Guess which picture is not like the other...

Since I know that several casually following this blog have a slight interest in photography (granted, some more than others), I decided to include this quote I just heard which was quick to move to the top of my favorites:

"He never recovered his sanity. Luckily, he was a photographer, so it didn't matter much."

-Garrison Keillor

Now, down to buisness. Even though I received this latest update a couple of weeks ago, I haven't put it up yet, and for that I am truly sorry. Well, here goes: all new and improved.

Sorry about the crummy scanning. I have to admit, I am absolutely pathetic when it comes to scanners. But you get the gist. I promise, if I get a better scan, I will post it. I haven't gotten the chance yet, but the first chance I get, I'm going to see if I set off metal detectors. I have actually come across a half-chance to be wanded, but he passed me over because I was in a wheelchair, and late. :( I will find out though. Maybe after a second surgery...

I've started going to physical therapy twice a week. At first, they threw me on the hydrotrack, an underwater treadmill. Since the water lifts gravity's spell, people like me are able to walk without giving pause. When I told them that I remembered these vividly from when I was 3, even the physical therapists gave me a shocked look. Apparently, they don't get too many two year olds as candidates for surgery and recovery. Unfortunately, after only one appointment on the hydrotrack, I got kicked off. What got me kicked off? My height. The water needs to come up to a certain level for full effect, and apparently 5'8"ish is too tall for the machine. So I'm subjected to pool work only, which is actually kind of fun. My main therapist is a graduate from Harding, so we chat about former teachers and classmates that might have come back. Ironically, one of her best friend's is (former) Coach Myatt, now Coach Myatt Starks. When she asked if I knew Kevin Starks, I almost laughed, considering I was in his first and only 7am Bible class last year. An....interesting experience. Filled with Basketball talk, racist jokes (but only black and white people), and some very interesting glasses of sweet tea (right Melanie?).

The person who owns the first blogspot for hip dysplasia and PAO I looked at named her hip/leg Uber Uma. I remembered that. And though I have not named my hips - yet - despite yelling and thumping (not after the surgery, of course) and some more talking, I have named my modes of transportation. My wheelchair, because of its title: the Tracer SX5, has earned a name as Tracy. My walker is named Elsa, for no apparent reason at all, though it may be related to a very good book, Winter of Fire. I don't know. For now, I must bid you adieu (which is a really good word to use in scrabble or speed scrabble)!

New Years?

Ok. I'm a little late. As in half a month late. But I have finally decided on my new year's resolution, even though I decided long ago that they are worthless. My new year's resolution: learn to walk for the third time. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen. The third time. How many of you can lay claim to that?! Hmm? Hmm? For a status report for those not in the area presently or who just don't see me often or those whom I lie to about my condition (sorry y'all, it gets really tiring to give a full status report to everyone, so you just end up saying "fine" a whole lot): I am practically painless. I'm just waiting, waiting, waiting for the bone to heal. Sometimes my incision hurts cause I stretch it too far when laying on my side, or my muscles decide they don't want to move so that I end up sore, but for the most part, I'm painless. I've started going back to school, in a wheelchair of course, so that I don't fall over and die. The death refers to a HUGE reconstructive surgery I would have to go through and approximately 4 more months of immobility. Yeah. Not happening. But there are some good things that come out of the surgery.

Pros:
*My seven inch scar. Some ask if I have my vitimin E handy, which is a formula that actually reduces scar tissue. The thing is, I have a weird affection and pride for my scars. This scar will be the sixth permanent scar I have. Five are from hip surgery/leg breakage and one is from cracking my head open. In a weird way, they seem to represent all that's happened to me and therefore are a natural part of me. I wouldn't erase them away for the world.

*My dead spot. I actually feel like Mal (Firefly/Serenity) on this one. Instead of having a dead, unfeeling spot in my kidneys, I have a dead, unfeeling, nerveless area about 2 inches to the left of my scar. It's actually pretty neat. I keep getting freaked out though cause I accidentaly feel it, realize I don't and then get the shivers. My dream, though, is to get into a fight and someone stab my in my hip and then I shake the hair out of my eyes and say in a deadly voice "I don't feel that. But you'll feel this!" and then plant a flying kick into their chest. It'll be great!

*The incredible support. Everyone at school, faculty, staff, friends, colleagues, have showed incredible support to make sure I can still learn everything, and go everywhere I need to. It's so amazing.

Cons:
*The explanatory process. I hate explaining to people what happened to me. I don't mind for about two people, but after a while, explaining to everyone what happened is just so tiring. And you can't just run away from the question, cause you're either in a walker or crutches (muletas!) or a wheelchair. One girl who I didn't even know responded this way when I told her I had hip dysplasia: "You mean, the things that dogs get!?" Yes. The things that dogs get.

*The death of spontaneity. Every once in a while you get an impulse. The impulse to tickle someone, to sneak up behind them, or to dance in the rain. All that was taken away for a while. I realized about a week ago that I won't be able to dance for a bit more than two months. Not that I dance professionally, or even as a hobby, but I like to. I do a twirl when I feel happy, I dance when that certain song comes on that just makes you want to move, I move like that all the time. It's so sad to feel that you can't do that anymore.

*Oh yeah, I can't walk.

*Friends you didn't know you had. I won't say her name, but there's a girl at school I am acquainted with. I don't know her that much and really don't care to. But know that I'm in a wheel chair, I'm her best friend. Wow. I'm really working this italics thing, aren't I? People want to push you around everywhere. Personally, it's a little hit on my pride. Like I can't get myself to places, or what?

Well, that's pretty much it. Sorry for my inattentiveness lately. Wow. I seem to apologize everytime I write. Oops. (But I won't apologize.) :D

And Everything Else...

Sorry for being ridiculously lax in my pursuit of information giving. Next bullet point.

Sunday: By Sunday I had completed most of the hurdles the nurses require of patients before they leave the hospital. I had (1.) convinced them that I did not require a catheter, finally. Yes, there is a story there, but I will not relate it unless I am talking to you in person, or close to it. I had (2.) managed to walk 10 or less feet without passing out or feeling dizzy. I (3.) stopped throwing up, after much persuasion. I (4.) was feeling alert, or at least enough to yearn for cleanliness and watch TV. Seeing as how my mind set was a couple days earlier, this is very alert. And plus, I received bonus points for making my systolic hit 100. I managed to hover around mid 80s to the 90s for most of my visit. Apparently this isn't good. It probably would help if they didn't suck my blood every 24 hours. Just an opinion.

I was all ready to face to world. I took a shower (by the way, this is a HUGE accomplisment) in their bathroom and put on my own clothes in the stead of hospital gowns. I walked out past the elevators (woot). I made some contacts so that 20 people wouldn't show up at the hospital 20 minutes after I left. The nurses took my IVs out! This is the best news ever! And I ate lunch. In the middle of lunch, Dema and Micheal showed up and became my honor guard out of the hospital. Goodbye friendly nurses. Goodbye Food Man. Goodbye Rusty. I spent an only slightly painful ride home and got to sleep in a real bed, for once.

The next morning I was forced to welcome a new regimen. Every day: 2 stool softeners, 1 iron pill, a Perkaset pain pill taken as needed, and 1 shot in the stomach to prevent blood clots. They problem is, every day spent away from the hospital increases my dislike of being poked with sharp objects. In the hospital you sort of get used to it. But not so at home. As of right now, I only need 2 more injections. Score! So what has been happening since my semi-triumphant return? Well, there have been visits and pain meds and a physical therapist and crutches and a wheelchair and a whole lot of fussing. Since returning home, I've had two showers and washed my hair twice. I feel so clean! I now have so much chocolate and other assorted sweets they would supply 20 hormonal women who had just gotten broken up with. I have watched three times the movies I would normally watch. For many days at home, I just recuperated and rested. I got up several times a day, each time moving more easily. On Saturday I finally did what had seemed the impossible several days before: I got up, dressed in real clothes, and set forth in a wheelchair to go to Borders. It was a good thing too. They are having a huge sale right now!

I'll probably write a follow up post for everything I forgot later, but for know, here is your information overload of the day. Questions? Comments? Threats? Contact me. Somehow...

Friday-Saturday

I decided to cover these in one bound because half of it is lost in a medicated haze and the other half is full of painful details no one wants to be debreifed on too much. My days at the hospital began early, because for a place that is full of healing, they certainly start processing you ridiculously early. A nurse comes to suck your blood at 5:30-6:00, and after that nurses come in frequently to take your blood pressure, temperature, and such sundry vital signs. At seven, the doctors come to either change you dressing or hospitably (get it?!) talk to you or warn you of incoming therapists. After that, the friendly guy who gives you meals comes to bring you breakfast and to give you options for the rest of the day. No really, I love that guy. He's amazing.
After that come the physical therapists. Though they seem nice, they have a heart of steel behind those helpful demeanors. My first therapist even made me pass out! Just kidding, Rusty, that was my fault. My fault that I have ridiculously low blood pressure. Physical therapy is hard, though. You wouldn't think that moving your leg ahead 2 inches would be that difficult! But it is. The bathroom was probably the biggest accomplishment. You have to move all the way there, do your buisness, then all the way back. Exhausting!
For the rest of the day, it is a blur of visitors, vital signs, more visitors, television, pain meds, vital signs, and food. My apologies for two of my visitors: Suzanne and Jonathan, for almost vomiting on them. I really wasn't good that day, I'm sorry.
There were up moments, and there were truly rotten moments, but I managed to get through to Sunday! Why six in the morning? That's just what I don't get.

First Day

Yay! I'm home! But before I start confusing you with haphazard rememberances in no certain (haha, London) order, I shall stop confusing everyone and start from the befinning.
-Where should I start?
-I believe the beginning's a good a place as any.

I'm beginning where I left off: the day of. Frankly, I don't remember much of this. I remember insisting to myself that I must find something cute to wear to the hospital (I don't know why) and showing up to the hospital. The waiting room took quite some time, but eventually, we were admitted back. My two pre-op nurses/attendees were Harding graduates! They prepped me by putting in an IV, giving me gowns, taking my blood pressure and taking my temperature. Then they took me back to the "block room". The block room is where they gave me a nerve block for post-op pain and a spinal block (the kind birthing women receive, methinks) for the operation pain. Here was the amazing thing: usually people mind when they are stuck in the hip or the spine with huge needles, but I absolutely didn't. I was in my happy zone. I was feeling my cheerios. I was happy. IV's are miraculous things. Here, my memory goes hazy. I remember the ceiling (barely) from the block room to the OR. I remember commenting to Dr. Guyton that the overhead lights looked like UFOs. And then I cease to remember.

When I woke up, I was in the recovery room, where they put you between operating room and actual room. According to my mother: my first words when hazily awake were about Nutella. Does this suprise anyone? And then I talked of ravioli and Chef Boyardee. And then I cried, because they did an unspeakably cruel thing to me: they rolled me over onto my bad side for an X-ray. Twice. You cannot imagine the searing pain. All of my memories until the next morning remain hazy. I thank Niani Connerly's mother, my first night nurse, for that. I was up all night off and on because of discomfort. This side sleeper still needs a bit of transitioning till she gets used to sleeping flat on her back. That is it for know, my dear readers. I must fly and walker my way over to the couch for some dinner. See you tomorrow!

Well...

Well....
This is it. I just wanted to say that this is my last post before the hospital and that I am ravenously hungry already. Bye, world! Thanks everyone for the notes and the prayers and the encouragement. Thank you Louis (and Lola and Jacob) for the cookies! Bye!

Drumroll, please.....

T-1 Day!!!!!!!!!!

Well, friends, this is it. My last day with working (or semi-working) joints.

I would like to formally (or not so formally, since it is me you're talking about) thank everyone for the prayers, and the comments, and the well wishing and the monkey (Thanks Patrick!). Everyone has bombarded me with prayers and chocolates (Thanks Aunt Cheryl!). A couple classes in school had group prayers for me, and several others asked students to think of me. I am truly grateful for these. My hypothesis: they'll open me up and discover that everything is miraculously healed because of all the prayers! No really, there is no way to tell you thank you for everything.

Speaking of the monkey, everyone who visits me and says the passphrase "The eggplants grow greener on the other hip" has permission to sign my stuffed monkey's scrubs. :D
I'll probably post something in a hurry tomorrow before hurrying to the hospital (10:30-sign in; 1:30-3:30 begin the operation) but if not, this could be the very parenthetical last post before surgery. Love you, everyone!