Replace, Wince, Repeat
How I cast off my bum right hip, then did it again
Not so fast.
It turns out that successful hip replacement requires something called "bone ingrowth," where bone and implant fuse as one. In my case, this never happened, so the implant slipped and slid, causing me wincing grief with every stride. Ultimate? Out of the question. Hip replacement replacement? Required.
It took two full years to conclude that bone ingrowth had truly failed and to sort out a strategy for the revision, one involving a larger implant for a tighter fit, an implant additionally coated with something called hydroxyapatite ("which bones love!" the doc avowed).
Now, eight months post-op, I'm walking and running—and playing Ultimate—without pain. The ingrowth took. J.V. happy. Case closed. Except that in airports, my titanium hip triggers security alarms, and I get pulled aside for additional screening. A small enough price to pay for a working hip. I really don't mind setting off metal detectors. It's the ones I don't set off that worry me.
The universe, it is said, doesn't owe us anything but an education, and it gives us lessons every day. Between surgeries, the universe taught me a profound lesson in acceptance, for I had to accept pain, real pain, with every step I took. I didn't like it, but I don't hate having gone through it. The experience left me mentally much tougher. As tough as my right hip, which now, I am quite confident, could kick your hip's ass.
TV writer John Vorhaus is in Bucharest, developing sitcoms for Romania (and bringing Ultimate Frisbee to the Wild East). His blog is at www.somnifer.typepad.com.
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