So, its confessional time.  This is something I generally don’t like to talk about and I certainly don’t like to do.  But it’s a reality.  My reality.  And as much as I try to change things, it still seems to happen.  I go down.  A lot.  And I’ve got to tell you that in the past year, it has become a real problem.  Because it happens in the most inopportune places.  Sure, in my bedroom on occasion.  But then it happened once by the pool.  And another time in the parking lot of a supermarket.  And yet another time dockside at a marina.  It almost happened once in an Ann Taylor Loft dressing room, but thank god I was able to course correct quickly because that would have been embarrassing.  So far, and quite surprisingly, to the best of my knowledge I have never been caught on film (although, there was one wedding I attended that I have a sneaking suspicion about.  Open bar and the DJ played Sinatra.  New York, New York.)  And my knees – my knees are scarred from it – both physically and emotionally.   

The last time I went down, I was in New Orleans.  The Big Easy.  And I went down hard.  So hard in fact, that I tore my labrum.  If you are smarter than I am, you know what a labrum is.  If you are not smarter than I am, you too probably think the labrum is at least a distant relative of the labia.  Incidentally, as my first orthopedic surgeon informed me during a rather perplexing conversation, the two aren’t even second cousins twice removed.  

I was at a convention in NOLA, wearing super comfy clogs that had the shortest, squarest heel ever, and they got caught in a concrete crater that was cleverly disguised by cheap red carpeting that might as well have been felt.  And down I went. On one knee.  The only people who didn’t see me were the people I was at the conference with. 

Over the years, I have become an expert in the art of falling.  There is no pre-work involved, as it is so unpredictable, you can’t really prepare for it.  I have completely given up hope of trying to be one of those people that can catch myself.  Because as if falling isn’t embarrassing enough, I don’t really feel the need to give a pre-show that consists of me flailing my arms like a human pinwheel, only to have drawn more attention to myself before my knees hit the floor.  And it is always my knees.  I never scrape an elbow or take advantage of an awesomely junky trunk.  Always the knees.  I go down straight and pop back up like a hot piece of toast from the toaster, look around, assess the spectators and assure any of them that offer the obligatory “Ohmygodareyoualright???” that I am, in fact, fine.  I smile. I laugh.  I walk away quickly. 

So, apparently after a lifetime of practicing and *almost* hurting myself, I finally got good enough to warrant a trip to a bone doctor after my fall.  It took me a month of sharp hip pain and my dad’s constant nagging to actually go.  This doc happened to replace my father’s hip last June and my father would refer him to you for a fucking hangnail, he loves him so much.  But in spite of his love, he, to this day, cannot pronounce the doctor’s last name. 

After the x-ray, the doctor told me that he “didn’t see anything that excited him,” and while I was tempted to flash my boobs at him, I deducted that if the paper shorts they made me wear weren’t exciting, nothing would be.  He recommended that I think long and hard about how bad the pain is, and if it is bad enough, I should go have a hip arthrogram done (read: long needle with dye stuck deep into the joint, guided by an x-ray and followed by an MRI).

Three months after the fall, I went for the test.  My sister *sacrificed* a day in the office to accompany me.  My name is called, we both look up and there is a delicious slice of yum in scrubs asking me to follow him.  My sister says “Holy shit.  You are so going to have to be all naked from the waist down in front of that.  Good luck!”

The good news: I was able to keep my underwear on.  The bad news: He hands me a washcloth and says “Can you stick this under the leg rim of your underwear so your, er, ummmm…you know, so, ummmm….your VAGINA DOESN’T HANG OUT.”  Yeah, no one would want that.  Can I just mention that when I told my 69 year old mother that story, she even said “Why didn’t he just say junk?”

When I went to review the results with my doctor, he very quickly said “It’s a labral tear.  You have two options – surgery or live with it.  It won’t heal itself.”  He assured me that while the surgery was arthroscopic, it was still surgery and should not be taken lightly.  He’s terribly good with the comfort.  So I booked the surgery and went to Dr. Google for some second opinions.

This is apparently a fairly new procedure (because I am fucking trendy like that, I like to get in on things early) so back in February when I began researching, there was only a limited amount of info on the site. First thing I learned: make sure the surgeon has done this surgery many, many, many times before.  So I call the Dr. and get a return call from his assistant, Lourdes.  (I know what you are thinking and she is NOT Madonna’s daughter.  I asked. Turns out her mother’s name is LaDonna, so it was a very confusing conversation for both of us.)  When I ask how many of these surgeries the doctor has done, she says “Baby, he hasn’t done this surgery before.”  And I say, “Are you fucking serious?” and she says, “Let me check, mommy.”  While she clearly has issues deciding who I am to her, I await her call back, where she tells me, “Love, I spoke with the Dr. and you would be his first.” That’s when it became painfully obvious to me that she was sweet talking me just so I would be his first.  Well played, nurse-pimp, but I’m on to you.

I found another surgeon, because if I am going to be anyone’s first time, it would have to be Dr. Ross ala George Clooney.  My new surgeon is a sports medicine surgeon because apparently, people usually get into this situation by running marathons and lifting houses.  I assure him that I would be super athletic if it weren’t for this injury and wonder if it is too late to convince him that I was doing laps around a convention hall with a 300lb backpack when things (i.e. my heel) took a turn for the worse.

I book the surgery again and decide to do some preliminary PT to improve my range of motion and strength before I go in for the big show.  My PT is a tiny little thing, six months pregnant, all belly and I hate her instantly.  She takes some measurements, asks me to lift my good leg straight up while laying down.  When I do, she asks me, “Are you a dancer?  You are incredibly flexible.”  My hate melted into nutcracker love as I showed her my beautifully arched ballerina feet and thanked her for seeing my dancing potential.  Something that tap/jazz/ballet teachers simply could not see.  Bastards.

Surgery has come and gone.  I was a rock star.  Not nervous at all.  They stuck me four times for the IV and I looked like a junkie by the time I left the outpatient center, which I think gave me a nice edge.  Have I mentioned how much I love anesthesia?  Sweet, blissful sleep.  Until I wake up.  And then I cry like a baby.  For nothing.  I sobbed the whole way home from surgery.  A nurse asked me how I felt, I cried.  My mother asked me if I was going to put a bra on, I cried.  I got home and my lawnmower was taking care of my grass.  I cried. 

And now for the icing…I went to a follow up appointment to get my sutures out and discuss the state of union with my surgeon.  Who couldn’t make it.  But his nurse came in and reviewed things.  My labral tear had become a completely detached labrum and my cartilage is “very badly damaged for someone of my young age.” He, being the nurse and all, immediately suggests a hip replacement since I am still having pain a week after surgery.  Recommends it the way a mechanic recommends new tires.   He is just lucky he referred to my age as being young.  I cried again, but this time there was no anesthesia involved in spite of the fact that I asked for it.

So, in part, my being tragically hip (bad pun totally intended) is one of the things that has kept me from here for the past few months.  I am now nearly four weeks post-op and doing physical therapy.  Oh, the cherry – it is with someone that has never worked on a patient with a hip labral tear before.  Oh, yeah – he is also “not *really* a PT” as he just informed me during my last session.  So by the grace of GTL (Gin, Tonic, Lime), I have progressed from crutches to a walker with balls on the bottom and now I rock a shiny silver and gray cane.  It’s like going from 90 to 75 in a matter of a few weeks.  Like Benjamin Fucking Buttons.

And for your future reference, it is far easier to get an endless supply of oxycodone than it is to get a temporary handicapped hanger for your rearview mirror.  So, if you are looking to score some painkiller, ask to get a better parking spot and they will give you the drugs to get you through the parking lot pain free. And now that I have shared my secret for getting more painkillers and making a trip to Wal-Mart nearly pleasant, my work here is done. You’re  welcome.