I had hip surgery just over two weeks ago, and thanks to modern medicine I am already walking around with just one crutch! I still feel varying amounts of pain and numbness: when I sit too long, when I lie on my back, when I reach for my foot, who knows?! It’s still hard to tell what will cause me pain, which in and of itself causes me fear, a vicious cycle. And my “good” hip? It’s angry at me for bearing an additional burden and so it is also painful, an anxiety-inducing reminder that I’ll probably have to go through this again at some future date.

I trusted my doctor’s diagnosis and my decision to have the surgery, so I opted out of going down a potentially scary rabbit hole on hip labral repair (I also had my femur reshaped to correct impingement) prior to my surgery. But with that said, I really appreciated this post by The Fit Cookie for her patient perspective on her injury and recovery, which I read afterward. I thought I’d add my experience to anyone out there also searching for other patient perspectives.

The Injury

My hips have cracked for as long as I remember. When I’d sit butterfly-style on the ground, I’d often lean back and then forward to initiate what felt like a “corrective” crack so that I could move around more easily. It turns out that was probably hip impingement, which I still have in my right hip and what probably caused the tear in my labrum while indoor cycling. There was no single moment when I knew I hurt myself. I did a hard ride on a Sunday in February, and I absolutely crushed it. For any Zwifters out there, it was the infamous Alpe du Zwift, and I beat my first attempt of the virtual mountain by over 20 minutes.

A screenshot from my ride on February 21, 2021

The next day I had trouble lifting my left leg and walking up stairs, but I figured I was just sore from a tough workout. I took it easy for a few weeks until my hip felt better, and once it did I even felt well enough to start a new training program. A month in and after another harder ride, the injury flared up again and a few weeks of rest didn’t seem to help.

The (First) Diagnosis

I went to a sports med doctor who diagnosed a strained hip flexor, which I probably had on top of the torn labrum. The problem is that we treated it for too long (2.5 months) and once I tried increasing my physical activity, I slid back to where I started, and with more pain. I wanted to dig my fingers into the spot where my leg meets my hip, but I could never reach it. I’d furiously massage my quad where the pain ran down toward my knee. I popped ibuprofen like candy to get through a day of working from my chair, and I hit my breaking point when I stopped being able to walk the dogs around the block.

The (Second) Diagnosis

If I could do it all over again, I would’ve gotten an arthrogram (MRI with dye) much sooner. They numbed my leg, did a “live x-ray”-type thing, and injected some fluid into my joint. Then they sent me to the machine where I had the luxury of listening to the Rilo Kiley Pandora channel. I cried in that noisy tube as I contemplated my life, because they told me I might have something more serious. In my opinion, the better option sucked too, but a week or so later I was relieved to have just a torn labrum and NOT a dying femur. I booked my surgery with them that same day, as casually as if I were pre-ordering a Peloton.

The Procedure

As a surgery newbie, I was a little jolted by how mundane this event seemed to them since it was certainly a big deal to me. I slept well the night before my appointment, but once I got to the surgery center, 1.5 sober hours of pre-op proved emotional. I cried while changing into my gown and watched my tears hit the tile floor. I suppose I was moving slowly, because the nurse barged in and seemed surprised. Maybe no one cries before surgery? She gave me a hug and told me I’d be fine. I cried more.

I cried just about every time someone came up to me to verify that, yes, it was my left hip we were here to fix. When the time came, they wheeled me into the room and spoiler: I cried again! A very nice nurse grabbed my hand, which I held limply — I think a habit of mine to not make straight women uncomfortable. She told me it was ok If I wanted to squeeze back (reader, I was moved and cried more). Whether due to pity or normal procedure, the nurse anesthesiologist gave me nitrous oxide via mask, which worked quickly. I was so instantaneously high that I tried pulling the mask off when I’d had enough. And then before I knew it, I was awake in post-op and a nurse was helping me put on my underwear. I wasn’t crying!

More on post-surgery recovery soon in another post.

Just under two years ago, I left my beloved Georgetown to spend a year studying at the London School of Economics. I immersed myself in local culture whenever I could, drinking tea instead of coffee and hitting the pub for the conclusion of any activity whatsoever. But during my nine months in Britain, I also got to try something most temporary residents don't get to experience: the full range of the British health care system. Ambulances, hospitals, and doctors visits. Like a dinner buffet, I sampled the full offerings of the National Health Service. At times, I felt like an anonymous patient, a product on an assembly line. I'd show up for my appointment, my name would appear on a scrolling ticker, and I'd head into Exam Room #3. Eight minutes later, I'd emerge with some sort of prescription having convinced the doctor that "inhaling steam and menthol" would not cure my 3-week cold. I was a little resentful, but it was difficult to hold the grudge when my prescription cost only $7.

A few months later, I revisited the NHS. After eating a Salmonella-laced kebab in Amsterdam and a healthy incubation period of a week or so, I... exhibited symptoms of illness. I toughed it out for a few days, ceased eating and drinking, and contemplated my own death in a foreign country (dramatic, I know). I visited the NHS website and read through the FAQs: "How do I know if I need to visit the emergency room? Still not sure? Call this number." I called the number. I went to the emergency room.

I prepared myself for hours of waiting and came prepared with necessary distractions: a book, my Ipod, my lap top, and a toothbrush. But they went to waste. I was seen almost immediately and swept away to a back room where I was attended to by a young Irish doctor whom, in my delirium, I immediately developed a crush on. Without the hoopla of insurance paperwork, they took my blood right away and even came back for a second test. In two hours, I was done and cabbing my way back home feeling assured that I would live for a bit longer.

I had some negative experiences with health care in Britain, but on the whole, I am so thankful for the care I received when I needed it most (I won't even touch on the ambulance incident). The anxiety of "how will I pay" never entered my mind. This beats the fear that resonates in so many Americans when they consider their own health care, or lack thereof.

Britain's NHS isn't perfect, but with all it's flaws, it's a better service than offered in the U.S. (of course, with the option of private). Sarah Lyall expresses my sentiment more completely in her article from The New York Times "Health Care in Britain: Expat Goes for a Checkup."

To opponents of forms of socialized health care, I'll say this: I've never met a poor (or moderately poor) Libertarian.

Further interesting reading on health care: "Health Care's Generation Gap" by Richard Dooling.

I Had Hip Surgery!

A Brief Take on Health Care