Screwed! But Sparky and Esteban Save the Day
He's my new bed and blanket companion. Looking at him makes me smile. After the fall- there's an awful lot of imagery, sensation and emotion refracting inside this more-than-slightly addled post hip surgery brain of mine (this is a thinly veiled mea culpa for any bad writing that follows) but I wanted to send out a heartfelt thanks- lickity split!- to all of you, for your kind notes and sweet messages. I cherish every one.
My world has been whittled down to a queen size bed and some 800 square feet of floor space. I must keep- totally- off my left leg for a minimum of eight weeks to give my fractured femoral neck (screwed back together with three titanium screws) a fighting chance.
If you're a betting soul, here are the odds of me keeping my own hip: 50/50.
If we can keep the bone alive- we're golden. Which means, Babycakes, no funny stuff. Which means I have to be willing and compliant and allow others to do for me. Meh. Which means I have to practice patience (I'm not particularly gifted). I must also practice the art of surrender (I'm modestly better at surrender; pregnancy and giving birth seeds that particular gift).
Most of all I must learn to simply and consciously wait.
All this because celiac disease weakens bone integrity (not exactly a minor side effect, I'm finding out at the tender age of 53). How did this happen? A certain individual thought placing two small audio system speakers on the floor would improve the dialogue clarity on an older Richard Gere DVD. Yup. Not an obviously terrible idea, exactly.
Until said individual decided to hop up and make a mug of tea in the middle of the movie and snagged the sneaky speaker wire with her cotton socked foot which sent her careening sideways into the kitchen with alarming speed, smacking the saltillo tile floor with her left hip joint. An impressive dead fall any stunt woman would appreciate. There was, indeed, a distinct sensation upon impact- somewhere between snap, crackle and pop.
And my surprised husband?
As screenwriter Paul Weitz wrote about marriage, you just pick the right one to be in the foxhole with. And if you're lucky, Dear Reader, he will make you a meatloaf pie with roasted garlic and dill smashed potatoes on your first day home from the hospital. And he will buy you butter-soft yoga pants and a tube of your favorite vanilla hand lotion and an adjustable height commode to keep your hip from hurting when you lower and perch on one leg to pee.
He will tell you how beautiful you are when your unwashed hair is stuck like a squirrel to your head. He will pat your bare ass as you lean on crutches at the bathroom sink wearing nothing but a stinky Buddha t-shirt, brushing your teeth in codeine induced slow motion. And you will smile.
Because love isn't grandiose. It isn't purple tinged prose. Or self-inflated misty-eyed sentiment. Love is someone who gets you, first of all. Someone who sees you for who you are with all your oddities and little fears and still thinks you're sexy even when you're broken and injecting your cesarean-scarred abdomen with Lovenox and wondering out loud, Can we bake some molasses cookies today?
That person- the one opening the pantry to look for molasses?
He is love.