RA Diaries: For my health

I’ve always had mixed feelings about weight-loss diets.

The first time I went on a diet was when I was 11 years old. It was a crash diet, and truly unhealthy. But effective. My mother supervised.

It was summer, and I had gained enough weight over the past year — up until that I was stick thin — that the adults around me, from family to family friends, were appalled.

Yes, I was chubby. I’ve always had a round face, partly because the RA curtailed the growth of my chin. And I had a belly, much like many little girls entering pre-pubescence.

RA Diaries: Sloping sidewalks

The Hip Chronicles may be over, but the recovery continues. For the most part, I feel much better, and much more mobile.

About three weeks ago, though, I suddenly got a bad ache in the outside muscle right above the knee on the operated side. It was really hard to walk, and I was really scared that something was wrong with my implant. It made sense for me to worry about that, since so much of the pain before turned out to be referred pain.

RA Diaries: Illness as punishment

Many years ago, I learned to fly an airplane.

It took me more than two years to get my license, partly because I kept running out of money, but mostly because I had to find the right instructor. As it turned out, it was the third one, and apart from the fact that she was a veteran CFI with an excellent record, she also had RA. Unlike me, she had gotten it in her 30s (she was in her 50s when she taught me). And unlike me, she’d taken the really strong stuff, including gold.

The gold (which I remember some doctors wanted to give me, but my grandfather, also a doctor, refused) turned her skin a permanent metallic orange. I know she was self-conscious about it, and that people, especially kids, had been unkind. But this woman was a fighter, and she was not afraid to flay miscreants with her very sharp tongue.

In spite of our shared health concerns, we didn’t talk a lot about RA. Rather, we focused on the business of flying. It came up at times, such as when she tried to give me a big bag of herbal supplements (after her bad gold experience, she had turned to holistic healing).

And then, there was the incident.

RA Diaries: But you’re so young!

I’m standing chest-deep in warm water. My left leg is forward, and bent at the knee. This is helping stretch my right calf, which often gets swollen since the surgery.

The exercise feels good, and so does the water.

This is my first session of water therapy, and the first time I’ve been in a pool in months. It’s not a big pool, about 18 by 8 feet. It’s pretty deep, though — almost five feet.

I’m not alone in the pool. The physical therapist, Anne, is there, as is another patient, Jack. Jack is probably in his 80s. Anne may be in her mid-50s. We’re supposed to be sharing Anne’s services, but Jack is getting the bulk of her attention. I’m not sure why, but I get the distinct impression from Anne that he is one of those patients who won’t do the work unless bullied. As the “good” patient, I can just be set exercises and then left alone to do them.

The Hip Chronicles, Part X: Was it worth it?

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

This entry will be the last in the Hip Chronicles. It’s not that I’ve run out of things to say. Or maybe I have. I just worry that I’m starting to repeat myself, and, God forbid, starting to whine. And whiny deja vus have never been my thing.

Anyway, Friday marks the six-week anniversary of my hip replacement surgery. At this very time on Nov. 19, I was likely having a scope shoved down my throat because the anesthesiologist couldn’t find my narrow trachea. Luckily, I can’t remember a thing about that.

The Hip Chronicles, Part IX: In therapy

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

“Your left leg doesn’t trust your right leg.”

I’m standing in my dining room, just a few feet from the Christmas tree. My physical therapist, Gaby, has been teaching me some balancing exercises. In this newest one, I’m supposed to put weight on my operated leg, then bend my left knee and move to the side, slowly. It’s a move half-way between ballet and tai chi.

But the left leg refuses to budge. I try to make it, using some Kreskin vibes and my best “Bitch, please” stare. No dice.

“You know, Gaby? You’re absolutely right.”

Not that I blame my left leg in the least. After all, it’s been taking up the slack for several years, and been let down repeatedly. Then, to add insult to injury, it got used as a pincushion by a gaggle of anesthesiologists. The bruises have only just cleared up. At this point, it would sooner trust Bernie Madoff with its 401 K (for all I know, my left leg may have a 401 K — it’s always been business savvy). Or agree to help that Nigerian prince who keeps e-mailing about his inheritance.

The Hip Chronicles, Part VIII: Mysteries in marriage

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

Before I went into the hospital for my surgery, the plan was for me to come home after I was released. Since I would be released Thanksgiving week, my husband could get away with taking time off work to take care of me. Then in the next few weeks, my parents and my mother-in-law would come babysit three days a week (my husband would telecommute the other two days).

But by the second full day in hospital, I realized that my plan just wasn’t feasible. I needed far more help than I’d thought. Getting out of bed was difficult. Sitting up was difficult. Walking was difficult.

The Hip Chronicles, Part VII: On my back

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

Since getting my hip replaced, I’ve had to get used to a number of things. Like not bending down. And not crossing my legs. And walking with a walker, then a cane.

Then, there’s having one leg feel longer than the other. And making sure I don’t sit in such a way that my hip is less than 90 degrees in relation to my torso. Or not sitting down on any low surfaces (this includes in the bathroom).

All these restrictions have been challenging, but the toughest one has been the one regarding sleeping: I’m not allowed to sleep in any position except on my back.

The Hip Chronicles, Part VI: Mountain cows

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

Many years ago, my parents had dinner with another couple. This couple were old friends, and at the time, they spent lots of time with my parents, because the two couples had a lot in common, including children of the same age, geographic location, ethnicity and work experience.

Normally, they all got along quite well, but on that fateful evening, they almost came to blows. Why?

Because of mountain cows.

The Hip Chronicles, Part V: I’m a big girl now

In my series, the RA Diaries, I’ve tried to write about the weird, the painful and even the comical parts of having a chronic illness. Very recently, I had what for many RA patients is a rite of passage: my first joint replacement. My new right hip, with its festive combination of titanium, cobalt and plastic polymer, is worth five times more than my car. And it will surely be a great source of amusement to TSA scanners worldwide, because on x-rays it looks like I’m packing some major heat.

Now, kind reader, let me tell you exactly how I went about getting my new hip. But be warned. It’s gonna get gross. And graphic. And, maybe once in a while, somewhat amusing. I hope you get something out of it. I’m certainly hoping I will.

While I was preparing emotionally for my surgery, I figured there would be pain. And blood. And needles. And uncomfortable robes and bland food and people constantly prodding me and poking me and asking intimate questions and interrupting me when I tried to sleep. After all, I had seen a number of my loved ones go through surgery, and these were the things they complained about most.

But I didn’t quite expect how much, once my surgery was over, I would regress to an earlier version of myself, a version I had never expected to be again.