EditorER
junior member
My right hip replacement, with bone grafting, is four weeks from today. I had my left hip done 5.5 years ago. I have/had severe acetabular protrusion in both hips, resulting in a great deal of bone loss. After my left hip replacement my surgeon said the bone was translucent. With this right hip, the first surgeon I saw said he wouldn’t do the surgery—he was afraid of breaking through the socket bone when reaming out the joint. The surgeon I eventually chose is confident in doing the surgery (he is fellowship trained, older, and has done many surgeries) and plans to do a bone graft to strengthen the socket.
My anatomy has been abnormal since birth. I’ve been pigeon-toed all my life. I probably should have had a brace as an infant, but my very young parents in rural Indiana did not notice the dysplasia. A doctor saw it in my walkIng gait around age two and I wore casts on both legs for a few months, followed by lots of orthopedic shoes until my teen years.
Arthritis was diagnosed when I was 37. It changed my parenting, which I regret. I did not play with my kids as much as I wish I had and I let my husband take over the bedtime and book reading routines so I could avoid trips up the stairs. I focused on not putting mileage on the hip joints, which allowed me to get to 55 and now 61 before surgery—but I gave up a lot of play, sport, hikes, walks, and other activity along the way.
When I had the first replacement by a fellowship-trained surgeon with a stellar reputation, using the anterior approach, I expected to feel terrific afterward. Sadly, that has not been the case. The surgery was difficult—the joint was incarcerated and it took a long time to free it. I lost a lot of blood and had two units transfused. “Normalizing” my anatomy put a lot of strain on my muscles, nerves, and tendons. I did not get up on the joint until the day after surgery. I stayed two nights in the hospital. I was embarrassed to have urinary incontinence in the hospital and for weeks afterward. Physical therapy was stressful and no matter how hard I tried and how much the therapists urged me to try harder, it was about 8 weeks before I could raise the operated leg even 1/4 of an inch. While the new joint is doing fine, and I am grateful for that, it appears I suffered nerve damage. The operated leg still has tingling and burning along the outer thigh and the entire quad area feels heavy, like there is cement in my leg. There is some muscle atrophy and those quad muscles are prone to cramping. I still have to use some extra oomph to get up the stairs. Every year I see a bit of progress—but I never in my wildest imagination anticipated that my leg would still be as weak as it is today.
To further complicate my recovery, I had a lot of back pain. Adjustments were made to my walker and cane heights. I was told to use the cane much longer than is typical. I think I used it for three or four months. Nothing helped. I was referred to a neurological surgeon who did an MRI and diagnosed facet disease and arthritis in L4, L5, and S1. My husband and I both shed tears at that diagnosis. There is no such thing as spinal replacement surgery. That diagnosis led to pain management and various day surgery procedures to treat nerves along the spine. Those helped a little, but not a lot. I was able to walk only 10 minutes at a time before having to stop and reach down to my toes until the backache eased up. Finally, I took up Pilates and after some months I strengthened my core enough to take some pressure off my lumbar spine and I was able to reach my 30-minute walking goal. That felt great—except that my left leg still felt like it had cement in it. But at least I was moving. I’ve kept up the Pilates to this day and it really helps.
This past summer my right hip began “talking” to me. I knew I couldn’t put surgery off much longer. X-rays showed slowly advancing further degeneration. With all the COVID lockdowns, this fall seemed the ideal time to “go under” for a while. After interviewing several surgeons, most of whom said “whoa!” WHen they saw my x-ray, I finally scheduled surgery for November 17 with the surgeon who felt confident he could do the replacement.
Yet, I have serious apprehensions about another surgery. What if I end up with two weak legs? How will the already weak left leg support me when it has to be the “good” side? What if the minimally-invasive posterior approach I will have this time results in sciatic nerve damage? Will I ever feel great and scamper up a mountain path or walk for miles on the cobblestone streetof European cities (or even walk briskly around my own block) or will the spinal issues still keep me from being as active as I’d like to be?
Time will tell. I just wish I could look forward to this surgery instead of dreading the recovery and having fear for the possible negative outcomes. And I wish I could get that left leg stronger and that it would feel like a normal leg again.
It’s funny what we worry about it. Last time around, my biggest fear was cutting out and throwing away my body parts. This time, that doesn’t bother me at all. My biggest fear this time is nerve damage—something not even on my radar last time. Chances are, everything will turn out fine. But I think it is only natural that I have concerns and am going in with my eyes wide open. I’m struggling to find any optimism or hope that things will be so much better once I get through surgery and recovery. I kind of just expect them to be marginally better and will be grateful if nothing is worse. Not quite the euphoric expectation I’d like to have, but maybe my low expectations will lead to pleasant surprises in the end. Let’s hope!
My anatomy has been abnormal since birth. I’ve been pigeon-toed all my life. I probably should have had a brace as an infant, but my very young parents in rural Indiana did not notice the dysplasia. A doctor saw it in my walkIng gait around age two and I wore casts on both legs for a few months, followed by lots of orthopedic shoes until my teen years.
Arthritis was diagnosed when I was 37. It changed my parenting, which I regret. I did not play with my kids as much as I wish I had and I let my husband take over the bedtime and book reading routines so I could avoid trips up the stairs. I focused on not putting mileage on the hip joints, which allowed me to get to 55 and now 61 before surgery—but I gave up a lot of play, sport, hikes, walks, and other activity along the way.
When I had the first replacement by a fellowship-trained surgeon with a stellar reputation, using the anterior approach, I expected to feel terrific afterward. Sadly, that has not been the case. The surgery was difficult—the joint was incarcerated and it took a long time to free it. I lost a lot of blood and had two units transfused. “Normalizing” my anatomy put a lot of strain on my muscles, nerves, and tendons. I did not get up on the joint until the day after surgery. I stayed two nights in the hospital. I was embarrassed to have urinary incontinence in the hospital and for weeks afterward. Physical therapy was stressful and no matter how hard I tried and how much the therapists urged me to try harder, it was about 8 weeks before I could raise the operated leg even 1/4 of an inch. While the new joint is doing fine, and I am grateful for that, it appears I suffered nerve damage. The operated leg still has tingling and burning along the outer thigh and the entire quad area feels heavy, like there is cement in my leg. There is some muscle atrophy and those quad muscles are prone to cramping. I still have to use some extra oomph to get up the stairs. Every year I see a bit of progress—but I never in my wildest imagination anticipated that my leg would still be as weak as it is today.
To further complicate my recovery, I had a lot of back pain. Adjustments were made to my walker and cane heights. I was told to use the cane much longer than is typical. I think I used it for three or four months. Nothing helped. I was referred to a neurological surgeon who did an MRI and diagnosed facet disease and arthritis in L4, L5, and S1. My husband and I both shed tears at that diagnosis. There is no such thing as spinal replacement surgery. That diagnosis led to pain management and various day surgery procedures to treat nerves along the spine. Those helped a little, but not a lot. I was able to walk only 10 minutes at a time before having to stop and reach down to my toes until the backache eased up. Finally, I took up Pilates and after some months I strengthened my core enough to take some pressure off my lumbar spine and I was able to reach my 30-minute walking goal. That felt great—except that my left leg still felt like it had cement in it. But at least I was moving. I’ve kept up the Pilates to this day and it really helps.
This past summer my right hip began “talking” to me. I knew I couldn’t put surgery off much longer. X-rays showed slowly advancing further degeneration. With all the COVID lockdowns, this fall seemed the ideal time to “go under” for a while. After interviewing several surgeons, most of whom said “whoa!” WHen they saw my x-ray, I finally scheduled surgery for November 17 with the surgeon who felt confident he could do the replacement.
Yet, I have serious apprehensions about another surgery. What if I end up with two weak legs? How will the already weak left leg support me when it has to be the “good” side? What if the minimally-invasive posterior approach I will have this time results in sciatic nerve damage? Will I ever feel great and scamper up a mountain path or walk for miles on the cobblestone streetof European cities (or even walk briskly around my own block) or will the spinal issues still keep me from being as active as I’d like to be?
Time will tell. I just wish I could look forward to this surgery instead of dreading the recovery and having fear for the possible negative outcomes. And I wish I could get that left leg stronger and that it would feel like a normal leg again.
It’s funny what we worry about it. Last time around, my biggest fear was cutting out and throwing away my body parts. This time, that doesn’t bother me at all. My biggest fear this time is nerve damage—something not even on my radar last time. Chances are, everything will turn out fine. But I think it is only natural that I have concerns and am going in with my eyes wide open. I’m struggling to find any optimism or hope that things will be so much better once I get through surgery and recovery. I kind of just expect them to be marginally better and will be grateful if nothing is worse. Not quite the euphoric expectation I’d like to have, but maybe my low expectations will lead to pleasant surprises in the end. Let’s hope!