Or is it the bionic woman and the ten million dollar man? Either way, the guy has a new hip, titanium this time. It's known as a total hip arthroplasty, which consists of replacing both the acetabulum and the femoral head. It is titanium and was cemeted in, which is apparently more common in Europe than in Canada -- this method was chosen so that there would be a stronger adherence to the bone, which is somewhat deteriorated by lesions due to the movement of the cancer cells out of the prostate area.
As I described in the summer, Tom is more than hilarious when he's in recovery -- apparently morphine, or whichever derivative they use when patients come out of surgery, agrees with him. No cares in the world... he was floating, or zooming, along the ceiling apparently, and it was more than fun. And there was much laughter, AND he proposed to one of the nurses. Blonde, he tells me, "Just a cougar from Transcona" -- but I wasn't there to witness it. Sister wives, anyone?
He was up and walking, with a walker, the day after. They've removed all the wires and tubes, and he's been diligent about getting around. Got himself down to the Tim Horton's in the hospital the second day for a coffee, mostly to alleviate the boredom, the waiting. Lots of hurry up and wait, he said.
The first day he was in the waiting mode last week was Wednesday. I took him to check in at Concordia Hospital, which has a strong Mennonite connection as it was started by Mennonite immigrants from Russia in 1928. My mom (Susanna) worked there (in a different location) in the summer of 1950, when she was 15 -- she dusted, wiped down beds, set tables, and helped out in the kitchen. Aunt Herta was working there as a nurse, and cousin Judy (Voth) Hack was born there but they would not let mom visit her new niece... Tom was taken to St. Boniface hospital that afternoon for an embolization, which is a procedure that shuts down blood flow to a particular part of the body, in this case a peri-acetabular metastasis. The procedure went smoothly; Tom reported some pain when the catheter was removed from the vein, but the collagen plug was inserted successfully. This is important because the surgery the next day included removal of the tumour as well as the hip replacement, and can minimize bleeding to the area. And yes, the surgeon removed the tumour in the area, which was smaller than they thought. So everything continues to move forward.
He'll be home either today or tomorrow, and we are looking forward to having him back.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Full confession... this was written for the writer's circle part of my ELA class this autumn. Just handed in that assignment last weekend, so now I want to share...
My great-aunt Helena never thought she would live into old age when they hauled her away to coal mines in Siberia. Her hands dug coal from below the earth’s surface when she was 15.
My great grandfather Peter built a house with his hands when he was in his 70s, having been allowed to enter Canada as a DP in 1951. He built a house when he was 75. From scratch. That's quite the retirement plan!
My great grandmother Margarete was a bone setter. Her hands could change something in a body and make it whole. She cured a boy with two club feet when she was a young woman. In the early 1900s, it would have been a death sentence not to walk.
My grandfather Johannes made objects with his hands. We still have a rolling pin he made. A tin cup. Tools. This is a gift and his skill ensured their survival. In 2012, not many people know how to make what they need to survive.
My father Peter’s hands were huge. They certainly struck fear into me when he used them to spank. They could fix vehicles (his profession), build anything (two houses, several decks, sheds, garages, you name it). If he had been given a chance at education instead of being pulled out of school he could have healed people. He had a gift with those hands.
My mother Susanna’s hands are gnarled with arthritis. She has big hands too. They made, they make. They write. They still do what she needs them to do, but sometimes they drop things. Who would have thought my mother would become crippled with arthritis? She was eternally youthful, energetic, focused on helping others. She makes beauty in our family with her creations and manages history with her words. She is a memory keeper.
My husband Tom is a potter. A ceramic artist. His hands make beautiful functional clay objects. He wants to be doing this into his old age, but right now he is dealing with stage 4 cancer that has metastasized to his bones. He has the muscle memory of making ceramics and when he works at his wheel, his hands know what to do.
My hands, Brigitte’s hands, are practical and real. As a mother, as a woman, as a student, my hands are important. I use them to hold, draw closer, make food, clean our home, make and mend clothes, explain activities and actions, and to guide my young. My hands can love; my hands can harm. My hands can hold a steering wheel, a needle, a pen, a wooden spoon, touch a computer keyboard and piano keys. My hands are powerful.
My daughter Nicole’s hands don’t always do what she wants them to do. She struggles with printing. She struggled with tying shoe laces. Those hands finally figured it out. (Her brain figured it out.) They can print; they can draw. Shoe laces are no longer a major challenge. Those hands are small and sweet, just like grandmother Sadie’s, who used her hands to heal and to apply red lipstick. She was a nurse, a career woman when most women worked in the home.
My sons, Kai and Gabriel, have hands that are capable of doing almost anything. Piano, violin, pens and pencils, computers, bikes, drawing, writing, making, fixing, creating. Gifts from the past into the future. How blessed they are. Use your hands for the good, I say.
Who bestows these blessings? Who bestows the challenges? Do we have to own it, say it, thank for it, curse for it? Who knows what we will get? Our hands. What they can do. What they will do.