ESSAY BY HEIDI JOHNSON-WRIGHT
After
a few X-rays, Dr. T announced the verdict: the left hip prosthesis was pushing
outwards from my femur to the point where it would inevitably fracture the bone.
Maybe not today or tomorrow or next week, but it would most certainly happen.
And if it did, it would make a hip revision much harder to do. In short, if I
didn’t have the surgery soon, I would be in a much bigger world of hurt than I
had ever bargained for.
Six
weeks later I found myself sitting on the edge of an operating table, dopey and
propped against the shoulder of an O.R. nurse, while someone from the
anesthesia team attempted to insert a needle through the calcified ligaments of
my lower lumbar region.
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