Oh Captain, My Captain

There will come a day when I will complain about the Captain again. But it should not be soon.

Six days ago, he and I got up at 5:30 a.m. and headed down to Methodist Hospital where a few hours later, I had my left hip ripped out of my body and replaced with something better. I haven't had the guts to really examine what went in there; how, exactly, the original parts were removed; and what exactly went in in its place.

All I know is the diagnosis of severe arthritis I got earlier in the year had gone from what I thought physical therapy could improve to rapidly worse and, as it turns out, bad enough that the consultation I went in for turned into surgery two weeks later.

I'm not the surgery type. I mean, I don't like hospitals and I don't like the idea of having my parts messed with. It just seems like an invitation for additional activity. And my surgeon, in a very surgeon-like delivery said, "You'll have to do the other side, too." 

As if he understood what the X-ray showed or something! To be fair, he's the head of the Ortho & Sports Medicine Dept, so I guess he knows something about what X-rays show.

Anyway, this is a roundabout way of saying the poor Captain has been caring for me since I came home shortly after the procedure. I don't remember the procedure at all, thank God. In fact, all I remember is being wheeled into a room the size of a fancy hotel lobby where nearly a dozen masked and gloved people waited. I sat on a table and a guy started fiddling around on my spine while a nice lady injected something lovely into my IV. I don't know if I fell gracefully onto the table or fell like a lump that had to be pulled this way and that into position. 

All I know is I woke up to the dulcet tones of a woman who must have undergone a similar experience, only she was wailing like nothing I'd ever heard before. Either she had a less skilled team playing around with her inner parts, she had less drugs or she just didn't tolerate pain AT ALL. But after what seemed like a good 20 minutes of repeated wailing, a nurse finally said, "Come on now, INSERT A NAME THAT I'VE FORGOTTEN, you've got to stop this: you're not helping yourself or anyone." The lady quieted down after a bit, with a bit of medical assistance, I suspect. Poor thing.

I wanted to wail myself, but the experience put me right back in Kindergarten when I sat at little plastic table across from Jeff Eccles. Remember I was the last of seven, so you can only imagine how fast my Mom sped out of the driveway of Shakamak Elementary once this milestone day came for me. Left in a room full of strange kids my age and size after five years of being with mostly my siblings and cousins, I can tell you that tears were on the way.

But Jeff's mother, who was folded uncomfortably onto one of the kid-sized plastic chairs, said to her little boy, "Look, that girl's not crying at all. You should be brave like her."

My tears scuttled back inside my head in a hurry back then after hearing that challenge laid down. I didn't know the kid yet, but I was brave and he wasn't, and that was the best thing that had happened to me that day. 

In a de ja vu moment, my moans were silenced and I took a few deep breaths. By design, we'd planned the thing as outpatient, and after only a slight hiccup, that's what it became. Ever since, Jeff has had to deal with me, medicate me, prepare my food and ensure I get to the bathroom without undoing what the doctors did.

For six days and nights so far. He's been pretty awesome. I think I only cried once, and that wasn't his fault. Sorry, Mrs. Eccles: it hurt. A lot. The pain has been less every day since, but it's still there. Jeff's in charge of the dispensary in addition to everything else. I'm forbidden from bending down even to pick up a Kleenex and I've worn streaks into the hardwood floor from my walker-led treks around the house.

This morning, though, Jeff had to go into work. He was worried that I'd manage to fall or, more likely, do some of the forbidden things, but I managed to survive. I did make coffee, which I've not had since I went to the hospital. It was wonderful.

I've been fortunate to have great clients who understood that I was OOO for a while. One of them sent a lovely bouquet. Another friend brought a chair for the shower so I'm not grimy and gross; another sent flowers and treats for Jeff; others sent food and lots of folks have checked in to see what they could do and promised to keep us in food for a while. 

I'm fairly certain I answered them all in-between the loopy times, but I'm not sure.

What I do know is that the Captain has weathered a pretty bad storm. I'm not going to go into detail about what opioids do to the digestive system but climbing that particular mountain was almost worse than the surgery. 

Even now that I can get to the bathroom on my own, in doing so, my walker and I make enough noise to wake the deaf -- so Jeff hasn't had a good night's sleep in nearly a week. He even took over my project to prep a wall of our garage for a mural to be painted by Ali's friend, Nikki. I'd scraped most of it, but it needed more scraping, and to be primed for her to work on it next week. It's a huge birthday gift. That was his weekend in addition to making sure I got fed, watered, drugged and exercised.

I'm not sure how long I'll be on the DL. I think I'm on the downward slope, though. I was able to do a little work today and I hope to do more tomorrow. From bed, of course. It was shockingly tiring. 

I was sure I was tougher than this.

Anyway, if you see the Captain or have a way to reach him, be nice to him. He's truly gone above and beyond this week. 

As you must know, I'm not easy to deal with on a good day. Imagine me in pain, unable to walk on my own, drugged, tired and unable to put on underwear by myself.

So, yeah. Be nice to my Captain. 

Soon, he'll have to take the drugs away...