Editor's note: The original version of this column ran Nov. 18, 2003.
It was Nov. 11, at 5:30 a.m. The sun was still an hour from rising on this Veterans Day as the automatic doors at Baptist Health Medical Center in Little Rock whisked open.
I limped inside with a bad case of butterflies and cottonmouth. Within three hours, my arthritic right hip joint would be replaced with cobalt chrome and irradiated polyethylene.
A smiling lady at the front desk took my name and directed me to a lobby seat alongside five others awaiting the scalpel. Within a few minutes, a man whose badge read "Willie" arrived. He checked names against his cards, then asked us to follow him to the pre-surgical ward.
A slender young man told me he was facing the removal of a kidney that contained a cancerous tumor. His story provided valuable perspective at an opportune moment. We wished each other well.
Inside the vast surgical prep room, Willie handed us each a warm, white blanket. "You'll want to lay on your back and cover up," he said. I followed instructions, depositing my clothes to a plastic bag, donning the goofy open-backed hospital gown and feeling the blanket's warmth as I lay staring at the ceiling for the next 15 minutes.
Those few reflective moments soon vanished into a whirlwind of nurses and technicians arriving to draw blood, shave my lower right side and plug an IV into my right hand.
Dr. Mike Mallory, my amiable anesthesiologist, strolled in. His sense of humor put me at ease for the first time that morning, so wouldn't you know the epidural that Mallory was about to insert into my spinal column as I sat hunched over on the bed would become the most unpleasant experience of the day.
The discomfort passed quickly. I lay back, drew another deep breath and began to notice the effects of the medicine being dripped into my body from two attachments. In a matter of minutes, I didn't even care if they removed my head, much less my hip.
Momentarily, Dr. William Hefley Jr. was standing over me with a broad smile. When I'd last left Hefley, he was wondering whether he could pull off the muscle- and tendon-sparing dual 2-inch-incision technique on someone who is 6 feet tall and 248 pounds or defer to the 3- to 4-inch single-incision method most often used on larger people. The difference in these two techniques usually is about an extra week of recovery.
Hefley told me that he'd decided to go with the 2-inch incision. I grinned from ear to ear, feeling especially thankful that I'd lost those extra 16 pounds.
A nurse placed the surgical beret over my head and we began rolling my conglomeration of poles, tubes and bags toward kickoff. After years of limping and shuffling, all those pain pills and worries over this moment, it finally was game time.
There was not a trace of pain or anxiety by the time I was rolled into that large, chilly surgical suite. I noticed a half-dozen people in bluish gowns scurrying around. A few on the team helped shift me from the gurney onto the operating table.
Then two younger men, both also named Mike, stood over me. One placed a clear plastic mask over my nose. I remember wondering how confusing it might be to have a dozen or so Mikes in the operating room as I faded off to sleep.
The next moment, I was hearing beeps and a gentle voice asking: "Mr. Masterson, can you hear me? Are you awake? Your hip-replacement surgery is over and you did fine."
I opened my eyes to a nurse who was checking vital signs in the recovery room. My legs were strapped to a V-shaped pillow wedged between them to keep my new hip from moving. A slow, steady drip from my IV held discomfort at bay.
Within 90 minutes, I'd arrived in a room, where I met a seemingly endless flow of nurses and hospital staff, each of whom would help make my life comfortable over the next 22 hours. Otto Strong, an RN for about seven years on Baptist's orthopedic floor, quickly became my go-to nurse for care and information. Plus, he told good jokes.
Through it all, my devoted partner Judith was right there taking names and helping everyone.
I'd say post-operative hospital patients shouldn't plan on getting much sleep on their first night. The nurses have all those temps and blood pressures to check and chart. I'd estimate that before midnight, I received at least a dozen visits. But I did manage to sleep several hours between midnight and 7 a.m.
The remarkable bottom line here? Less than 24 hours after entering my hospital room, I was being wheeled outside for the ride back to Fayetteville. Three days after surgery, I was bearing weight on my operated hip with a walker and able to stand balanced and freely on both legs without pain or support. Hefley said I'd likely be on a cane within two weeks and back on the golf course in eight.
Would I choose this surgical method again after my experience? Without a milligram of hesitation--or fear.
It's hard to believe nearly 12 years have passed since that fall day in 2003. Since then Dr. Hefley has moved to his own new facility in Little Rock and has successfully performed thousands more minimally invasive hip replacements.
Me? I'm playing golf, dancing, walking, hiking and living a far more fulfilling existence than had I missed this anxious hip day in the OR. My advice if you're facing similar circumstances, don't put the replacement off. Life and the quality of it passes so quickly.
------------v------------
Mike Masterson's column appears regularly in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Email him at [email protected].
Editorial on 09/08/2015