Yeah, no one's probably gonna read this. Oh, well, here goes some liquid soul.

There is a noble woman who wrote a hip blog.

She wrote at the end something very true -

"In the end, we can sit around and log every moment of discomfort, each twinge and ache, and try to create some sort of five-year viability projection out of safety pins and scotch tape, or we can recognize that we've tangoed with the MRIs, the CT scans, the arthroscopies, the surgeries, and of course, the raised toilet seat, and it's time to just have a life."

- As she said goodbye to her blog. She said goodbye. And I'm still trying to.

I apologize. This will be the only really Psalm 137 post - the only post without hope.

Not that it isn't there.

There are mornings when I feel some Lamentations 3,

but I don't feel like feeling it.

I never mourned. I didn't think I needed to.

I never cried for my hips.

But really, I lost a part of myself and needed to mourn.

Most of the pain is gone, but instead I have this feeling that I can't look anyone in the eye because my mind is still in a wheelchair.

Not all of the time, but some of it.

I was strong. And now things are having a backlash.

My screws are out, but not all of the pain is.

Most of the pain is gone, but every couple of days I have to quietly squeeze the arm of my chair because of nerve spasms.

I'll always have a reminder of the fact that I'm not normal.

That can be a good thing. But I'm not feeling it too much.

For pure business, my screws were taken out on June 30. Yes, they are very pretty.