beep.monologue

desc

[jepjepimbep]

“If you can see a thing whole,” he said, “it seems that it’s always beautiful. Planets, lives. . . . But close up, a world’s all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life’s a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern. You need distance, interval. The way to see how beautiful the earth is, is to see it as the moon. The way to see how beautiful life is, is from the vantage point of death.”

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

[jepjepimbep]

Elation flooded him. It made him want to laugh, but he denied himself this luxury, knowing it would bar the doors of memory. Ahh, my memories, he thought. I have seen your illusion. You no longer invent the next moment for me. You merely show me how to create new moments. I'll not lock myself on the old tracks.

Frank Herbert, Children of Dune

[jepjepimbep]

I have a favorite cup that I use all the time. One day, I will drop it and it will break. This is the inevitable end for a cup, but I will still be devastated that it broke. I will curse myself for not being more careful as I pick up the pieces. But if I accept now that the cup is already broken, then every moment with it is precious.

anotherjunkie

[jepjepimbep]

Slash

Despite choosing a name for my parakeet that would be based around a potential trio together with Flea and Ozzie a la Chrono Trigger, I never really ever called my bird by her name. I’d usually just call her a list of strange pet names (heh) based on the current chirp or warble that she’d be making, complete with baby talk and high pitched voices.

I purchased Slash from a local bird farm in 2009 as an additional mate for my now late parakeet, Snippy, whose mate (named Snuggles) had suffered from a teflon related accident in my then household. I had estimated Slash’s birthday to be around July, which would make her just three months short of nine years old today. She was squalid and had a terrible odor about her from the dozens of other birds around her, which fortunately managed to go away after a bath or two.

She was a very timid bird, initially being a bit bullied by a more alpha (and older) Snippy, eventually becoming a sort of reactive bird who only did what Snippy did. If it was eating time, then they ate together. If Snippy suddenly took to the air, Slash so followed suit, albeit with abrupt hesitation. If it was time to sleep, the two of them awkwardly scrambled to the top corners of the cage under the cover of blanket, because it was the odd habit that Snippy always had.

When Snippy passed away in 2012, Slash faced a challenge: She had an independence about her to act in whatever manner that she pleased. Needless to say, she was paralyzed with uncertainty—quite literally, at that, for a number of days. In spite of being a reactive and slightly neurotic bird, she had a means of going into a zen—a trait that manifested in the form of sitting atop the cage near the window motionless for hours at a time, as observantly introspective as a parakeet could possibly get.

Despite being a sort of beta-parakeet, Slash did have her own unique traits. She never liked to step up while Snippy was alive, but she liked to playfully nibble at my finger. When I had first gotten her, Slash used to bite very hard, forcing me to adopt a stoicism in the face of painful munching related pain, but after I earned her trust, she never bit me again for at least another eight years. She also enjoyed preening my eyebrows and nibbling at my nose, sometimes taking several minutes to ensure that every little hair was munched as I uncomfortably hanged my head above her cage.

On the flipside, Slash was also very afraid of large, but otherwise harmless (and ostensibly looming) objects. Hell, even an unusual piece of fruit atop her cage was met with a squawk and a round of flight about the apartment until she became accustomed to the foreign object (and subsequently devoured it). The worst offender is a large red broom in my closet, which has a story of its own.

I once left Slash in her cage, closed, while I wanted to do some sweeping, but didn’t take the effort to cover it. Upon sight of the broom, she freezes like a deer in the headlights, and the uncertainty of her past temporarily reveals itself. After a moment of deliberating fight or flight, she exclaims loudly and starts aggressively fluttering around her cage, somehow finding a way to wedge herself in the corner of the cage and trapping her wings between the bars in the process. As I put the broom down and reach my hand over to her, she bites my finger—hard enough to draw blood—as I try to free her from her unusual predicament. That would be the only time in her adult life that she bit me in fear. I limited my future sweeping.

Approximately two weeks ago, I noticed that a fatty tumor began to grow on her abdomen, and my heart sank. This was what had caused Snippy’s death years ago. Although very common in parakeets, this would be a death knell for times ahead. I tried to have Slash exercise a bit more, as she was being more sedentary than usual, but she would become visibly winded and start panting even after one or two trips around the apartment. I tried to balance out her diet with more greens, and for a brief moment she had seemed slightly better.

Upon returning from work this afternoon, Slash had appeared to given up on keeping her feathers preened, and she looked ragged and sickly. I added some more water to her tray and she hurriedly gulped it down.

Returning to unique characteristics, Slash showed signs of affection via preening and beaking, but was always apprehensive about being handled (even though she was never aggressive about it). I was eventually able to teach her to step up to my finger about a year or two after Snippy’s passing. Ever since, Slash had always seemed eager about trying to show affection; she had a habit of inclining her body at the edge of the cage closest to my computer chair and would try to fly over to me, but would turn and fly away at the last moment in hesitation.

After several years of this act, Slash took one last flight tonight and landed on my lap, catching me entirely offguard. I stopped everything that I was doing and drew all my attention to her. She was letting me scratch her, cuddle with her—everything that I had always wanted to do to show my love for her, but could never do out of an uncertain fear that she possessed. I had placed her upon my shoulder and she regurgitated onto the top of my shirt—a birdism that parakeets will essentially do to show their love for another human (or to feed another bird).

It’s as if she knew that her time was short.

I spent the next several hours holding Slash in my arms, giving her small sips of water from a bottle cap. We watched some movies, including a 500th replay of The Fifth Element, and listened to some videos and recordings of bird calls and forest life—an effort to keep some social noise in the room for her, and to keep her relaxed. I brought her to my bedroom around midnight and kept her close to me as I futilely tried to sleep.

It wasn’t until about two hours later that her breathing started becoming more and more labored, and much less frequent per second. I calmed her and soothed her for the last few minutes of her life until she passed at 2:28AM.

In the final moments of her life, I think Slash has taught me the value of expressing love to those around me. For over 30 years I was always afraid to say “I love you” to a person—even to my own parents, who have always loved me without condition and expressed that to me in every way possible. I’m certain that it’s a result of a self-loathing that I could never fully overcome (just block out for lengths at a time), or perhaps rationalized in some bullshit twisted devaluation of the word “love”—as if I’m some hackneyed young adult in a B-rated romantic comedy with commitment issues—but I’m through with wasting my time worrying about that. I don’t want to have to live my entire life and wait until I’m at death’s door before I figure that it’s about time to remind those important to me that I love them. Thank you for showing me the significance of that.

Rest in peace, weeshie sound making birdie. I love you.

[jepjepimbep]

I spent the last nearly 32 years hating myself, and the only way that I can make it up to myself is to channel that energy toward making other people feel better about themselves...whether it's through my humor, my perspective on life, or by recognizing them for their own talents. Why am I so unable to attempt that for myself?

Maybe I am. I'm trying to splurge and do things for me. I know buying a new fucking house plant or two isn't gonna remedy the mental abuse that I gave myself for so long, but I do feel something slightly different.

Last night, I had a dream. I was walking down a piece of street near the corner of some possible beach block, with a big non-comical grin on my face. But then,  an enamored couple walk across my path, forcing me to abruptly stop. I still had the grin on my face, but I could feel it reflexively falter. I don't know if it's the reflection of a lack of perspective of others that bothered me—as if they are incapable of empathizing with others—or if it's the scopes of their individual perspectives that were locked into each other. I haven't found somebody with whom I've matched that perspective yet, and there's still a subtle, yet remarkable push on that fact, as if time is slowly running out.

The short taste of happiness is real, but it's waning. With a little effort, I think light will wax through once more and make me whole again.

[jepjepimbep]

I am like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness - until one day the ability to feel is forced into them. And I say "Look! I have no hands!" But the people all around me say: "What are hands?

Frank Herbert, Dune

[jepjepimbep]

Cyborg ramble

And so, my second hip replacement surgery was a grand, albeit memorable success.

Maybe it's because I told my anesthesiologist that I had zero memory of making it to the operating room for the first surgery, but I could remember a lot more than last time. I unfortunately had to be self aware enough for the anesthesiologist to poke my spine with the spinal anesthesia drug. The first poke wasn't bad, but the second gave me a shock that jumped all the way down my left side, later instilling a sickly nauseous feeling. At that point she gave me some propofol and I slowly forgot what was going on.

I lost multiple hours of consciousness until I woke up in recovery, where I immediately needed some pain medicine. I received 2mg of dilaudid (a lot), which eventually helped quite a bit. No nausea or uneasiness, likely thanks to the little scopalamine patch stuck behind my left ear.

There is something about propofol. It obviously does its sedating job, but I get an interesting inner calm extending to the next few days. I'll close my eyes and the world dissolves around me, if even for an instant. I generally still feel pretty aware when falling asleep normally, but in this case I'll close my eyes and suddenly a nurse and my mother appear in the room, without hearing them come in.

I had trouble peeing moments after the spinal anesthesia wore off, which is evidently a common problem. Since I built up a lot of fluids from the IV fluids, I asked to receive a catheter (JOY). Doing it once doesn't hurt much but I still wasn't peeing, and I had to redo it 3 or 4 times. Suffice it to say, that shit later stung like hell when I actually could pee without a problem.

The pain in my hip felt a little worse for this surgery than for the previous, but I think I just got too used to how quickly I recovered from the first surgery (only a matter of days). I also realized how conditioned that I was to working around the right leg, and now I have to do all my options backward (mostly getting out of bed). On the other hand, it was significantly easier to walk with my walker about a half hour ago versus a few hours ago when I met with my physical therapist.

But in the end, the surgery still went well, I think. It won't be long until I'm a good damned robot setting off TSA alarms with a hot titanium injection.

Maybe I'll just start with proper lifting.

[jepjepimbep]

BORING

It’s a little after 5AM and I can’t sleep at all. I guess now is just a good a time to mentally catch up as any.

My right hip replacement surgery was a little over a month ago today, and it’s thankfully been a fairly smooth recovery. I don’t remember much about the details in the hospital anymore, but that’s okay because I’m doing it all over again in four days with my left hip! I’ll try to remember to take better details.

The whole big psuedo worry up to the date of surgery never really took place. Even when I was in the hospital bed donning my gown and funny little red hair net thing, I was entirely calm. In general I think I put up a fairly good front when it comes to being calm, in spite of occasional restless nights where my brain leaves on a bright light of anxiety on the other side of my head. But I can usually throw some Benadryl across the room to shut it off.

I guess I opted not to do that tonight only because 2AM had already rolled by. I tossed and turned for an hour and a half, sighed, and just turned on Netflix for awhile. Being out of work for roughly five weeks have wreaked havoc on my sleeping schedule; I’m still mostly sleeping enough at night, but I can’t stand waking up at noon. My day just seems wasted, which is a pretty stupid thought considering that I’d otherwise spend my 8AM to 12PM browsing Reddit and playing video games.

I’m not quite pain free yet since I’m still coping with movement with my soon-to-be-operated hip, but the gabapentin and oxycodone did wonders for keeping that at bay. About two weeks post op I had a bit of a withdrawal issue weaning my gabapentin dose from 300mg twice a day to just once a day, and I thought I was going through opiate withdrawal or some shit (unbearable anxiety, loss of appetite, nausea, restlessness, insomnia, among other things) because the oxycodone would stay a lot of those effects for some time, but fortunately discovered that it was the gabapentin after taking a regular dose (at my PA’s suggestion) and feeling completely fine the next day. Apart from that, I only had one bad pain day the night after I got home from the hospital (only spent two days there, by the way) with some awful breakthrough pain, but that was from not taking any pain medicine before going to bed. Whoops.

Other than electronic stimulation, I took an interest to coloring, which evidently has value in anxiety and stress reduction in adults. Maybe I was just bored out of my mind, but I never realize how fucking fun that it is. It’s a cheap outlet for the artistic creativity that I pretend to have, which is usually just sated by endless hours making empty cities in Minecraft.

I miss my apartment. Living at home and having my mother cook for me and offer to do my laundry is nice and all, but god damn it if I miss my privacy. I’ve been a solitary individual for as long as I can remember, and I can’t imagine dealing with the drama or nonsense of a roommate. I don’t dislike my parents by any means, but I’d love to be able to blast some dubstep or electro house while wrecking some scrubs in TF2 without causing a disturbance. Just kidding; I don’t play that awful game anymore.

Although having my little bird to keep me company is nice, too. 

That’s all I got. And thusly, in conclusion, this was a pointless and boring post that unsuccessfully lulled me to sleep. 

[jepjepimbep]

There is no shame in failure through action—only inaction.

[jepjepimbep]

Here we go again

If it wasn’t already clear, I never did have my hips replaced a year ago. I ended up canceling because it felt like a huge mistake, and I opted for a less major approach (i.e. decompression), which unfortunately did not help. I have concluded that I need to have them replaced after all, but I’m a) choosing a different hospital and different surgeon, and b) not having both done at exactly the same time. I’m having the right hip done first, followed by the left about 4 weeks later.

This morning I had my Joint Replacement Education class (which, being now a remedial learning for me, I naturally aced). As expected, I was still the youngest person in the room, but I somehow didn't feel bothered by it anymore. I learned a lot more about the surgical process and discovered some things that differed from my then prospective stay with, uh, Hospital B.

Hospital A (the new one where I’ll be staying in a month or so) keeps their patients for at least two days following the surgery to monitor for blood clots and keep an eye out for other potential complications. I am given spinal anesthesia and am sedated (which I think was the same for Hospital B), but Hospital A doesn't seem as eager to boot patients out the door. They both stress the need for walking as soon as the spinal wears off (and both have me up and walking soon after), but only one of them insisted on teaching the proper exercises and having basic physical therapy on site (and in a group setting with other patients, to boot) in addition to the outpatient PT that will come later.

They passed around a prosthetic hip joint around the class for everyone to see (there was a knee joint as well, but who cares about that). It looks like titanium and concrete, and it's pretty damned heavy. With two of these babies in me, I'll probably gain five pounds post-op alone. Maybe it's an inadvertent coping mechanism, but this thing looks totally badass to me, and it really made me feel a lot more comfortable about having this thing done.

Otherwise, I had lunch at a nearby restaurant with my mother and went back to the hospital to do my preadmission testing a few hours later (I was fortunate to schedule both in one day). Again, pretty standard stuff. I encountered the same very amiable receptionist from last April and the same incredibly jaded checker-inner person (who, once again, turned incredibly friendly and nice when I thanked her for her trouble).

More interesting was the experience that I had with the second RN. As I was explaining my convoluted medical debacle, she took a sudden interest in my gastro issues. She asked me what the difference was between Crohn's and ulcerative colitis (or perhaps because she referred to it as Crohn's initially, but corrected herself). I explained some basic differences and soon learned that her daughter, 23, was awaiting biopsy results from a recent colonoscopy. No less than a minute later, her cellphone rings during our conversation, and it's her daughter. She asks me if she could answer the phone, and without hesitation I said "Please, by all means."

Her daughter's biopsy results came back, and she had signs of microscopic colitis. I've done a little bit of reading on it; while it can give some symptoms similar to UC, it's not nearly as debilitating. After we both acknowledged how odd a coincidence that the entire thing was, we got back to the medicine. She was very visibly distracted for the remainder of the time, and part of me worried that I was some kind of ultimate harbinger of her daughter's future.

When she later asked me if I had any questions, I said to her "I really hope that your daughter turns out okay. For what it's worth, she's probably not going to take anything more than Lialda for it. But if she does have to take any steroids, please keep an eye out for any unusual symptoms. I had a habit of writing some odd things off for me just because 'I blamed the prednisone', but don't neglect anything." Maybe it was a bit out of character for me (and I'm sure an RN mother isn't going to second guess anything for her child), but part of me felt like I was trying to give somebody else the opportunity to evade a medical complication that wasn't offered to me.

Whether it does any good or not, I guess I need to leave my mark on the world somehow. These human connections are sometimes found in the least expected places.

[jepjepimbep]

 My hip pain is getting worse, and it fucking sucks. My recent orthopedist appointment revealed that my avascular necrosis is getting worse (closer to the tipping point of degeneration and arthritis). He insisted that it wasn’t a massive change since the last set of x-rays (about two months prior), but it certainly feels like an exponential one.

The worst part about this fiasco is how comfortable I’ve gotten with lying to people. I don’t like lying to people—even lies of omission bug me.

Yesterday at work I nearly dropped a 36 pound box of butter because I put too much extra weight on my hip, and it felt like my muscle just gave way. My co-worker asked me if I was okay (aware of my hip problems), but I wrote it off as an awkward grip attributed to the cloth gloves that I was wearing that provided no traction.

Today, I went to upgrade an old co-worker’s computer for some extra cash. She and her husband were so happy to see me (after maybe a year to a year-and-a-half’s time since our last encounter). Much of the time spent on the computer was just me waiting for the installations to complete, so we did a fair bit of talking and catching up. They insisted on multiple occasions that I “looked so good”, and they were so happy that I had my gastrointestinal issues under control. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that my hips were basically failing and that I’d likely be replacing them within the next six months.

Ignorance is bliss, and I’ve foolishly taken it upon myself to serve that ambrosia to everyone else at my own expense.

[jepjepimbep]

Altruism, for the greater good: yourself

It's that one brief understanding of life that we seek.

We are all products of evolution on this small planet of ours. From the vast differences between all our structures lies one singular understanding that each of us feels...one simple common ground that we all share. It's why we are (mostly) social creatures. We seek similar grounds with other beings to determine if a person shares a similar stance for which to carry out his or her idea.

So are we just seeking the ideas, or are we trying to find that one common understanding? Is prolonging your species an act of selflessness, or selfishness? If it's selflessness, who are you trying to benefit? Everybody but yourself. But what makes your idea or perspective any more right or wrong than somebody else’s? To assume that your stance is the correct one is inherently selfish, is it not?

Why is selflessness a desirable quality? Isn't it just reckless by not showing a care for your own kind? Or are the others’ defenses being praised here? Does selflessness just feed the endless desire of others’ selfishness?

It's amazing how even the slightest differences will alter reality. Evolution is just the butterfly effect to the extreme, taking in factors like climate, sunlight, height above sea level (or below sea level)—any minute and insignificant factor, multiplied by the flow of time, yields infinite possibility.

Then, is life about the prolonging of a species as a whole? That one, singular "species"—that singular understanding—from which all life originates?

Destroying life, or creating chaos, is a selfish act. But what makes it selfish? Is it just the desire to willfully deny the rights of others around you? It's the exact opposite of selflessness. How can someone consider that beneficial for one’s own being?

I guess people really do need others to live. That basis founded social structures and hierarchies and areas of common interest. But not everyone feels that way about things. Just because one idea is the most prevalent or most popular does not make that the one most beneficial for everybody. Because what the hell do we know about anything? We're just floating specks of dust in the sunbeam trying to move mountains. Just because we stick our hands into heaps of manure doesn't mean we're going to pull out fame and fortune.

Is it about the intention? Or the action?

[jepjepimbep]

Opportunity

I preface this with saying that I'm probably liberal, but it's fascinating to see "that-which-would-be-considered liberal” biases on sites like Facebook when it rehosts a news article entitled Sarah Palin backs Trump on Muslim stance, blasts media: “Profile away” says 2008 Republican vice presidential nominee. It's probably just something that she said completely in passing in a closed setting interview, but the headline and picture of Sarah Palin on a podium with her finger pointed outward just implies that she called a press conference and is taking a grand stand against those uncouth brown people or something.

I mean, maybe not. Like any other run-of-the-mill headline skimming voter, I made a personal conclusion without reading the article. And that’s kind of my point.

The whole scenario is grasped and remolded in every way possible. The left benefits by hearing yet another ridiculous remark that SARAH PALIN made (oh BOY, cue eye rolls) and giving them another reason to feel superior and holier-than-thou in their pseudo-intellectual complacency. The right takes the stance of being utterly victimized as she remarks on how that danged gotcha left-wing media tried to screw her over again! After all, Sarah Palin is an icon for a homely and classic 1950s, small business owning, supply-side friendly Christian neighbor across my street that "really knows what AMERICA needs” today!

As ridiculous as it all is, you have to admire the determination. It's the epitome of taking a situation and adapting/reshaping it to one’s own benefit. We're just pawns to ideas developed by two dichotomous and powerful entities...and even those ideas and paths of thought are just meaningless tripe.

[jepjepimbep]

Happiness

I’ve been asked several times if I feel happy, and I usually struggle with the answer. It’s easy enough to lie and say “Yes”, but I cringe internally knowing that I can’t possibly give that simple of an answer.

I don’t think I’ve truly felt happy in a very long time. In some twisted fashion, I think I’ve deluded myself into believing that happiness is just a form of ignorance. It’s only a matter of time before I discover something that I don’t like about a belief, a hobby, a video game, or another human being. Once that discovery is made, the joy and happiness wane, and it just becomes another burden that I need to maintain. There’s obviously a major disparity between those subjects, but I think I share that sentiment amid all of them.

Maybe that’s why I’m still distancing myself from people. It’s to prevent myself from getting to know them too well. I can become fairly decent friends with people online, with the safe switch of blocking them or otherwise turning them off and out of my life if such a need ever arose. 

But what made me start feeling this way? I’m addicted to knowledge, and I love learning new (and often useless) information, perhaps to give myself a false sense of understanding and life purpose. But why do I do that? Does it make me happy? I do get a thrill out of understanding why a person acts one way in a certain situation, or what causes one thing to react the way that it does (bonus points if I can predict how a person is going to react and do something about it beforehand). I guess that’s my convoluted way of saying that I can read people fairly well, for the purpose of pushing them away as needed.

But why? I’m just another pattern seeking mammal like everybody else, but why the fascination with it? Is it because if I can see the familiarity—the pattern—in something, and predict how it will be, that it will come as less of a shock to me when a big grand change occurs? I don’t think I’m much of a risk taker, and I tend to retain my same routines. Is this a weird way of saying that I need to breach my comfort zone more?

Hell, I’ve tried that. If the act doesn’t suck my energy levels dry, it just becomes another sweet treat of knowledge for me to gobble down to fill the purposeless hole that I seem to feel for myself.

When we don't feel happy or sad, we feel nothing. We act because we need to deviate from meaninglessness—away from that emptiness devoid of purpose.

[jepjepimbep]

I sometimes wonder if I am too nice to people. I go through so many strange and often unnoticed steps to comfort others. I don't think it's usually at the expense of my own well being in the end, so maybe I am embellishing upon the relevance of what I try to do. Or is it just because I'm longing so much for someone to notice those things?

Because isn't that what life is all about? Becoming recognized for a deed, or simply just being relevant?

[jepjepimbep]

In due time

I didn’t sleep for the solid 8 hours that I try to achieve for a good night’s sleep before my surgery, but I rationalized it by the fact that I’d be sleeping for most of the day thereafter anyway. I suppose that I should have felt more nervous for the surgery, but I simply didn’t. While driving to the hospital, I distinctly remember feeling more nervous about having an urge to go to the bathroom and not being able to do anything about it. Be that as it may, I haven’t felt that lack of bowel movement control since I underwent a flare, and I’m currently in GI remission at the moment. That lingering nervousness still stays, though, and it sucks. I’d prefer to feel nervous for the damned surgery if it meant not feeling an uncertain urge to literally shit my pants.

I arrived at the hospital at 5:30AM for decompression surgery scheduled for 7AM. I had never been to this particular hospital; I was fascinated by how open and bright that it was, even before the sun. I suppose it’s a common fear that people feel in the hospital, where everything is closed in and barricaded. Props on design.

The receptionist was surprisingly personable, taking the time to walk over and quietly speak to the patients waiting instead of shouting names across the waiting area. I entered a small room where a curt and seemingly uncaffeinated lady asked me a series of medical history questions. She also provided me with an ID band that literally every other person would check and ask for my name, birthdate, and reason for visiting the hospital today. A necessary caution.

I’ve discovered that ending a conversation with “Thank you for your help” seems to do wonders for these kinds of people, to which she smiled and replied with an awkward “You too. Have a good day”. No shame, no shame.

I took an elevator to a day surgery patient ward where the rooms were small and shared a connected bathroom. I met with a nurse who asked me my name, checked my ID band, and asked me why I was there today. She provided me with a hospital gown, yellow non-slip tube socks, and a goofy looking red hair cap while hanging a similar green cap on the side of my bed. It wouldn’t be until I met with the anesthesiologist, the physician assistant, IV nurse, and my surgeon that I would switch from the red cap to the green cap, ready for action.

When I was wheeled down to the operating room, my anesthesiologist injected something into my IV to “help me relax”, which she told me she’d do beforehand. It was either Xanax or Fentanyl, which might be some kind of pre-anesthesia narcotic. Whatever it was, it left me feeling completely at ease by the time I reached the OR. I distinctly remember feeling a sense of camaraderie and acceptance from everyone in the room, who seemed to be genuinely joyous and happy to be there. It felt like I was at a giant Walmart pep rally or some shit, except the people actually cared. It was actually surreal—or so my muted senses left me to believe. I laughed and joked right along with the people in the room like a drunken idiot thinking he was the life of the party. And I loved it...I think. I don’t really remember.

I do recall having an oxygen mask placed over my face, at which point I received a sedation drug in my IV, likely Propofol. I was familiar with the drug, having received it during my colonoscopy. I remember saying something like “And in a few seconds I probably won’t remember a thing!” And I sure as hell was right.

I woke up and came to my senses about two hours later as the effects of the general anesthesia began to wane. I immediately felt a stinging pain close to my knees, which had me worried that I had developed some kind of referred pain. I made note of this right away to my nurse, who gave me a dose of Dilaudid that took care of it. A few moments later I had realized that my legs were tainted yellow and my leg hairs were crusted and sticking together as a result of the Betadine/iodine antiseptic that they used. This was causing the pain that I had felt, rather than something else.

I barely felt a thing on the fresh incisions on the sides of my legs. I was expecting the incisions to be a little higher closer to my waistline, but the bandages were about 6 inches below my waist instead. The physician assistant had even drawn something with a purple felt marker on my hips (before the surgery) where I thought the incision would be done, but I guess that was for something else.

I was still pretty fucking thirsty from not having had anything to drink since before midnight, so I asked for some water. I had a small sip and immediately regretted it a few minutes later, when I started to become overwhelmed by nausea from the anesthesia. A shot of Zofran mostly cleared that up, but the nausea, coupled with the narcotic effects of the Dilaudid, made me feel like I had the nauseous spins of having had too much alcohol.

After another hour or so, I moved up to the recovery room where I met with my mother again. As I prepped myself to sit up for the first time, I found that most of the pain came from flexing my leg muscles near my incision sites. Standing and walking was still fairly normal. I didn’t particularly feel much pain near my hips where I had used to, but it was far too soon to decide whether the surgery had done me any good. I’ll likely have to wait a good six months before I can see any kind of improvement there. We’ll see soon enough.

For now, I’ve returned home with a fair helping of Vicodin to keep any additional pain at bay, and I’ll be back at work in a week. It’s funny how I only feel the need to act and get shit done when I’m mostly incapable of physically doing so, though. 

[jepjepimbep]

Change of plan

The hospital preadmission screening session had me seriously reconsidering doing the surgery. I felt completely lost amid a situation in which nobody could relate. How many near-30 year olds have you met who need to decide the right time for a fucking hip replacement?

Some of my friends had suggested getting a second opinion, but it wasn’t until this point that I actually carried out the idea. I visited another orthopedist in the area who, in short, told me that having a bilateral total hip replacement was too aggressive a treatment for someone like me just yet. This is mostly from the facts that my hips haven’t shown full signs of collapse yet and my pain level is only mild to moderate. The fact that I can continue to work an 8 to 8.5 hour day of physical labor without returning home in excruciating agony is a plus, I guess.

This orthopedist suggested that I have a core decompression of the hip done instead. In this procedure, a wire is inserted into my hips and a series of holes are drilled into my hip down to my femur. It’s believed that increased pressure may contribute to the pain (hence the reference to the term decompression), but it also serves as a channel for additional blood flow to where the diseased bone exists on the top of my femur (from the whole avascular necrosis thing).

In general, I liked this orthopedist a hell of a lot more than the first one. I don’t blame the first orthopedist for not suggesting the decompression first; it was likely his medical opinion that the state of my AVN wouldn’t have benefited from such a surgery. But the second one suggested that there was a 50% chance of extending the life of my hip long enough to where I’d get a hip replacement at a more reasonable age (say, 40 or 45, instead of 29).

I think I jumped the gun a little too quickly on getting the full hip replacement. I didn’t have much of a guideline to go by, given the already rare state of events. The first orthopedist more or less said “When you feel like you’ve reached a point where you can’t continue on with how your hips are doing, give me a call, and we’ll do the surgery”. I don’t think I really gauged the overall level of my pain until the day of the preadmission testing, where one of the nurses asked me to rate my pain on a series of scales. When I said it was an overall 3 or 4, she sort of looked at me in shock, and said to me that I’d likely be in a lot worse pain right after the surgery just because of the nature of it. Way to keep me secure in my decision.

In the end, I felt a lot better about my decision. I’ll write about the decompression surgery soon. This post is a little late, I guess, in terms of having changed up the game plan for me.