Irony Avoided

A friend just called and asked about getting together this weekend - the last weekend before my surgery. "You know, just get together... maybe have some dinner... celebrate life, before you..." My friend's voice trailed off.

Before I what?

My mind operates on several channels simultaneously. The main channel is just living life. But, like the director's cut on a DVD, there's this other channel that imagines narrating over what's happening - as if we're watching this as some sort of historical record. On this channel, I'm always thinking irony, like "Hah, what if something bad happens? How ironic will this conversation seem then?"

It's just an orthopedic procedure... should take about an hour. I'll go home the next day. But I don't care who you are - don't you think about something going wrong? How ironic if something you said or did today were cast in a totally different light because of some unforeseen tragedy. Yep, I think about that stuff. On a frigid night in February 1959, nobody knew they were watching Buddy Holly's last concert. On a November morning in 1963, people in Dallas had no idea they were witnessing the final moments of a president's life. January 28, 1986 was supposed to be just another Space Shuttle launch. It's only afterward, in light of history, we see photos or video of "just before" and we almost recoil at the irony. At least I do.

There are two things I try to take from these experiences. First, I learned a long time ago to keep a short tab with people because, among other reasons, unforeseen tragedies do happen and I never want unfinished business to haunt me (or someone else) forever. Second, I've learned to shake 'em off - those thoughts of irony or impending doom or whatever - because thinking about them has never, ever prevented anything from happening. Irony is only irony when we know the outcome - and none of us can make that claim.

I spent a long time in realization #1: Bad things do happen. Realization #2 is more recent: Wondering, worrying, going out of your way to avoid the ironic moments like dinner with my friend that could have some kind of last-hurrah element... those are just time-wasters. Don't get me wrong - I'm well aware of the risks of any surgery and I can play the what-if card as well as anybody. But every moment you spend worrying - every moment you spend trying to avoid situations, conversations, thoughts that could lead to worry - those moments are lost forever. I'd rather think about good stuff - things I'm looking forward to, things I want to do.

My most recent model for this kind of behavior is Tobias Alexander, a ten year old Cairn Terrier called Toby (third from left). Toby's scheduled for his third chemotherapy treatment Monday, two days before my hip surgery. Know how much time Toby is spending thinking about his appointment Monday morning? Or about his overall prognosis? None. He's living life, every moment, with the same zest he always has. He's not afraid to chase the tennis ball because it might someday be his last chance to do so. He has no hesitation whatsoever to put his head on my knee, to run after a squirrel, to bark at a cat - just because he doesn't want to dodge some unseen irony.

I might have dinner with my friend, I might not. But I'm not going to go out of my way to behave one way or another as I count down the days 'til my surgery as if saying something, doing something, might tempt fate or invoke irony. Toby would have no part of it - and neither should I.

Making Peace With a Worn-out Piece

Hip replacements are for older people. I know this because when you see the brochures at the orthopedic surgeon's office, they all show people much older than I. (I'm in my 40s; To quote Forrest Gump, "That's all I've got to say about that.") In the "So You Need a New Hip" brochures, the part about "resuming your normal activities after surgery" shows a nice gentleman bouncing a grandchild on his knee and a matronly woman with her sewing group. That's why, as soon as the first orthopedic specialist brought up getting a new hip, I dismissed the notion immediately.

But there's something about pain that can make you un-dismiss things pretty quickly.

In my case, it's not just the pain... it's what the pain has done. Specifically, it's made my life get smaller and I don't want a smaller life. I want a bigger life - preferably, without a sewing guild. There's nothing wrong with sewing guilds, they're just not my thing. I want to run again (maybe not gonna happen, but I have a Plan B!)... I want to fly again (will happen)... I want to captain a boat again (will happen)... I want to work circles around people half my age (still happening - will keep happening). I don't want to play doubles tennis. I like parking far away from wherever I need to be because I like covering the ground quickly. I have nothing against elevators, but for two or three floors, I like taking the stairs. I like how it feels when I get my heart rate up. Generally speaking, you need to move - fast - to make that happen.

If you're 50 or 60 0r 70 or 80 and you're reading this as you consider a joint replacement, I want you to know how much I respect you for the life you're living and the challenge you're facing. You were my age one day and (hopefully) I'll be your age someday. I don't mean to make light of grandchildren or sewing guilds. But I just didn't know people my age got new hips. Let's be honest - we all think of it as an older-person procedure. Like anything, I researched it... and, like lots of things, I found out I was wrong. People of all ages get their joints replaced. I just wish mine were something sexy like a knee or a rotator cuff. Why can't I have carpal tunnel? Tennis elbow? Turf-toe? Anything but a hip.

But it is a hip. And I'm almost OK with it. The last time I met with my surgeon he said he'd just done a hip replacement on a 29-year old that very morning. OK, see! I looked into all the options - physical therapy, joint resurfacing, more pain meds. Like doctor #3 said, holding up the titanium pieces he'll soon implant in my body: "This is your treatment." Period. Case closed.

Yesterday at work, someone asked when I was getting my new knee. This person is ten years younger than I am. I said it was my hip, not my knee, and it was happening in eight days. Then I said, "So if I get back to work and you notice I'm disappearing every afternoon around 4:00, just chalk it up to the early-bird special at Shoney's."

I figure I might as well make the jokes now, myself, as if it will somehow inoculate me to future jokes.

Truthfully, I feel very grateful for this chance. I saw a guy at a shopping center over the weekend... probably late 50s... walking slowly. I recognized the limp - he needs a new hip. Maybe he just doesn't want to do it, but maybe he can't afford it. Maybe he doesn't have insurance. Maybe he's from another country (it was an International shopping center) and doesn't have access to that kind of treatment at home. Maybe he'll limp that way for the rest of his life. Maybe each day it'll get a little worse. Maybe there's a cane in his future, then a walker. Then a wheelchair. I saw a guy on the History Channel last week - probably 70-something, lives in Holland. His family has been tending to the grave of a fallen American soldier since World War II. He had a cane and a limp... been using them both as he walks amidst the thousands of white crosses to the grave he's been tending for decades. He doesn't have the chance I have to make the pain go away... to make the limp go away. For 99.999% of history, people haven't had this chance. I have this chance. I'm not going to wimp out, just because it makes me feel older.

I'm very, very, very fortunate.