A Very Good Day

I was asked to see a man in the hospital with a bad hip the other day. He's 96, lives in assisted living, still walks a little, has moderate dementia/Alzheimer's, and couldn't walk for the last 24 hours due to severe right hip pain. The x-rays showed severe, severe, arthritis. No joint left. The round ball of the hip reduced to a flattened mushroom. Far worse than the picture above.

When I walked into his room and said hello he could not say one sensible word. His eyes looked wild and he would yell out in misery about every 20 seconds as spasm would grip his painful hip. He couldn't offer one word of explanation and I couldn't be sure he could understand or hear one word of my questions. The man is in the Fast Pitch Softball Hall of Fame. The big ring still on his right ring finger.

I spoke to his medical doctor and told her there were two options: heavily medicate the man for pain and wait for him to die-- something that looked relatively close at hand-- or take him to surgery and replace his hip in an effort to gain pain relief-- an option that also held the very real possibility of death. She said she felt medication and hospice would be the wishes of his 92 year old brother. She'd check and let me know. His chances with surgery would be poor.

As it turned out, the 92 year old brother saw such misery in his older sibling he opted for surgery. "If he dies,"he said, "it will probably be a blessing." I had to agree based on what I was seeing. Seeing him in such pain was like witnessing the slow death of an animal struck by a car. My partner's eyes popped out when I told him I was taking the man to surgery but he was in such misery I felt it was the only humane option.

I operated him that night and replaced a very nasty old hip with a nice new shiny metal and plastic job. He did okay in surgery and we sent him to the intensive care unit after. At least he made it out of the operating room.

The next morning I go to see him not knowing if I'd find him dead or alive. There he lay: No moaning. No screaming. "How's your hip?" I yell at him. Big, big smile and a thumbs up. I saw him again yesterday, day two after surgery, and this time he says, "I should've had that done a long time ago!" "We'll have you running the bases in no time!" I tell him. "No." he says, raising his arm, "Pitching a no-hitter!" Big smile. Both of us.

That, my friend, is a very, very good day.  And, in a nutshell, that's the best part of my job.