Bail

"Tori, Tori Tori Tori Tori!"

At 5am, my wake up call was delivered personally by a beautiful woman with a thick, African accent and skin as black as night. She was loud and boisterous and filled my hospital room with personality. She was the first person to call me by my first name on our first meeting and spoke to me like we had been friends for generations. I slowly rustled from my narcotic stupor to embrace today's multicultural experience.

"My name is Shauna and I am please to meet you. Your name, Tori, means 'because' in the language of my country. I am from Ethiopia."

How cool was that?! Suddenly, I wanted her to sit down, have some coffee so we could chat about where she was from, what brought her to Los Angeles and regale me with stories of Africa. I was more alert to my surroundings. She took my blood pressure, checked my vital functions and jump started my day with a happy disposition. Despite my cultural awakening, I was now aware of my recent hip replacement. My right hip felt like it had been the stopping apparatus to a 60-car freight train. It was swollen, stiff and sore. The good news is that it wasn't THAT bad, really. This was the worst it would ever be, and I was tolerating it on oral pain meds. My good mood was undeterred.

Wednesday was discharge day. As long as I passed all my tests with PT and OT and survived another internist evaluation, I was to be released on bail. Hubby had the monumental job of driving us home. It would be seven hours in a car with a wife 3 days out from a hip replacement and a low tolerance for pain. He was about to make good on that "for better or worse" promise he made around 14 years ago. Jacked up on lattes and McMuffins, he looked ready for battle when he came in to my room Wednesday morning. All the preparations for kicking a patient to the curb were underway. Pharmacy delivered my 3 weeks worth of Lovenox, an anti-coagulant that would hopefully keep my blood from developing a clot that could wreak havoc on just about any part of my body. Surgery is the easy part. It's surviving the potentially life-threatening complications of clotting, infection and patient stupidity that make it hard. The pharmacist also included a bottle of Norco, a narcotic pain medication that I will be relying on heavily to keep me from destroying everything in my path. I am quite irritable when I'm uncomfortable, making me very unpleasant to be around. I think Dr. Stefan, my internist, who ordered it, had the best interests of everyone involved in mind when he planned to send me out the door with this stuff. Today, Nurse Mirtha was back. She was very specific about pain control and quite irritated when she found out I didn't receive the Dilaudid that was ordered when I was having trouble the night before. She made sure I was well medicated on her arrival and throughout my last morning at St Vincent's hospital. The pain and swelling had taken hold with the anesthesia now completely worn off. It wasn't unbearable, but it was definitely more consistent with my expectations of having a hip replacement. However, walking was still far better than it was prior to my hip replacement which is a true testament to the fact that I was in a lot more pain than I thought.

Kahra, the super occupational terrorist, dropped in to teach me how to get in and out of bathtubs and vehicles and taught me again how to get my socks on. She was a real gem. I wanted to bring her home with me. Not because I needed an occupational therapist, but because I wanted to invite her over for dinner and lots of red wine so we could regale each other with the exploits of our youth. We had a lot in common. We are boisterous, sarcastic and innocuously rebellious. If we lived in the same locale, I think we would be dangerously good friends.

A different guy from the medical equipment company showed up with my new crutches. He looked at the ones that had been delivered previously, and then looked at me and broke out into a fit of laughter.

"I think these will work much better," he chuckled.

I was so excited. The crutches were another step toward freedom. Forearm crutches have a cuff that surrounds the forearm rather than going all the way up to the armpits. Their use increases upperbody strength because there is no position of rest. For this reason, one must be very careful not to do too much too soon because it's easy to forget that the muscles of the upper body are not used to bearing the load of the lower body. The learning curve is steep in the beginning and it's easy to wear out using these crutches. They were perfect for me as they would limit me from doing too much. Either that, or I was going to have super strong arms and shoulders. It was a win-win situation.

I immediately cruised the nurse's station on delivery. By now, people knew me and figured I was on my own. Family's from other patients talked to me about my surgery and marveled at my current level of mobility. I took another pass down the hall with the view of downtown LA and warm, sunny hallway that reminded me of a world without constant care. While on my morning cruise, we ran into Dr. Schmalzried. He had not gotten any shorter. I told him I was rolling and that this would hopefully be the last he heard of me until my six week checkup. I asked him for an address to send him a Christmas card. He told me to talk to Carol and to make sure I included sports photos for the website. Another mission for the damaged diva was declared. I liked him. For six weeks, I tried to pick him apart, assess his strengths and weaknesses and how those would affect my surgical outcome. Dr. Schmalzried is a very rare form of surgeon. He appears to really care about his patients. He is held in high regard by his staff and colleagues who appear comfortable and confident in his presence. He has remarkably, proficient social skills, including going the extra mile of introducing himself in his own waiting room, the likes of which I have never seen in a professional of his stature. He is an efficient, skilled, orthopedist who lacks arrogance and ostentation. He is pragmatic, realistic and straightforward, and he was one of the few people I considered worthy to perform major surgery on the mother of my children. I was hopelessly grateful for his work and the incredible good fortune I had to find him.

I was ready to leave, but paperwork was holding up my escape. Drugs and crutches delivered, PT and OT checkboxes complete, nursing notes all shored up, it was now up to case management to get my out. Mirtha brought me more Vicodin. At 3pm, I made bail. I tried to sneak out on my crutches but the nurse's aid busted me. It's hospital policy that all patients be assisted to their private vehicles in a wheelchair. I tried to politely refuse but they were having none of it. I said a heartfelt goodbye to Kahra, Raddick and Mirtha who took incredible care of me with their sharp wit and vast experience. The aid then rolled me into an elevator and out the front door where I breathed in some fresh LA smog. It did not matter. It was non-hospital and it was the first step to living on the outside with a bionic hip.

As I got into the car and situated myself in the best possible position of comfort for a 7 hour car ride, I noticed a familiar snack food. What was left of the Salt and Ground Black Pepper Kettle Brand potato chips was on the floor of the front seat and I just so happened to be hungry.

"Let's find a sushi place on the way home honey."