Somewhere between 2:30 and 3:00 a.m., my fabulous brain decided that it’s been several hours since I fell asleep, and that is enough rest for an insomniac. Smooth as habit, I disconnect my phone from its charger and leave my bedroom. I can’t sleep. Besides an overly active imagination, my hips are due to be replaced – fully. Overdue, truth be told. And laying down for too long causes discomfort that medication cannot override.
Concerning my premature hip(s) condition, I received instruction almost one year ago that exercise with intention is out of the question for me unless I’d like to experience the not-so-pleasant hip fracture that occurs when there is no absorbent material left in the joint capsule area (whatever that means). I am historically a religious walker, so at this point, the no exercise prescription is wearing on me a bit. It is wearing on my body too.
I have heard it said by my elders that aging is hell. In past years, I listened intently to my parents or grandparents patiently, grateful that I did not have to worry about such things. Departing from my generally-thankful demeanor, I struggle with the reality that both my hips have failed at once. At my age, this should not be the case.
As with anything I view as a challenge, I have decided to get back to the basics. I want to walk at night, even if it’s cold or rainy. That said, when I do walk “with intention” I do not make it very far or fast before my right hip starts screaming in protest. Turns out, the doctor was right. Until I succumb to the surgeries, my hips are on borrowed time.
Other indicators of four-years-till-50 are showing up too. But I am dutifully ignoring those things. Vowing to drink more carrot juice and eat more steamed broccoli, I intend to ward off further signs of premature aging. I can only hope genes inherited from my parents are enough to do the rest.