Unhip

I do not remember falling. I remember sitting at my desk, writing about a rabbit; then I was lying under the desk with a broken hip, in a universe that had become pain.

I believe I tripped over a dog. That’s what I get for buying one of those fast chairs.

In my 40 years plying a pen in journalism, sometimes proofreading obituaries, I’ve read countless stories about old-timers who fall and break a hip and then die. Being a snoop by trade and inclination, I have asked doctors, nurses and medical editors over the years why it is that a broken hip so often precedes death.

The answer I usually get is not an answer at all; it’s something along the lines of: “Well, everybody’s different.” Hell, that ain’t no answer. It could serve as a (non)answer to any question anyone might ask about human beings. (“How can you possibly like the Yankees?” “Well, everybody’s different.”)

Lying here in a hospital bed, counting down the minutes to my next dose of oxycodone, I decided that the reason people die is that it does not hurt as much as having a broken hip.

Here’s a better answer. We all have what I will call a certain emotional account. When we are young we can withdraw from the account day after day, continuously, without appreciably reducing the balance in our account. And if we do, we’ll get another paycheck soon. But with a broken hip, an old guy’s bank account is drained all at once, and your credit is tapped out.

I don’t remember much about the 48 hours after I lopped off the top of my femur. I was told later that in those two days I had been dosed with fentanyl, Dilaudid, oxycodone, a nerve blocker and morphine. None of them had much effect on the pain. Fentanyl v. a fractured hip is rather like me v. Mike Tyson.

None of this is meant to criticize the doctors and nurses who took care of me at Porter Hospital. Grade A, top-notch care all the way. I simply think, no, I know, that there ain’t much you can do for a broken hip until the body’s fire alarm systems cool down.

So that’s the story of my broken hip. It’ll be a long road back, my doctors and nurses and therapists assure me. (“Everybody’s different.”) All that remains for me to do now is to thank the dozens of caregivers who watched over me; they came here from Ghana, Iran, Ethiopia, Nigeria, the Philippines, Sudan, Mexico, Italy, Russia, Vietnam and the wilds of Louisiana.

Where would I be without them?

(Thanks to the staff of the Orthopedics and Spine Department at Porter Advent Hospital in Denver.)