The things that I cook up in my brain. I had the idea I’d just pull all the damage out of my leg, and it would straighten out, but after all this time and effort in trying, I’m realizing it may need surgery. The motherfucker simply will not straighten, the left on that is. I did straighten out my right leg. It isn’t as strong or as flexible as it used to be, but it no longer looks like a zigzag like my left leg does.

I’m not happy about this whole situation, to say the least. Since I seem to have been defeated by the damage in my hip, my mind is hounding me for not doing this years ago. But I was battling so much goddamn neurosis when I returned from the street that the haywire pathologies I had to unravel and reconnect properly left me all but paralyzed. I pulled myself out of all that shit with a herculean effort, however, so inner critic be damned, the effort isn’t wasted. It’s a fucking miracle I’m standing. I have to admit defeat now and put myself through the indignity we all must face in middle age, medical shit.

Just unspecified medical shit. At least I’ll find out precisely what’s going on inside my body.

Now, or around 3:30pm

I just got back from Banner Health Care. Holy shit.

It’s not every day you have an ex-combat vet shake your hand and tell you that you’re one of the toughest sonsabitches (her words) they’ve ever met. I’m pretty proud of that. What I’m not proud of is walking around on a shattered hip for four years. The yoga I’ve described to you all in pieces written over the past year or so turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. It’s the only reason I’m not in a wheelchair. Incidentally, Dr. Maxwell told me my spine and back look very strong. My vitals are awesome, blood pressure ridiculously good for a man my age. My weight is at a trim 167, my height a flat 6 feet.

(I still have yet to have bloodwork done…and I’m a little nervous for that, given my street living and the propensity certain scary-as-all-gonddamnable-fuck-diseases have for not showing up on test for years…until they do. But that’s the rub, isn’t it? Buy the ticket, take the ride, as a man once said.)

My hip needs to be replaced. The goddamn thing looks like someone blew up bricks underwater. I’ve written that I was hit by a car four years ago in Houston. I thought I got hit pretty good, but I got slammed. Slammed, and I kind of stood there for a second with a “What, me worry?” look on my face before going down in pile of bony junkie against the concrete. I don’t remember the car that hit me very well. I just remember the ass end getting smaller and falling and my buddy Jimmy screaming at the driver as he ran past me. It’s a damn lucky thing for that driver they kept going, I don’t mind saying.

Ah. I got around like that. Didn’t think a while helluva a lot of it at the time if I’m dead honest. The wonders of meth and fentanyl. I’m just kidding. There are no wonders. Stay all the fuck away from that shit.

Anyway. The leg joint is cockeye in the socket, and the gristle looks like someone ran a cheese grater over it, however, the mess is surrounded by lean muscle and that’s why I’m upright. I still have a bit to trim in that area, but I’ve been told to continue the yoga. I have an appointment on April 20^th (heh) with another doctor, and we’ll see about getting this hip handled. Perhaps I’ll get to claim my gender as cyborg and get cash on account of this. Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t joke like that. All jokes aside, I want my hip to be replaced. If I could get around again even somewhat like I used to…it would be nice to say the least. And since I’m on Medicaid, I’d better get this shit done before the Republicans regain power next year and do away with all forms of compassion that include anyone who doesn’t have a million plus dollars.

I’m kidding. I don’t think they’d do that. But they might. So, I need to get this done.

“That’s pretty gnarly,” I said when I saw the x-ray of my hip.

Dr. Maxwell chuckled and pointed out the cobweb of cloudy damage gracing her laptop screen, tracing a circle in the area of the left hip joint with her index finger. “See all of that? I don’t know how you walked around like this.”

I’m either stupid or tough, one. I can’t decide which. Certainly, this has been four years of fucked up pain everywhere. Sciatic nerves burning at random. Leg muscles feeling like water, but that’s been gone for about a year. Hip folding in on itself, not for about six months. Maybe once or twice. Bombs going off in my calves when I take a step. Never know which step it’s going to be. Or where or when. Imagine you get out of the car and step on the ground, and it feels for no reason like you’ve been fucking UFC kicked in thigh, and someone put a hot lighter to your inner thigh.

Oh. Anyone who’s been following will be pleased to know that I did not get opiates prescribed for this. I don’t see a need for them. I could have. Instead, I said I smoke weed for the pain and got a high dose of Ibuprofen. Which is good for me. With a hip replacement, they’ll be in my future, however. I guess I’ll just have to pull a Stephen King and quit twice. But I don't expect I'll get enough to start a habit, even with a surgery. Just enough to have to sick off for a few days. Fuck it. I can hack that.