The late Queen had one. I’m – hopefully – coming to the end of mine.
Our shared experience?
An “annus horribilus?”
I don’t want to say mine was worse than hers – I’ve no castle to burn down, or royal off-spring to scandalize the world. But it was rough. And I’m sure, in one way or another, many readers will identify with my 2024.
It started, a year ago, with a sudden twitch in my hip.
No, no, I yelled to myself – don’t say my hip is packing-in. As the bearer of two replacement knees (blame the combo of osteo and rheumatoid arthritis) I knew that day would probably come. Happily, the unease was manageable.
January this year I managed, creaky hip and all, to enjoy the wondrous mountains of Corsica, and amble with ease the narrow, historic streets of the island’s capital, Ajaccio.
As winter disappeared, so did – bit by bit – my mobility.
The alarm bell was sounded at the end of May. I got off a plane at Dulles and with difficulty, despite my by this time trusty cane, was staggering to the baggage claim when I was “pounced” on by an airport official. “You need this,” she told me, pushing a wheelchair towards me. I didn’t argue. And at that moment I knew the day of reckoning had arrived.
Luckily, sensing that I was at the beginning of the “march” down the medical path, many weeks earlier I’d made a doctor’s appointment. So, by the end of the first week in June I’d had an x-ray and been declared a suitable candidate for a replacement. And, that’s when life as I knew it not only ended but got worse.
I ed the legion of patients all suffering the same thing these days: the inexplicably, torturous wait for treatment. Essential appointments piled-up. The collateral damage of Covid was, I kept being told, to blame for the unheard of delays.
There was the MRI of my back to make sure it wasn’t causing my pain; then a long wait to see a spinal surgeon who confirmed it wasn’t; then another endless delay before seeing the orthopedic surgeon again.
At that consultation I was expecting a cortisone injection, which I had been told I would get if a spinal condition was ruled out. But no, turned out that wonderful injection which has you walking on-air, was not for me.
No explanation. I was so confused and weary, I failed to question the decision.
Of course, as soon as soon as I got home, I looked it up. Yippee! No cortisone in the blood stream within three months of surgery. I was almost there.
My darkening mood also lifted because as I was denied the injection I was told: as soon as I got dental clearance (mandated for replacement surgery because of the high risk of mouth infection spreading to ts during surgery); blood work done; a urine sample revealing that I was not fibbing about not smoking; watching two videos about pre and post-surgery care, I’d be good to go. I was “good to go” within ten days.
By now it was the beginning of August. And the long wait for surgery started. The unbearable delay was interrupted with two lengthy questionnaires, another hip x-ray and a phone interview with a “nurse navigator” Don’t ask – can’t explain what that was about.
As the weeks wearily wore on my bare-bones’ (pun intended) life went even further downhill. The blood-work revealed I had “latent non-contagious tuberculosis”. I had two options: ignore it and get “the white death” or take a daily antibiotic for four months. Of course I did the latter. So what? How can that downgrade a life? Easy. Because the antibiotic came with a dire warning: no alcohol!
To cheer me up friends pointed out a couple of things. “Gosh, just think of the amount of money you’re saving by not drinking.” No! A zero-Heineken is more than a regular happy-hour vodka-soda. “You’re going to lose so much weight,” I was constantly told.
No, again! My mobility was shot. I was physically grounded. And I couldn’t even drown my sorrows!
While I waited impatiently for a surgery date – trying to stay pissed-off rather than getting depressed – I used the time to get my cataracts sorted. Both eyes at same time. My choice was to be left with vision that would only need glasses for driving. Great, except I had to wait six weeks, for my eyes to settle down and get new lenses. Which kiboshed my plan to take a few overnight road trips, to release me from my go-nowhere world
Another downer to my year (also shared by many) was my health insurance started charging me for the biologic, without which I’d barely make it out of bed. I was faced with finding close to $400 a month. Took some time to find an alternative supplier but all OK – thanks to a “cheapo” pharmaceutical outfit in Bangladesh.
But like most “can’t stand this” situations mine had a silver-lining. I re-discovered the delight of living in the heart of Capitol Hill.
I live so close to Eastern Market, I can nip over there in my bare feet and barely notice. And, because I was going there more often than I ever did – Trader Joe’s & Yes were too far for me to hobble to – I discovered that, bar laundry detergent and toiletries, you can buy virtually everything you need. I also enjoyed the comfort of neighbors and near-by friends, who were more than ready to jump into the fray and ensure I was never without company or needs.
By the time you read this I, hopefully, will be strolling to Tunnicliffe’s and The Tune without a cane. Surgery was on Nov. 26. I’m sure, because it was two days before Thanksgiving, I got a cancellation. But, I was more than happy to grab the date. At least I would have something to be thankful for!
I also give thanks, that although my body is falling apart at the seams I’ve lived long enough to bitch about it….
