Hearing my doctors recommend two total hip replacements landed like a swift mallet to my gong. You know when you can feel sound? This was one of those tactile frequencies that had me vibrating like a cartoon character that just got whacked on the head with a skillet.
It’s ironic that I used to grab my lower back, hunch over and say, “Oh, muh hiyps” in a shaky voice to pretend to be an old lady. I didn’t really even understand what could go wrong with hips back then (or how to portray it, evidently); I just knew it was an old-person problem.
Turns out I’ve either evolved to serious method acting or I have just actually become that old person, at age 39, because muh hiyps are killing me.
I’ve learned that a complication from one of my autoimmune disease meds has sucked the life from the tops of my femur bones, and the ball of the ball-and-socket joint is acting like it’s been carrying around the weight of the world. Tired. Crumbling. Pained.
Maybe I’m projecting.
Even with a dedicated practice in optimism, I sometimes feel similarly. A degenerative cartilage disease now compounded by dying bones? Like, can I pretty please have some functional tissue or should I just plan to become liquid?
The price of inflammation reduction in my body has inflated as quickly as our housing costs, and it has had me wondering how I will afford to live in this body.
By kismet, though, as I was hearing soft violins playing to the tune of my melancholy, I picked up “Beautiful Monster: A Becoming.” This flowing, mystical memoir of a transgender Colombian-American yoga teacher seemed to quiet the noise of my woe and strum the strings of my resolve.
Author Miles Borrero opens the book with the story of his abuelita, his grandma who shares my name and who, after losing her husband, decides to never leave her bed again. For 10 years, Miles’ Abuelita Marina existed but did not live. And the effect on him was profoundly painful.
“Her anger crystallized into the shocking, stubborn decision to lie there calcifying into a fossil right in front of our very eyes,” he wrote.
I thought about Miles and imagined how hard it must have been to continue moving at the pace of life while someone you love chooses not to keep up.
Then I thought about our sensitive 7-year-old Harvey, my beloved little one who is watching me face loss. What is he seeing?
I can tell by his adeptness at swearing (when allowed) that he is a keen observer — absorbing and replicating with great accuracy (his timing and tone are *chefs kiss*). So, I wondered which parts of my response to struggle would I want him to mirror.
To be fair, the cussing feels pretty appropriate, but any resignation allowing the slow decline to gain momentum feels pretty bad.
The truth is, my hips aren’t actually killing me. They’ve petered out but I don’t have to.
They’re replaceable; I am not.
I want him to see me wanting to exist. I want him to see me face challenges with resilience. I want him to see me hold pain in one hand and joy in the other, and juggle them if I wanna, because I’m a tenacious and multitudinous circus queen.
At the very least, I want him to know deep down to his marrow that his vibrant existence makes mine worth fighting for.
I’m nervous about becoming bionic in a few weeks, and also appreciative that this particular problem is one that has a solution. (Plus, what if I can join the Rockettes after this?)
As Miles says, “... regrets are products of fear. Fear that keeps you small. Of the unknown, of life and what it has in store. Was it fear that made Abuelita Marina close up shop? The opposite of regret, then, must be courage. Leaning into love.”
So, hip, hip, hooray. Like metal hips for bearing weight, I was made for this.
Marina Gomberg is a professional communicator, a practicing optimist and a lover of love. She lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, their son, Harvey, and their dogs, Mr. Noodle and Gorgonzola. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.
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