Take it Easy

I mentioned that I've joined a couple of online 'support' groups for people with hip dysplasia, many of whom have had a periacetabular osteotomy, and some of whom have had a PAO with my surgeon, Dr. Terminator. I believe I mentioned that I've put my full faith into this guy because in all of my vetting, no one has had anything bad to say about him. His patients not only LOVE him, but also think he is BRILLIANT, and many would trust him with their lives! So obviously that makes me feel good, and as an educator who is subject to wrath of students on sites such as RateMyProfessors, it's pretty amazing he doesn't even have a few disgruntled ex-patients going out of their way to badmouth him.

That said, I don't get it. I mean, Dr. Terminator is... fine. And like I said, I don't think bedside manner is the most important thing when it comes to surgery, and especially not a big one like a PAO. I'm far more concerned with whether the surgeon knows what the hell he's doing than if he has a compatible personality and takes the time to make awesome small talk with me. Been there, done that. I'm over it. I mean, it never hurts for a surgeon to be caring and compassionate, but those aren't my top priorities. So don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. But I'm just not seeing that side of Dr. Terminator that pretty much makes my local PAO Facebook Group a Dr. Terminator fan club. I dunno, maybe I'm just picky, or bitchy, or overly high maintenance, and maybe he just doesn't like me, but there's seriously nothing lovable about the man that I've noticed. In fact, aside from the two pre-op appointments I've had with him, during which he was fine, but certainly not AMAZING, I've hardly seen the man.

Before surgery #1, he came in briefly, as surgeons usually do, and gave us about 30 seconds of his time, during which he said something to the effect of You'll be fine. LOL. After the surgery, he came in and asked me how I was feeling, and I said sleepy, and he said, Good, go back to sleep. Granted, he apparently spent more time debriefing with my husband, explaining how everything had gone, what he had done, and so forth, but still. It's not exactly a lovefest here! For surgery #2, he didn't bother to come in beforehand. When he came by afterward, it was, like, 8:00 PM, and he looked tired. Obviously the man works crazy hard, so I resisted the urge to make some snide comment like, Whoa, so you are real after all! And, of course, I was crazy drugged up so it's not like we were going to have some deep conversation or anything. In fact, I have no idea what we talked about. I do think maybe he told me he was happy with the outcome, the coverage he was able to give me, and the placement of the screws. Something like that. Or maybe that was the next day; it's hard to say.

Fortunately, Dr. Terminator seems to have assembled a very competent and effective team of people around him. So the whole package is good. It's not that I don't feel well cared for, I'm just not feeling the love that everyone else seems to feel, and I'm starting to wonder if it's me. Ha. I don't feel like I'm a particularly problematic patient, but maybe I am. If I had to describe Dr. Terminator's style, I'd say it's tough love, minus the love. LOL. His PA, Christian, seems to have taken over a lot of the hand-holding duties with me that Dr. Terminator apparently takes on with other patients. But Christian, too, is an interesting fellow. Mostly in a good way, but sometimes he gives off this vibe that makes me feel like he's silently judging me, thinking, Wow woman, you are a fruitcake, and I can't wait to get away from you! I mean, I know I'm a crazy fruitcake, but I don't think I actually act like one most of the time. It's as if I'm some lunatic trapped in the vessel of a totally normal person, so when I feel like people can see through to the crazy me, it creeps me out a little.

One of the hardest days after the surgery, either the second or third day, Christian was in my hospital room, and I just LOST IT. I don't even remember why, but it was surely some combination of self-pity, self-loathing, loneliness, frustration, drugs, and all-time high pain levels converging to some undignified moment where a grown woman finds herself sobbing inexplicably and inconsolably. The type of moment where you just need a hug, some human contact, someone to tell you it's going to be okay, even if it isn't. Christian did nothing; he stood there quietly, saying nothing, looking at me. And I could not. stop. crying. And since he was just standing there, staring at me, I finally said in between heaves, I'm sorry, because I didn't know what else to say and I guess I somehow wanted to give him permission to leave if he wasn't going to do anything but stare at me like I just sprouted a second head. And I was sorry, sorry for myself that I was having this total meltdown in front of some guy I barely know, sorry that I was clearly making him uncomfortable and wishing he could leave, sorry that I was letting someone else see me in one of my worst moments, which I usually hold inside my head where only I can experience them, and occasionally try to write about them. Finally, he very bluntly and unapologetically told me, Don't be sorry, while I continued to cry and hyperventilate like a three-year-old having a tantrum. Then he said, You just had your hip bone cut into pieces, and a bunch of muscles detatched and reattached. It's a lot to go through. You need to be easier on yourself.

You need to be easier on yourself. 

What exactly does that even mean? Nonetheless, in that moment, I found some solace in it, the closest thing to a lifeline that I could grab onto; Christian's best offering. He's giving me permission to cry like a blathering idiot and not feel bad about it. Or he's giving me permission to feel sorry for myself, to fully accept I'm on this lonely journey that no one understands nor really cares to understand. Or he's giving me permission to hate myself, for being emotionally weak, for living in this ridiculously horrible deteriorating body. Or he's giving me permission to cry because this hurts so. damn. bad. He's giving me permission to show my worst, most pathetic side. Whatever the case, he and the nurse briefly colluded, and I ended up getting some combination of drugs that knocked my pain level down significantly, but more importantly, knocked me out cold. When I woke up, it was the middle of the night, and the lights were out, and I was calm, and Christian was long gone. He gave me permission to cry myself to sleep, and himself permission to leave after a long day of work, and go home. It's only fair. If I have permission to cry and yell and rant and lose it, then certainly the people who care for me have permission to not be able to help every person they see who is crying and yelling and ranting and losing it. We all get to go easier on ourselves.

I'm trying, I'm really trying. To be easier on not just myself, but also others.