I know these guys who do car maintenance, brakes, transmissions that sort of thing, but NOT oil changes. That’s what they told me anyway. Very clearly, no oil changes, they’re just not set up to do that, you know? No problem, they fixed my brakes, it was great. Did I mention they were really nice guys? Turns out they are super duper extra nice with a cherry on top, and will do oil changes for you if you’re young and hot and wearing heels and shorts. Apparently sensible Tom’s, being over 30 and of somewhat average attractiveness disqualifies you for this option. Fortunately Jiffy Lube will change your oil no matter how sensible your footwear is, and doesn’t even care a little bit if you wear slightly baggy capris and don’t have your navel pierced. Which is a huge relief for all women of simply acceptable and substandard attractiveness. Jiffy Lube will even offer you coffee if you aren’t wearing makeup or have your hair pulled up because it’s hot, dammit.
If you don’t look like this, Honey Cakes don’t waste my time
It’s not that I mind. Really. I understand. If if were up to me I would only teach young, shirtless men who were muscular, super attractive, with lots of money, because, let’s be honest, who has time for any man over 30? Honestly I can’t imagine how they have the nerve to go out, much less show up for a yoga class. But I teach for a studio that allows any man, and I mean ANY man to practice. We will let men who are over 40, 50, hell even over 60 into our classes and practice yoga. There are men who do not have clearly defined six packs allowed to go shirtless, men who have more than 20% body fat, men without defined biceps and lats, men with skinny legs, men who are overweight…. actually overweight in my yoga classes. Balding men. Out with their bare heads in public. Nobody wants to look at that. Unless you’re Sean Connery you have no business being bald. And I’m expected to be just as friendly and nice to them.
So I get it guys. It’s your little side business and you have standards. You should have standards. You don’t want just any woman to think she is worthy of being treated equally. That stuff sounds great in theory, but in practice if you’re not selective you could end up spending your valuable time and expertise with someone who thinks it’s okay to go out without makeup, without shaving/waxing/bleaching/plucking/lasering/dying every hair on her body. There are women out there that actually expect you to talk to them when they’re not wearing a super uncomfortable pushup bra and lacy thong. Don’t fall for it. A woman who won’t contort, torture and mold herself into narrow societal norms for female attractiveness is not a woman you should be associating with. Period.
Me, I have to treat men equally, I’m like Jiffy Lube. If it were up to me I would only teach shirtless firefighters. One day. When I have my own studio.
No, I did not just have hip replacement surgery – that happened in 2009.
My 2009 hip replacement gave me heavy metal poisoning in my blood, bones, muscles and connective tissue. Especially in my Left hip. My Left hip really was the BIG winner poisoning wise.
I should make a movie called My Left Hip, or in Canada – My Tragically Left Hip.
Like super wtf levels of cobalt and chromium, in my blood – good thing they don’t do any harm or cause cancer, or tissue death… or anything.
So, I had super fun hip REVISION surgery (what you get after your hip replacement surgery goes real bad) in Jan 2017 (yes, almost 2 years ago, time flies when you’re in pain)
The top of my Left femur is gone, my pelvis had to be grafted with cadaver bone. The muscles, tendons, and ligaments of my Left hip are mostly dead (or all dead, depending who you talk to).
Because of #2, #4, #6 & #7, there are not enough muscles etc to keep my leg bone in my hip socket. This kinda sucks (except use the word REALLY instead of kinda for better accuracy).
Hip dislocations hurt more than a lot, like a bazillion time more than a lot. Like worse than labour and delivery. Not kidding, even slightly.
My left hip has dislocated 5 times. Aside, they are now hiring 12year olds to be paramedics. Not that I care just as long as they have the pain medicine and can get me to a hospital, just an observation. Also, some ER docs are great and some are… not as great. Just saying, but at least they’ve all been over 12.
Yes, I have a lawyer. We just filed suit. No, there won’t be much of a settlement, possibly none.
Yes, I’ve seen lots of specialists and had 2nd, 3rd, and 4th opinions. The most specialest of the specialists says ‘sucks to be you’ and you have to have this super sucky revision of the revision surgery (like Bride of Revision surgery… almost, okay. not.) that will cost billions and make getting off a toilet challenging, and the floor is right out.
I don’t like orthopedic surgeons anymore.
Yes, I tried MAYO, they said no – twice.
I still have heavy metal blood poisoning. No, there is nothing to do about it except wait till it goes away all on its own.
Dr. Specialest of the Specialists says you’re not getting any better and just have the super sucky surgery or don’t even try to talk to me again. Really.
I’m really not a fan of this guy (wait, all of the ortho guys are about the same, so ditto lack of affection in their collective and general directions).
I don’t want the surgery – I like being able to use a toilet, car and getting up and down on the floor.
I just got Stem Cells in My Left Hip (Tragically Left Hip in Canada).
My Right Hip has the same problem that caused me to need my Left hip replaced in 2009.
They want to do hip replacement surgery on my Right hip.
Wanna guess how I feel about that?
I just got Step Cells in my Right hip, because F that surgery.
Nobody wants to watch my Stem Cell video or pictures because 8″ long needles.
I think it’s really cool, but okay, fine I won’t post it here.
I have three sets of crutches.
No, I’m not using them for attention.
I limp. Sometimes on both legs because it’s difficult to tell which leg will hurt/wobble etc. I pretend like it’s interpretive dance.
I got ‘sorta-dumped’ because of limp – to be fair it was 15mins into a first date and he said he couldn’t hang with a gimp, and got up and left me holding my coffee, so that was fun.
Yes, I can teach yoga on a crutch. I can even teach yoga in Cook County Jail on crutches and in a leg corset on Halloween because I’m a stubborn sort of person.
I got told to NOT bring my crutchy self into two separate yoga studios, because yoga students can’t handle a teacher on a crutch (just like 15min first date dude) and should not be subjected to that sort of trauma. Thank goodness for yoga in jail.
I have two walkers.
Ditto about attention.
Guess what I can do – Life Coaching, Personal Training, Yoga teaching, Sound Therapying, Light Therapying, Aromatherapying …. write ridiculously long blog posts, sarcasm and art.
Guess what I can’t do – practice yoga (well just vinyasa … and fusion… and Bikram… and hatha…), also can’t sit cross-legged – sukhasana free zone here.
I have one leg corset that Dr Super Sucky Specialest Specialist says I have to wear for 6 weeks, even when I’m sleeping.
It had snowed and I couldn’t get my foot into my boot because of the fucking leg corset.
That’s how yesterday started. It finished with a $2,025 puncture in each hip and chakra workshop. Just a regular Friday.
You would think if I was going to pay someone over $4,000, pull my pants down, and let them take pictures and a video I would have walked away with something rather exciting and completely unsuitable for this family-friendly blog. I’m not completely ruling out such experiences, but that’s another post.
So. Yesterday was approximately 4years in the making. It started with our hero as a fearless badass yoga teacher, it involved:
Twelve Burly ER dudes
Eleven ER visits
Ten Shots of Fentanyl
Nine Thousand Needles
Eight Hundred X-Rays
Seven Special Lawyers
Six Ortho Surgeons
FIVE Ambulance Rides (with Hip dislocations)
Four Pitiless PTs
Three Sets of Crutches
And One Fucking Leg Corset
I know, now you’ve got a Christmas song stuck in your head. Sorry. Who am I kidding? Totally not, sorry, cuz it’s kinda catchy. You’re welcome.
The story is not over, but our hero through it all remained a Badass yoga teacher and also managed to complete a 500Hour Yoga Teacher Training, a Personal Training Certification, a Life Coaching Certification, a Trauma-Informed Yoga Training, Mother Fucking Firewalked with Tony Robbins, started teaching in Cook County Jail (occasionally on crutches with aforementioned fucking leg corset), got sacked 1.5 times, hired 10+ times, broke up 5x, got back together 4x, and continues to have fabulous adventures and hang with a bodacious bunch of Badasses.
Bones, for the win
I got this
F@cking Leg Corset
There’s more, so much more, so you’ll have to stay tuned if you want to hear about the Mustang Convertible in Arizona, Osteostrong, Several Sets of Wings, Art, Truffle fries and Hamilton.
There comes a day when you open to Hope, examine its feathers, begin to hear its song.
Whistling very quietly you make plans for him, and even for yourself. Not big plans, small plans like a Service Dog for him, and a divorce for you. The dog will ground him, and he will keep getting better. He will work, he will find stability and he will have times where he is happy. For you, it’s just a small hope, a little house, a little life of your own, a means to live this life you imagine.
The call comes, just as it always does. The call after the successful holiday visits, after your biggest worry was how to pay for a dog for him. Aside: you mistype dog as god and consider leaving the typo. Spoiler: you never get to figure the pay for it part out. The call after everyone has…
Stage 1: The Prelude AKA Before Operation – Characterized by:
Insane optimism – I WILL return to full-time work in 1 month, tops! EVERYONE will be in AWE of my stunning recovery – there will be tears of joy, applause, balloons, puppies, because who doesn’t love puppies in a triumphant return day dream? All recoreded in slow motion video. Also, my hair will magically stop impersonating the Lion King and my skin will clear up.
Impressive consumption of bone strengthening supplement power, protein power (that only tastes mostly of chalk thats been scraped off a sidewalk), stupidly expensive (but totally worth it!) miracle powders in green containers from Whole Foods, and actual green things all combined in blender. My muscles and bones will the best muscle and bones the surgical team has EVER seen. They will so impressed they will take pictures and post them to their surgeon friends. I will be famous in the medical community for having the absolute BEST bones anyone has ever seen. There will be autograph requests and TLC will do a special on my amazingly strong bones. I will be remarkably humble and slightly embarrassed about the attention and fame.
Enthusiastic daily strengthening exercises! Squats, planks, leg lifts 24/7.
Rekindling of old flame, not because of lame reasons like I’m worried about pretty major surgery, because I totally GOT this surgery thing, but because this time it’s gonna be so different from all those other rekindles that crashed and burned, well actually flopped, fizzled and limped off whimpering. But THIS time he’ll really SEE how wonderful I am. He will sleep in a chair at my bedside, make me protein shakes and miraculously lose all those somewhat irritating character flaws just for me. We will bond. He too will be awed about my amazing recovery and some point we will ride horses. Into the sunset. On a Motherfucking beach. That’s EXACTLY how this is going to go.
Stage 2: The Deed AKA Operation Day – How Things Actually Happened. According to Me. On Morphine.
Right. So surgery is just a tiny wee itsy bitsy bit more involved than we had planned. Something about complications… bones dissolving, lots of bleeding, extra hard hammering of metal parts that break my femur, but just in about 6 or 7 places, so no biggie. Not a problem, see impressive preparation above. I will still be triumphant. PT, OT, medical and nursing staff will be stunned by my Can-Do attitude and miraculous healing powers. Some will suspect mutant genes or that I am secretly an X-Man. Professor Charles Francis Xavier – the Patrick Steward version – will come visit and ask me to join him. I will tearfully accept. Music will play, hospital staff will applaud (in slow motion, because see above).
I am now short a couple of pints of blood and didn’t quite have the super impressive bones I had imagined. Sadly there will be no
autograph tours with orthopedic surgeons. But I am stuffed with awesome NEW bone grafts from cadaver bones, which is totally awesome because Walking Dead jokes for The. Rest. Of. My. Life. I’m certain my donor will turn out to be a famous salsa dancer so along with my upcoming remarkable recovery I will also develop a sense of rhythm and the ability to move my hips independently of my spine. My students will be in awe of my new salsa based sculpt classes and they will have to move my classes to larger venues to accommodate the huge influx of students.
I am part Borg now. Which is totally badass. Screws, clamps, ties, implants, kinda creepy claw thingy – Got ’em! Resistance is futile.
I wrote this before my wonderful*, amazing*, spectacular* surgery. Today I’m writing about the wonderful*, amazing*, spectacular* post surgical recovery, but I thought I’d start with some history first.
Let me ‘splain, no it is too much, let me sum up* (*Princess Bride quote for those less nerdy/hip than the author – hip…? see what I did there? brilliant, right?)
I got my left hip replaced 7 years ago because I have hip dysplasia – yes, just like in dogs, but with less fur (thank god for leg waxing).
Shortly after someone wrote ‘I am Titanium’ about me* (*theory, but probably true).
PT was challenging* (*”Helga” my personal torturer aka my PT, was a daily star in my twitter/facebook feed).
Then life was awesome* (*my left leg had an awesome time, the rest of me intermittently so) I took up martial arts and got seriously into yoga.
I got extra attention in airport security – “Are you really that hip, because you just set off my security wand”* (*actual conversation. with myself. in my imagination)
Uber cool hip starts hurting. I ignore it, hum lyrics to my song (I am Titanium). Hip hurts more, Seanna (my new Helga, I mean PT) gives me furrowed brow stare with one raised eyebrow. I go to hip doctor, who really is nowhere as hip as I am, but I don’t point that out because I am a yoga teacher and above such petty observations, mostly. Doc smiles and furrows brow (a tricky look, but he pulls it off) and orders blood work. Still humming song, I get bloodwork. Doc calls, leaves message with ‘very serious doctor voice tone’ that I have high metal levels in my blood. I wonder about the Metalica music, he says no, has nothing to do with that.
Well then. Dammit.
X-Rays, Scans, long conversations and several unhelpful Google searches later I learn that my hip replacement is not so hip after all, you could call it Tragically Hip (but you’d have to be Canadian to get that, or Google it, go ahead, I’ll wait). Metal debris around the hip has done the not so hip things like seriously damaging the muscle, connective tissue and bones all around it – like wow Scoob* (*Scooby Doo reference, don’t roll your eyes, I’m just trying to be helpful). So my pelvic bone is doing a disappearing act, but since it’s such a small and unimportant bone this is not worrisome* (*eye roll to indicate sarcasm). Also my blood is full of great things like Cobalt, which is a nice colour of blue if you like to paint, but not so great to have running through your entire bloodstream and all around all your cells and organs, like your brain, and all that. Also chromium, which I thought was a good thing, but there are different types of it, and wanna guess what type runs through my veins? (that was rhetorical, but go ahead and answer it if you want, I’ll nod wisely when you do) .
So there’s all that. But hey, not a big deal you can fix it with…. wait for it … surgery!
Surgery that will replace the replacement with a different replacement that is much cooler, and less Titanium than the original replacement (aka ALL of my current replacement) It’ll be just like my new car brakes, ceramic and plastic. Well except the plastic, because plastic on car brakes would just be stupid. Okay, forget that analogy… moving on. Look forward to the next hit song I am Ceramic with Plastic bits too. Surgery that may or may not involve bone grafts. Bone grafts from the Cadaver* Bank (*means dead, but really, really, super duper clean dead) – cue me making Walking Dead jokes for the Rest Of My Life. Surgery that may involve rebuilding my pelvis – so I will be even more hip, hard to imagine, but try (I’ll be waiting over here looking terribly cool while you imagine). Also, it may involve ‘cracking open my femur and opening it like a coffin*’ (*my surgeon’s word choice, I suggested a different metaphor/analogy/fucking word choice … like present! walnut! a goddamn door, but not a coffin, honestly dude, what are you thinking?). But basically these are the are options, that they can only decide on after I am unconscious, so I just consent to them ALL beforehand. Also the surgeon is getting a new orthopedic ‘toy’ from a ‘friend’ that he’s really excited about using. Cue awkward silence while doc looks excited and I have what I imagine is a neutral expression* (*neutral meaning eye roll continuing into blank stare that I imagine conveying understanding and empathy about ‘new toy’ that will ‘whack off’ part of my hip).
My next blog will be about better word choices for surgeons to use with conscious patients. Instead of ‘coffin’ try ‘fucking any other word in the English language’. Instead of ‘whack off’ use…. wait, whack off is kinda funny, but judge your audience and be prepared for a ‘that’s what she said’ response.
In preparation for surgery I have been consuming Russian Weight Lifter amounts of protein and amino acids, an entire tub of collagen (which has just made my furry eyebrows furrier – so awesome), bone building supplements, supplements to help the bone, muscle, and connective tissue building supplements build more muscle, bone and connective tissue, and an all natural chelation* agent (*pulls the metal out of my blood and puts it into my poop – insert your own toilet joke here). Basically this equates to a couple of chalky tasting grey coloured shakes and five fistfuls of supplements every day with occasional really awful Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. Also they have me washing myself down daily with surgical soap, because apparently I am a very dirty girl and need to clean myself up before they slice into my skin, muscle, bone… (TMI? sorry, ignore that bit).
Also, I have had my hair roots touched up, my eyebrows tweezed, my eyelashes done and have a pedicure booked, because I’m not looking at grey roots, unruly eyebrows, wimpy lashes and chipped toenails for 6 weeks, let me tell you. Priorities people. They’re important. Considering having a hair blown out so I will not have to deal with the inevitable dreadlocks on day 3 post op, but then I thought if I don’t survive the surgery, my hair will be all wrong and no one will recognize me, so maybe not.
Surgery was Tuesday, January 17th. It sucked. It was ‘the worst case scenario’, that my doctor told me about with his ‘serious, but hey it’s still okay’ face. Aftermath to follow in next blog.
Below, just in case you didn’t catch the reference in the title
Thanks Twitter for the #FakeLoveFacts Hashtag trend. I’d say I feel much better, but that’s not true. But it did distract me for a little bit, so that’s good.
I do talk about other things on Twitter, (cough! #Resist #TheWalkingDead) really, you can click, you know, like, if you really, really wanted to. I’m going to go finish of that quart of chocolate ice cream while you do.