Then.

Sunday, the day before I entered the Med Center for surgery on my femur, Mohamed (my partner) asked me whether I was frightened.  I said no, which was true, but which was also incredibly naive.  I really had no idea what was to follow.  On Monday, Dr. Templeton, the orthopedic oncologist, scheduled an embolization (I had to look it up).  Evidently, there are so many blood vessels in the area of the hip and the surgery was so complicated that it was necessary to cauterize vessels to reduce the amount of possible bleeding.  Dr. Templeton, who is, I think, a wonderful surgeon, is also often blunter than I would like: "We don't have to do it," she said, "but I doubt if you'll survive the operation if we don't."  After the embolization, there was a day of recovery before the surgery.  Of course, I couldn't eat before the operation, which kept getting moved to later and later in the day as my stomach and I both growled.  It started about 4 p.m. and was done by 7.  The top half of my femur and the ball part of the ball-and-socket joint with the pelvis are now titanium and plastic.  The titanium extends through the center of the bottom part of the femur.

In addition to the success of the surgery, I was lucky in many ways.  First, I had the constant support and advocacy of Mohamed, who spent eight nights sleeping in my room, going out for food (hospital food has improved over the years, but Gordon Ramsey hasn't yet visited the hospital kitchen), changing dressings, cleaning bedpans (the nurses were very happy to let him help), and providing unending support and affection.  Despite the stereotype that Kansas often has, at no time in any of the hospital and cancer center visits in Topeka and Kansas City has Mohamed been treated with anything but respect.  When I entered the hospital and filled out forms, the receptionist asked what his relationship with me was.  I said "partner"; she wrote down "life partner."  The doctors include him in every discussion; the nurses brought him a comfortable (or at least it looked comfortable from my vantage point) chair for him to sleep in.  I was lucky too to have many friends in KC.  Sometimes I'd complained about how many of my friends had moved to KC from Topeka, but now it was a pleasure to have constant visitors.  It might not have been exactly a party atmosphere in the room, but there was nothing lachrymose or lugubrious (or any other polysyllabic L-word) about it. 

The least happy part of recovery was the abduction brace that I had to wear for the next 46 days (all of which I counted down).  There was a large, hard plastic band (perhas a foot in width) that wrapped all the way around my chest, another around my right thigh, and a metal rod joining them and preventing my right leg from turning in (to say nothing of my bending at the waist).  I had to wear this 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; I couldn't even take it off to shower.  Until it was adjusted, a process that took two or three days, the hard edges cut into my flesh or stuck to it and pulled it off.  "One size fits all," said Dr. Templeton breezily, "which means that it fits no one."  After three attempts to shave it and round the edges and pad it, the brace finally didn't actually hurt, but it certainly inhibited movement.

I had brief physical and occupational therapy sessions every day and slowly learned to sit up, then to walk a few steps, and then to climb up one step.  I got an oversized walker (the abduction brace was too wide for a regular walker) and an oversized wheelchair.  After nine days, I was ready to leave the hospital.  Because at home there is no bathroom or bedroom on the first floor, the hospital staff thought a rehab center should be the next step, but I was eager to be home, so that was where I went.  I rode to Topeka, wriggling into the back of an SUV and staring at the ceiling and the gray skies outside.  When we got home, there was, luckily, a large group of friends waiting at the house.  This was good because getting me inside wasn't easy.  The back entrance has no steps, but it had been raining steadily and the yard was too soggy to support the heavy and awkward wheelchair.  The steps from the garage were fewer, but the door was too narrow.  Finally, four friends just hoisted the chair and squeezed me up the front steps and through the front door, a few of them, I'm sure, scraping their knuckles.  They also brought a mattress and springs down from upstairs, and we (well, they) rearranged the furniture in the TV room so I had a place to crash.  So I was home at last--with a bed, a bulky wheelchair, a walker, and a commode.  I could stand with difficulty and take a few steps from one place to another.  Everyone had some wine in celebration, and the recovery began.

Now:

One of my friends, an American who lives and works in Paris, called yesterday to tease me (gently--he's a wonderful and generous person) for blogging about doing laundry.  But the quotidian is the reality.  I read a lot of course, and I watch too much bad TV.  I sleep a lot and enjoy all the friends who come to visit (and, in good Midwestern fashion, often bring delicious food) and excursions out for lunch and dinner.  Trips to KC for medical appointments are usually combined with lunches with a great friend there.  But all of that is often exhausting, so changing the bed and descending to the basement to do the laundry--these seem important as minor marks of independence.

Last night I watched the State of the Union address.  Mohamed always teases me (hey--what's with the mocking of a sick guy?) because even though I have never cried throughout the ordeal, neither the physical or emotional parts, he'll look over and see tears running down my face while I watch some sappy or sentimental news story on TV.  He bet me I couldn't go 15 minutes into the speech without shedding tears.  I assured him that he was wrong, and then before the speech even began, Gabrielle Giffords came in, and, hoping in vain he wouldn't notice, I had wet and salty cheeks.  As disappointed as those of us on the left sometimes are with President Obama, the contrast between him and the inane and hateful Republican debates was impressive.  One of the overlooked aspects of Romney's tax returns yesterday was the contrast with Gingrich.  Those of us who have spent much or all of our lives in academia have certainly encountered a number of Newts: cocksure blowhards, though Newt is more mean-spirited than most.  In the pie charts yesterday that compared income, charity, and taxes of Obama, Newt, and Romney, I noticed the teeny sliver of income that Newt gave to charity.  Tiffany's vs. tithing--I'll be that's a dilemma that never crossed Newt's mind.