My mom celebrated my birthday this year a day early, by getting a hip replacement. It makes a certain degree of sense, as she jokingly (or not-so-jokingly) identifies the onset of her joint problems on my birth. While not a massive adult by any means, I was a somewhat-whopping nine-pound baby, and mom’s not even five feet tall. The obstetrician referred to me as a “moose”. Also, no one has ever accused me of being hip.
I have been very worried, but it sounds like mom is OK right now. The scariest part is worrying about the unknown, which has been made worse by the updates I’ve been getting by text. My sister and I have different mobile plans, so her messages are often truncated in cliffhanger fashion. Here’s a sample:
“the doctor said the head of the femur had completely died and that the bone was fragmented and splintered, so she…”
And that’s it! What splintered? What happens when the top of your femur dies? I didn’t know that even HAPPENED outside of episodes of “House”.
Luckily, it sounds like she’s OK - not that I know anything about hips, or hipness. I like to think that mom’s going to adopt a hip-ster attitude about her various joint issues from now on:
“During physical therapy, I pretty much just listen to Grizzly Bear.”
“Degenerative arthritis? Yeah, I haven’t been into that for a while now.”
“Nah, no more Vicodin for me. I just drink Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
