Looking Out My Backdoor - A hip bionic woman is getting a tire change

Holy Smokies. I never know which way the ball will bounce when I get up in the morning. Hey, keeps me on my toes.

When I saw my x-ray, I knew I’d soon have to go under the knife, become more bionic than I already am. My hip joint was shot. Hip shot, get it? Whoops! Is it even legal to use “hip” and “joint” in the same sentence?

Despite instant knowledge I decided to live with the painful hip as long as I could stand it. Stupid, yes? Why would any normal person make that decision? I know. Follow that thought to its logical conclusion. But I’m a Montana Woman. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. We can handle Pain. That was two months ago.

A couple weeks ago, said Pain changed my mind. I began research into surgery, surgeons, hospitals. Choices became overwhelming. My best bets in terms of cost seemed to be Tijuana or Mexico City. Travel complicated that bottom line. I would go back to Bangalore where I met Ruth, my titanium knee, in a heartbeat. If it were not for the 25-hour commute.

I want to stay in Mazatlan. So I consulted my local search engines, Rudolfo and Carlos. Between them they know nearly everyone in a city of over 800,000. All they had to do was ask who, where and what were the results. Throw the information into a hopper, turn the handle and out pops a certain doctor and a certain hospital.

So mid-morning Rudolfo knocks on my door. Get ready. At 6 o’clock this evening we go meet the doctor. I checked with the clinic and got his hours. Today? Yes, today, why not? Gulp.

After an exam, questions, answers, a ton of information, I made my decision. I liked the surgeon. It’s a go. The next day I went for blood work. Until my new doctor saw the results of tests, he would make no further commitment.

Blood letting terrifies me. Needles give me nightmares. I bravely bared my arm, turned my head, squinched my eyes, breathed like a woman in final stages of labor and gave my life-blood to the cause. The vampire man told me I picked the best surgeon in Mazatlan — words more soothing than any band-aid.

When one has tests done in Mazatlan, one returns, picks up the results and hand carts them across town to the doctor. The doctor said, you are healthy as a horse. He flipped a calendar in front of me. When do you want to do it?

I don’t know what you are like. You are probably healthier than I am. Patient. Calm. Serene. Once I made the decision to go under the knife, I pointed to yesterday. My doctor has a sense of humor. He laughed and shook his head. This was on a Friday. I pointed to Monday. He indicated Tuesday would be a better day for him. Tuesday it is.

Just enough time for the night terrors to set in. Mostly I’m excited. But I’m also scared. It’s OK to be scared. When I got my new knee, it gave me a whole new life, sort of like I renewed my lease. Now my hip’s worn out. So I expect the new hip to give me another lease on life.

Sleeplessness isn’t much fun. Silly questions without answers keep me awake. I did get to put one urban legend to rest. I had heard, you know, the “someone said” thing, that when a person is hospitalized in Mexico, a family member had to bring in meals. So I asked Rudolfo what about food? What do you mean? In the hospital, what about food. Who will bring me meals? He looked at me like I had nine heads. They feed you meals in the hospital. He gave me a really strange look again and sort of made the mental finger roll around his head that said, this woman is moon-struck.

I can’t wait to meet my new hip. I wonder what to name her. Anything I’m that intimate with must have a name. I’m thinking along the lines of “Rose,” as in “rose hip.” Or maybe “Rosie the Riveter.” Or maybe Jaime Sommers. If you remember this character from late ’70s television, you are officially, bionic-ly hip.

(Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].)