Hip Opener

“When you get a hip replacement,” my Pilates teacher says, “I’ll get your muscles in shape so you recover faster.”

“Hip replacements are for old people,” I say. “I don’t need a hip replacement.”

“Okay.” My trainer shrugs and leads me to the next torture device.

“I think you might need a hip replacement,” my nurse practitioner says. I’m here for my annual Medicare checkup where they ask you about falls and try to trick you with memorization drills. I hate Medicare. “You have decreased range of motion in your hip.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should be able to do this.” Nurse Ratched pulls her legs into a lotus position. “You can’t sit like this. You should be able to sit like this.”

“Show off.” I cross my arms and pout. “I walk just fine.”

“I just watched you walk. You do not walk just fine.”

Colonoscopies are a sure sign of middle age. Hip replacements are a sure sign of old age. I stare at Nurse Ratched. She stares back.

“Ask your son for surgeons he likes to work with.” My son, the doctor, will chuckle when I tell him the news. He suggested long ago that I get a hip replacement. I hate it when my kids are right.

Nurse Ratched hands me my paperwork and pats me on the arm. “My patients usually say they should have done it much sooner.”

“Usually,” I mutter as I walk down the hall.

My brother, who is younger than me, replaced his hips a few years ago. He’s back to hiking 4-5 miles each week. I already do Pilates twice a week and run agility with the dogs and walk them every day. How much more does Nurse Ratched want me to do?

“It’s one of the few surgeries I recommend,” my son, the doctor, says. “You’ll be happy with the results.”

I’m happy now, I think.

My son gives me the name of four surgeons. Maybe I’ll call them. Maybe I won’t.

I start to rise from my desk. I flinch in pain.

Maybe I will call the surgeon.