In previous blogs I've regaled you with my hip problems. In case you're new or just want to torture yourself and reread, here they are: It Can't be That Part I Or It Can't be That Part II Both of these highlight my delightful experience with bi-lateral hip surgery, the medical profession and the health insurance industry. To conclude, after a year of mishaps and misdiagnosis and a year long battle with my insurance, I had labral repairs on both hips. Labral tears are usually a professional athlete injury. Before you google me to perhaps find out about my storied past as an Olympic Curler, no need. Unless it involves a curling iron, you won't find me. I survived a head on collision. Which should get me a gold medal, but didn't. Four years later, the familiar tinge snaked through my groin and thigh. I immediately knew what it was. Been there, done that. So I did what any intelligent, health conscious person would do. I ignored it. Finally, when it got REALLY bad... I still ignored it. Then the pain interfered with my stiletto wearing and all bets were off. Having been pushed around by my general physician before, this time I went directly to the source. I skpped my primary doc and made an appointment with an orthopedic doc - a hip specialist, no less. Hip Specialist: This is my 15 year old assistant. She'll examine you and I'll be right back. 15 Year old Assistant: Does it hurt when you do this? Me: Ouch. Yes. 15 Year Old- What about this? Me: YES. 15 Year Old : And this? Me (catching on): I don't know. I'm not doing that. 15 year old, stern look on unlined, freckled, face: Um hum. Well, let me ask you- Me: I know what it is already. I've had it before. Torn labrums. Both sides. 15 Year old, eyeing my flabby thighs, gelatinous biceps: Hmmm. Did you have an accident? Me: Well, four years ago, when it happened the first time, I had a head on collision, they weren't sure- 15 year old: So...no accident. You'll need an x-ray. Me: Nothing will show up on an xray. I need an MRI. Xray Technician saunters in- Come with me. Xray guy chats amiably about nothing. Lines me up in front of the xray machine. Xray guy: Were you in an accident? Me: No. Hip Specialist looking at X-rays: Well, the xrays are clear. Me: I know. Torn labrums don't show up on xrays. I have to have an MRI. Hip Specialist: Umm humm...yeah...so have you ever heard of super cali fragilistic bursitis? Me: I've heard of bursitis. Hip Specialist: So we can give you a cortisone shot today or start you on physical therapy and if the therapy doesn't help we can still give you the shot. Me: Does the xray show that I have bursitis? Hip Specialist: No. Me: Then why would you treat me for that? Hip Specialist: Well, we tend to do the easiest stuff first and- Me: I'm not leaving without an MRI appointment. And you're not giving me a shot and I'm not doing physical therapy. I have torn labrums. Hip Specialist: Well...if you do have torn labrums you'll have to see the labrum specialist and not me. Don't threaten me with a good time. A month later, after my MRI, Hip Specialist calls on a Sunday: You have torn labrums on both sides. Me: You don't say. Another month later 18 year old labrum specialist says: Were you in an accident? Me: No. 18 year old specialist: Yep, both sides, torn. We can't repair them again. They've gotta be replaced. I'll have my assistant schedule it. Assistant: Okay, all scheduled. Here's the paperwork, all the pre-op and post-op stuff you'll need. By the way, did anybody tell you that you have an ovarian cyst? Me on hold with my family physician trying to make an appointment to get the cyst checked out. Got cut off three times. Gave up. Phone rings. 18 year old labrum specialist's assistant: Just wanted to let you know we'll need a deposit of half before your surgery. Me: Huh? Assistant: This surgery isn't covered by your insurance. So, off I go to surgery (again) tomorrow. With my 18 year old surgeon and no insurance. I'm sure it'll be fine. It went so well the first time, right?
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I'm motherless. The woman I thought would never die, did. When I was ten, there was a girl in my class who had no mother. I don't remember anything about her other than that. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything worse. I realize that a ten year old losing her mother is a tragedy. A 51 year old losing her mother is the ordinary course. Illogically, I feel orphaned. There should be something between tragedy and ordinary, and whatever it is, it's painful. For most of my adulthood I worked hard to maintain a healthy separation from my mother. I sometimes over reached in my efforts, in ways I'm sure she found hurtful. I needed a reprieve from her intrusion, her enabling, her self destructive lifestyle. At the thought of her permanent absence, I only imagined relief. Now I only miss her. One of the many things she did that drove me crazy, I now admire - she lived her life exactly the way she wanted to, with no explanations or apologies. And, here's the kicker - she never expected explanations or apologies from me either. And I can assure you I owed her some. Everyone raise their hand who shouldn't apologize to their mother. That's what I thought. My mother didn't come from a generation that sat around talking about their feelings, and she didn't. Ever. To my great annoyance. But now I realize she lived what she felt. No words necessary. I knew she loved me and she knew I loved her. That's what it comes down to in the end. But, I find myself in a mother-free limbo. Where is my place in the world without my mother? Besides, next? I'm still a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a friend, a writer. But now, I'm no one's daughter. Who do I call for a quick, invigorating tussle? Who can I count on to disagree, disapprove? Who has to love me even when I'm a jackass, a shit head? And who has to always open her door for me? When my mother died, all those certainties went with her and I'm adrift, feeling like a real grown up, responsible for myself without her as a safety net. And she could be the greatest safety net ever. I don't believe death makes us better than we were in life. So, as much as I loved my mother I'm not about to elevate her to sainthood now that she's gone. To say my mother was a saint would be an insult to her memory. She was no saint. She was a card carrying human being with all the flaws and frailties that membership requires. She was complex, hard to figure, often difficult. But she loved everyone she knew the best way she could, with no hesitation, and she gave everything. I didn't always agree with the way she went about it. I didn't think she made the best choices. We didn't often see eye to eye. I didn't understand her. But there's a hole in my life where my mother used to be. Most of my peeps are at that age. Which means their parents are at that age.
So, like some of you, I've had the opportunity to hang out at various old folks homes visiting parents or grandparents. Considering how old I am (although I hate to) I guess I should think of something else to call them since I'll be moving in before you know it. And me living in an old folks home just isn't right. I'm already rambling... Anyhoo, I've observed that getting old mostly sucks. But, there are some things that are kinda cool about it, and the closer I get to the golden years the more I want to look on the bright side. Like... You can be in a wheelchair, have a tracheotomy, be hooked up to an oxygen tank and roll yourself right out to the patio (usually called something like Serenity Garden or some other creepy crap name), and smoke. No one judges you. Okay, there's probably some judging. But, you could give a shit. You could give a shit. About anything. Don't want to brush your hair? Fuggedaboutit. Cut your toenails? Nah. You like 'em that way. Take a shower? Not this month. Cheat at bingo? Be my guest. Turn the TV volume up to 500? Have at it. It's carte blanche, baby. Teeth and underwear are optional. The first works well for my mom. She only wears half of hers. The uppers. I think they help keep the cigarette in her mouth while she's rolling around Serenity Garden in her wheelchair looking for her oxygen. The second worked well for my dad. He was married 8 times. Any no underwear situation was good news for him. Perked him right up. The last time I saw him, a few weeks before he died, he was trying to pick up on his nurse. I think she had on underwear, but who knows what goes on after 4 pm. You can try to pick up on your nurse. Or, anyone that tickles your wrinkly, demented fancy. My husband was a hot commodity visiting the home. The ladies loved him. He's handsome, well under 90, and is still ambulatory. You can imagine the crowd I had to fight off, so to speak. In the Alzheimer's unit one little old lady told me, "If I was thirty years younger, I'd give you a run for your money for that guy." Another asked, "What's his name again? I think we used to...you know..." Everyone expects you to nod off mid-everything. How awesome is this? Wife yapping? Nod off. Kids bossing you around? Nod off. TV turned up to 500 with Jeopardy on? Nod off. You can see the convenience. You forget a lot of stuff. Or, so you say. This is a particular favorite of my mom's. "I only lost $35 at the casino," she'd brag. "You mean, $3500?" "No...I don't remember that..." she'd say, nodding off. Violent outbursts combined with threats of physical violence are considered cute and it's possible they hand out shivs. I passed a tiny, way old lady hobbling along the hallway with her walker. She told her slightly younger companion, "If he comes near me again, I'll cut him." I laughed for a week about this. Thought it was adorable. White Out is a budgeting tool. I'll go to my grave insisting on the genius of this nugget. My dad balanced his checkbook with White Out. He'd sit at the kitchen table, bent over his dog eared bank statements (who knows how old) with the White Out brush poised over his check register. He'd mumble, "That's not right," and white out the ending balance. Then he'd write in the one he wanted. Wish I had thought of that. This is our baby Adelia.
She's 6 years old. She's hilarious. She's smart. She loves to say "butt cheeks" and "sucks to be you." She wants candy for Christmas and means it. She won't open any present that doesn't sound like it's candy. She shakes the box then hands it back with "Nah...that's okay." She yells at her baby brother. For nothing in particular. It usually involves "butt cheeks" or "sucks to be you." She wears her shoes on the wrong feet. I'll say, "Your shoes are on the wrong feet." She says, "It's okay. Don't worry about it." She likes to one up her dad with fart noises or bad jokes and say, "Sho you right." She has Cerebral Palsy. We don't know what that means in the long term. We only know that the long term will be shorter because of her disease. Her mom and dad have always worked hard to make sure Adelia lives her life like other kids. She does most things for herself. She's just not fast. She rides the school bus. She plays softball. She dances. She sings...badly, but loud. She fights with her older sister. She gets in trouble. I got to thinking the other day about what kind of life Adelia can have with a disease that gets progressively worse. Other than the obvious cure, what would I wish for her? I think I've proven in the short time I've been a blogger that sentiment is not my strong suit. So, I'm not one of those people who think that the disabled are inherently endowed with mystical, magical or pure qualities. I'm certain there are disabled assholes. I realize that's not a popular view. Not in a world where we are all in the stranglehold of political correctness. But, I stand by it. I say, good for them. There're plenty of non-disabled assholes, so please, feel free. And, I think only idiots say things like, "I don't want her to be defined by her disability." Have you ever seen a person who struggles with major disabilities? It defines them. They don't like it anymore than you do. So stop patronizing them. But, it all got me thinking... I want Adelia to fall in love, get her heart broken, make big mistakes, celebrate small victories, say the wrong thing at the wrong time, say the right thing at exactly the right time, hurt someone's feelings, kiss someone to make them better, cry like the world will end and laugh like it never will. I want Adelia to live a life in full, in all its glorious, messy, and complicated wonder. Years from now, I want her to visit me in the old folk's home with her shoes on the wrong feet, chocolate all over her face, making fart noises, telling bad jokes and saying, "Sho you right, Mimi." I just want her to live. My relationship with my mother is complicated. Get in line, right? My mother struggles with a non-treated mental illness and has for all of her adult life, I would guess. Maybe longer. She is a slave to her destructive, damaging impulses and addictions. They've stripped her of her health, her financial security, her relationships, her dignity. As her only child, my feelings for her jerk back and forth between love and hate, empathy and disdain. I want to slap her or hug her. I never want to see her again, I want her to move in with me. Sometimes I rail in anger at her, sometimes I beg in desperation - for sins committed, for the awareness and improvements I know will never come. I've often said to my husband, "Peace won't come for either of us until after her death." Last week, she had a heart attack. She survived. My mom has long enjoyed a mind-boggling relationship with suffering. She revels in it, she insists on it. Nothing, and no one, can keep her from it. She felt pain in her chest and arm, called 911 herself, got helicoptered out of the middle-of-nowhere, had surgery, and told no one. I heard it from her neighbor, who called the fire department when she finally noticed something was wrong over at my mom's house - it looked too still, closed up. Coincidentally, I'd just talked with her doctor the day before, a patient and caring man. The kind of doctor you want but never get. He'd been concerned, as we all were, that she could no longer live alone. It was a conversation she and I had many times, or I should say I had it. She tuned it all out. It's a conversation that went like most I've had with her since I was 13. A 40 year wrestling match. I always lost. "Please stop giving everything away." "Please don't insist on buying dinner." "Please don't insist on buying everything for everyone." "Please stop enabling your alcoholic husband." "Please respect the rules I've laid out for my children." "Please stop smoking. I'm allergic." "Please stop smoking. You've had cancer 3 times." "Please stop gambling all your money away." "Please respect my boundaries." All fell on deaf ears. "Please don't live alone in god forsaken nowhere when you're in such poor health," got the same negative reception as everything else. Or, no reception. She simply pretends I'm not talking. Her doctor suggested I write her a letter. She might take it better. So, I did. She still hasn't seen it since she is still hospitalized. But, I mailed it. I put a lot of effort into trying to lay it out to her gently. Without rancor or resentment. I used phrases like: "I care about you." "Your living situation scares me." "You have options." "We want this chapter of your life to be safe." Blah, blah, blah. Even though it was a letter all about her lifestyle and several options for better ways to live, it was really all about her death and dying. A round about way of asking, "Please, let us make your dying easier than your living." It's been painful to watch her lifelong, deliberate and relentless self destruction. She's frail yet tough. Meek yet stubborn. Until very recently, she moved at a frantic pace, a race to spend, gamble and smoke until the very last second of her life. She's done a bang up job of it too. She's got nothing left. I am angry at her. I resent what she's done to herself. I resent what her untreated illness has done to our family. I find her refusal to acknowledge it infuriating. Yet, last night I realized that when I wrote her that letter, spelled it out as carefully as I could, I left out what I really wanted to say, but couldn't. Please don't go. I'm not ready. Where were we?
Right. 12 year Doc said: It's your hips...torn labrums. I don't do that surgery. No one here does. You have to go to UCLA. Me: Surgery? What about physical th- Doc: Nope. They're torn. If you want to fix them, its surgery. It took two months to get an appointment at UCLA. Weird UCLA Doc's assistant tells me: She'll want to see your MRI. Me: Ummm...well...I don't have that in my purse or anything. Can she get it from my last doctor? Weird Assistant: We don't do that. You have to get them and bring them with you. Now, I don't know about you, but the last I heard this was the 21st century. The digital age. I can take a photo with my freaking phone and email it to my kids. Has this news not hit the medical profession? Me: Don't they just email them or something? Weird Assistant: No. You have to bring them. If it wasn't film you could FAX them. FAX? Should I just strap them to a pigeons leg and have them flown over? WTF? Two months later in UCLA Doc's office. My appointment was at 1:00. She saw me at 3:00 UCLA Doc: I looked at the MRI and you do have torn labrums on both sides. Me: I know. UCLA Doc: But, this isn't the right kind of MRI. Me: There's a wrong kind? UCLA Doc: Yep. I need the kind with contrast. This one doesn't have contrast. So, you'll need to get that done at your local doctors office and come back. Me: This is UCLA. You don't do that here? UCLA Doc: No...yeah...well...it's best if you just do it there and bring the films with you again when you come back. Me: It took me two months to get this appointment. It's a two hour drive, one way. Plus I waited two hours in the waiting room. UCLA Doc: I'll have my assistant give you priority. That was reassuring. I head for the door. UCLA Doc, pointing at my feet: You'll need to stop wearing those. Those would be my stilettos. Me: That's not gonna happen. UCLA Doc, smiling: No, I'm not kidding. You can't wear those. You have a serious hip injury. Me: I'm not kidding either. It's not gonna happen. Who's in charge now? I thought she should know who she was dealing with. Everybody knows the way you look is WAY more important than your health. Duh. I wasn't born yesterday. Another month later in UCLA Doc's office with the right kind of MRI, stilettos ON. My appointment was at 2:00. I saw the doctor at 4:00. UCLA Doc: You need surgery. Me: I know. I knew that before I got here. With the wrong kind of MRI. UCLA Doc, not really listening: I do one hip at a time, three months apart. My assistant will book it. Me to Weird Assistant: I need to book my surgery. Weird Assistant: She books 2-3 months out. Two and a half months later, surgery day arrives. It's been almost a year since my first doctors appointment. Hubby and I are driving to UCLA, my cell phone rings. Me: Hello? Voice on phone: This is blah, blah, from Blue Shield. Me: Yes? Blah, Blah from Blue Shield: I'm afraid your hip surgery isn't covered by your current insurance plan. |
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