Thursday, May 16, 2013

This New Journey

Taking a little bit of a serious tone here, Im pretty fucking bone tired. Literally. My bones, namely my Femur, is done. And Im tired of the pain and complications.

Last Thursday I took a trip up to Pittsburgh to see a SPECIAL Specialist. Hes no ordinary doc. What he specializes in, is a type of bone transplant and it makes me green to even hear the explanation. Gather your puke bag fellas.
Short and sweet, my femoral head (the very top knob of your thigh bone) is dead bone which is as strong as say an egg shell under the right conditions. Im not divulging my weight but the half that sits on that egg shell is on the hefty side. One bad twist, turn, fall, or hopscotch hop and CRACK, im sitting on nothing that will feel ok. Granted, I knew this would come. I knew I would develop Avascular Necrosis in my femoral head and need the bone fixed or replaced before the whole damn thing dies.
I just didnt expect it now. In the middle of this superbly prolonged and disgustingly vile divorce and custody battle.
But I digress...
The good M.D. plans to cut into my lower leg and saw off the middle 11cm of my fibula (the non-weight bearing bone in your lower leg) and cover the surgically jagged ends with muscle and skin and leg-stuff. The part he is sawing off will have an artery sticking out of it which is very much alive and well. Now cutting into my hip, the surgeon plans to drill a hole into the dead head and its neck, just precisely the size of the fibula he cut. Transplanting the fibula into its new home, he will then meticulously attach the fibula artery to the arteries in my femur that were first destroyed in the car accident. This new blood supply system should in turn cause my dead bone to come back to life slowly and rebuild itself much like a broken bone mends.
Or you know, how Frankenstein gained limbs.

Just so you know, yes. Im fucking petrified.
Of not walking.
Of having my leg sawed into.
Of 6 months of no walking without crutches.
Of Pain.
Of life-long pain.
Of a 20% failure rate.
Of never ever again being able to sit down crosslegged on the floor and play with my kids because my hip is broken, hurts like a bitch and I cant even move it that way.
And of closing my eyes and not coming back.

Ive lived in a great amount of fear the past 2 years almost. Fear of being poor, not seeing my kids, and being alone. I wont say Ive done a great job at entirely hiding it from my kids. I think its important that they see that pain does exist in life.

And yet:

They didnt see me with blood-shot eyes and spit-stained shirts checking to make sure they were breathing as infants and sitting to cry because my entire body felt slashed open by birth and nursing.
They didnt see me hugging an empty car seat on a ride home from the airport, on Iris's first flight to her father for a few months the first time we separated...wondering if I even deserve to have her back.
They didnt see me come into their rooms, late at night in that house he left us in, to stare at their sleeping faces because I couldnt sleep alone. Or at all. And needed to see them in order to know why this couldnt be my end.
They dont see me crying when Ive had to be stern; be Mom and Dad and Judge and Warden when theyre not angels and I fear I have been too hard and not understanding enough.
They dont see me wincing when I kneel for one, or carry the other, because no matter their age, weight or my injuries...they will always be my tiny babies.
They dont see me rushing to make appointments and school events that he forgets about, no matter how much work I have or how little cash is left, never telling them he wouldnt answer the pleading emails.
They couldnt see me driving home with what felt like a death-sentence from pittsburgh, surgery paperwork in hand, driving too fast but not faster than my thoughts.
They wont see how bruised my arms are from the crutches I have to use now, how much harder getting around is, and how tiring it is to cook anymore....
I wont have them see me fight to recover. They will see me come home the way I left. No matter how much pain this doctor says I will be in. No matter how long he says I will have to work to get better. They will not see me any worse than today. Only better.

Because they will NEVER see me give up the ability to be a full-range mother because of fear of any surgery, pain, or injury.

For the chance to be better and give them more...I signed the papers. I agreed to surgery. I have started a year long journey.

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