On Not Wishing Away Time

It has taken more than half my time on earth for me to learn the lesson that I must embrace life when and where it happens and not wish it away.  I learned the lesson the hard way, mostly after I conceived my son nearly 25 years ago.  By then, I’d spent a lifetime believing that there were things I couldn’t do or have because of who I was: a fat lesbian and a smart woman who scared the shit out of patriarchy.   Limits were set by society and for many years I accepted some of them. Becoming a mama was something I feared would be unavailable to me.  Against that particular perceived limit, I fought back.  When I became pregnant, I vowed that I would raise a child who always knew his value and worth and needn’t wait to love, or be loved, or live the life of his choosing.  In the subsequent years, I learned to take on other limits and not feel that I had to wait to enjoy the full measure of life.  I came to embrace wearing a swimsuit despite my imperfect thighs.  I came to love doing things on my own: movies, dining out, going to the gym, going to parks and museums on my own, even vacationing by myself.  If I wanted to do it, I could and I did.  It was empowering.

Then came the wonky hip.  Since last August, when the pain became suddenly unbearable, I have faced a world of limits brought on by doctors who denied me care because I’m fat.  I’ve rarely been a fan of modern medicine and this circumstance has turned my lack of enthusiasm into palatable dislike and distrust.  I am a woman who does not hate but if I made an exception to that rule, it would be for the medical field, which has almost never been my ally.  As I restricted food to lose weight and qualify for the hip replacement surgery everyone agreed would cure me, my dislike of doctors grew as their withholding of treatment shrank my world.  I resisted as much as I could but pain and sleeplessness are a toxic combination.  The last 6 months have mostly been miserable.  No longer able to walk very far, I have been confined to a life of home and work, my independence limited outside of my home (and even within it….going downstairs to do laundry is very hard for me; everything takes longer when you are disabled and in near-constant pain).  I have found myself wishing away my current existence in exchange for a future when things will be better, the exact approach to life I rejected so many years ago.  

With just under two weeks until surgery, I finally see light at the end of the tunnel.  With a hip replacement, I believe I will regain my independence.  I will once again be able to live my life on my terms.  Whether I will be able to let go of my anger at the 6 months of my life lost because of the denial of medical treatment remains to be seen. I’m only 56 years old.  I have many years left on earth, though not so many that I welcome my time being wasted by doctors who don’t seem to understand what an oath like “do no harm” actually requires of them.

One Step Closer?

On Tuesday, I officially made the weight requirement for my orthopedic surgeon to perform the hip replacement I so desperately need.  The news was overwhelming and all I could do was cry.  That afternoon, I moved my orthopedic appointment up to the 15th of December.  I’m still holding the line on food restriction and though the pace of my weight loss has slowed - a thing bound to happen once my metabolism caught wind of what I am up to - I remain on track to lose a pound a week.  Food restriction will continue in earnest until the day of my surgery - a date yet-to-be-scheduled.  And that’s the fly in the ointment right now.  

When I see him on the 15th, I am fearful that the surgeon will move the BMI target and require that I lose more weight.  I have no especially rational reason to believe this; my primary care and pain management doctors have reassured me that the surgeon won’t do so.  But none of this journey has been rational. The surgeon’s adherence to BMI, a health metric well-discredited, is where the irrationality started and my less-hopeful self assumes more stupidity will follow.  Of all people, the orthopedic surgeon who told me on September 21 that the only treatment for my pain was a hip replacement surely knew what the next three months would bring.  In September, I could still walk without a cane and could make it the length of several football fields before I needed to rest.  By October, I needed a cane to make the length of a single football field.  Now, I can’t walk that far without excruciating discomfort.  I can't grocery shop or go anywhere by myself.  I cannot sleep at night without narcotics.  He knew this would happen, didn’t warn me, and really didn’t seem to even give a damn.  My lack of faith in his word is understandable.  And yet I met the goal and I am holding on to hope for a surgery date and with it, the prospect of a return to the full life that I long for.  

Four Weeks

After a glorious week off, classes resume this morning.  I love my job and all that it entails, so I’m not sad to return to work.  I spent a great deal of my time off resting my crummy hip and it was a happy thing that I could string together a few hours without pain nearly every day.  School days aren’t like that for me and I’m staring down the abyss of busy, painful days.  That’s hard to embrace, though teaching is a very good distraction from my discomfort. 

At the end of this 4 week stretch, I’ll have two weeks off.  That will end on January 5, the same day that I will see the orthopedist for a re-evaluation and - fingers crossed - move toward scheduling the surgery that will signal the beginning of the end to this nightmare.  As I face the next weeks, I will keep my eye on that prize and do everything I can to be the recipient of good news on January 5.  I struggle with the fact that because I am fat, I have to *earn* the medical treatment that will restore my mobility and stop this pain, but that is a story for another day.