Panic has started to set in and I’m having a hard time focusing on anything else except for stupid things like anesthesia, catheterization, artificial parts, staples, physical therapy, missing work, not being able to drive for a month, leaving my apartment until I can climb the stairs again, and having to show airport officials my scar in order to get through security.

I know it’s stupid. I know some of the things I’m worrying about aren’t worth the effort or time. They will cease to be worries as soon as I actually have to start dealing with them. But I can’t help it.

I think it comes down to independence. I’m going to be losing my independence for a while and that scares the shit out of me. I like to go for drives whenever I feel like it. I like living in my apartment by myself. I’m not a fan of the stairs but I like that I am able to walk up them when I need to.

I LIKE GOING TO THE BATHROOM BY MYSELF WITH NO HELP.

I like being whole.

I’m not going to have the same parts I was born with. I’m going to have fake parts. And I’m going to have to continue replacing those fake parts as I age. Second surgeries are less successful, or so I’ve read. I’m signing up for something I don’t even totally understand yet because I haven’t even realized all of the things I’ll have to overcome and go through.

I play the what if game, too. I won’t bore you with all of that, as it’s a rather lengthy list and I know I shouldn’t even go there. I’m trying not to. But of course it’s keeping me awake at night. It makes my stomach do flip flops. It makes me do that whole heavy sighing thing. A lot.

Things I tell myself to make myself feel better:

1.) “This could be worse, Katie. You could have a terminal illness. Be grateful you have something that can be fixed. STUPID.”

2.) “After all the pain/recovery, you’re going to be able to sleep through the night without waking up aching, and in pain. You’re going to be able to walk around the grocery store – wait, forget the grocery store. You’re going to be able to walk around a CITY. For hours. Without having to stop because it hurts so much.”

3.) “You’re going to be part bionic!” (That from my lovely internet friends who make me feel so much better without even trying.)

I’m trying to stay positive. I’m trying not to feel sorry for myself.

I’m not quite there yet, though.

I walk up this hill to torture myself as a workout. (Not in the winter. I’d probably die.) It’s only about a mile and half, up the hill to the end of the road and back down. It’s really not far. But it’s steep. Really steep. At the steepest point, right before the ground levels out, you’re bent forward, climbing vertically, like you’re moving through quicksand.

At least that’s how I feel. My best girlfriend shows me up by running up and down this thing TWICE.

That bitch.

Anyway. She’s a runner. Which I am not. I honestly can’t imagine climbing this thing twice in one day.

The only real reason I even climb the hill because I want to be able to climb it. I need to be able to climb it. Especially since there’s so much that says I shouldn’t be able to do it. I always want to prove it wrong. The hill’s all, “Haha, you’re not gonna make it this time, limpy!” And then I have to be all, “Yes I am, you asshole. And quit calling me limpy.”

What? You don’t talk to hills?

There have been a lot of times I’ve been in so much pain (the hip, people)  on this hill that I’ve wanted to stop and turn around. Like, really wanted to just give up.

But I never can. I never turn around. I always make myself get to the top. And I always pay for it later. But the pain is just a reminder that I finished something I started. I accomplished something I set out to. That, to some small degree, despite my failing joints, I am still capable of some type of physical achievement. And that’s why I do it. Even though I hate it. Even though it’s torture.

I just have to. My worst fear is the day I actually can’t.

The short story is my hip sockets are too shallow, which has caused arthritis and bone spurs in my right hip.

I’m in pain every day. Even if I’m not moving, I’m in pain. I always know when it’s going to rain. It’s getting much worse much more quickly as time goes on, and I’ve noticed other parts of my body are starting to suffer, specifically my left knee and foot that support all the weight I can’t put on the right side of my body.

I’m never in alignment and I always have knots in my lower back.  My limp has gone from noticeable to, “Hey! What the heck happened to you? Why are you walking like that?”

It’s gotten to the point where just putting a sock on my right foot is painful and difficult because I’ve lost so much mobility in the right hip. It moves like, well, NOT AT ALL. I can do less and less with much greater pains than ever before.

Seriously. It sucks.

Physical therapy and anti-inflammatory medications have done very little to help a problem that there’s really no cure for, save surgery.

The orthopedic surgeon I see in Erie doesn’t know what to do with me or my stupid hip. He seems to understand the pain level is becoming intolerable but he has never put an artificial hip into a 29-year old woman. His main concern is the younger I am when I have the replacement, the more likely I am to need multiple replacements down the road.

“I put an artificial hip into someone and hope it lasts for 20 to 30 years,” he told me last night. “I need yours to last 60.”

Soooo, he’s sending me to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center for consult on a total hip replacement.

There is an alternative hip resurfacing procedure, but my orthopedic said it’s unlikely that anyone will perform one on a young female of child-bearing age because the metal on metal involved circulates metal in the bloodstream, which could be dangerous to an unborn baby. (Uh, and me.)

I’m hoping that the doctor I’m going to see in Pittsburgh will tell me to wait. I’m hoping that he’ll tell me to hang in there until I can’t possibly take it anymore. I don’t want to have hip surgeries the rest of my life. That is ridiculous. I’m not even 30 yet.

But I also can’t bear the thought of 10 to 15 more years of pain that’s so bad I dread standing for even an hour. Thirty minutes on the elliptical and I undoubtedly wake up in the middle of the night in a ridiculous amount of pain. I can’t even run into the grocery store without a pit in my stomach because I better hurry and find what I need before my hip becomes unbearable.

And if things are this bad now, how am I going to chase all my future dirty, snot-nosed toddlers around the trailer park and Wal-Mart parking lot with a hip that doesn’t function properly? That’s totally unacceptable.

Actually, I’m scared. And that really pisses me off.

That’s when I saw everyone. Dozens and dozens of students standing, sitting, all crowded around the TVs. It was completely silent. I stopped and joined them and watched. And that’s when I found out what had happened.

I tore myself away to head back to our apartment, where my roommates and I spent the remainder of the day watching the news and trying to call our former roommate and friend, Dena, who was attending NYU at the time.

We couldn’t reach her, of course. There was no signal. We finally got a hold of her the next day and were so relieved to hear she was safe.

She told us that piles of ashes had collected on the inside of her open windows in her apartment in Brooklyn. She was devastated. She loves that city more than anything in the world.

I know she has a hard time with the memories of that day, so I always try to tell her I’m thinking of her and love her, especially today.

Originally, I spent most of my time trying to convince her to leave New York and move to Erie, but she won’t ever leave the city. (And for some reason she thinks everyone in Pennsylvania is inbred, but that’s an entirely different story.)

Anyways.

If anything, I think the events of that day solidified her love of the city and its people even more. She was a part of that unified force that vowed to not be beaten. That vowed to rebuild and be better than before. That refused to be afraid to continue on with their daily lives.

I admired her for her courage to stay and persevere. I still do.

But we live in Erie. And the most exciting thing a sixteen year old can do is go to Wal-Mart, and hang around in the parking lot. Which is where we are.

“Let’s go somewhere fun. Let’s go to Cleveland!” someone said.

And so it was decided. Road trip to Cleveland. We’d stop at Wegmans and get candy and snacks first. Then we’d take the back roads to Cleveland and stop any place that seemed like it might be fun along the way.

I needed to stop at home for something first. What is was, I can’t remember now. I do remember we stopped to steal a blinking street sign on the way to my parents’ house. It barely fit in the car with us and we couldn’t figure out how to make it stop blinking, finally covering it up with a jacket so no one we passed could see.

I grabbed what I needed from my house and we left the street sign in the garage. Then we stopped at Wegmans and loaded up on bulk candy. As we brought it up to the scale, I instructed the girls to hold the candy up as they keyed in the number so it wouldn’t weigh as much.

After the third or fourth bag a voice came over the loud speaker in the nearly empty store. “GIRLS! PUT DOWN THE CANDY AND WEIGH IT PROPERLY. I CAN SEE YOU!”

“It’s God!” I said. And we giggled.

We re-weighed the candy and printed our price tags. I still remember the manager coming over and watching us at the checkout line, glaring the whole time. I remember not caring. We were having fun.

By the time we left Wegmans it was after 1 a.m. We took the back roads and were disappointed to learn there was absolutely nothing that looked interesting along the way. Even if there had been, it was 1 a.m. It would have been closed.

On the way down we talked about all the things we’d do in Cleveland. We’d find a cheap motel, and the next day we’d get up early and maybe head over to the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame.

We talked about work. We talked about boys. We talked about our upcoming senior year. We laughed a lot. We took turns writing down various accounts from the trip in a notebook my best friend still has somewhere.

We got to Cleveland around 3 a.m. and the fire was starting to burn out. Now what? Where would we stay? We had no directions, no GPS, no map, no clue. We just figured we’d find something somehow.

And we did. We drove around for what seemed like forever, and ended up in the ghetto, somewhere off Euclid Ave., where we finally found a hideously disgusting motel with hourly rates.

“Hi. We want a room,” I said to the night manager.

“Are you girls all 18?” He asked, not even looking at us.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Fine,” he said. “It’s gonna be $35 for the night. Here’s your key.” And he pointed toward the direction of our room.

We paid and headed towards the room, giggly again, having gotten away with something. Which apparently wasn’t much, we found out, once we got into the room.

It was a small, dark room, with a worn, sticky shag carpet. There was a large, crooked TV that only got two channels, both of which were hardcore porn channels. (I know – lucky, right?)

The bedspreads on the two beds had so many mysterious stains we peeled them off immediately and refused to even sit on them. There were blood spatters on the curtains. There were huge spiders in the bathroom.

We thought all of it was hilarious and we continued taking turns writing in the notebook all of the gory details on the motel room. We laughed and talked till the morning, slept a couple of hours and then decided we’d had enough of that place.

We scratched the idea of the Rock N’ Roll Hall of fame. We were tired and ready to head home. We stopped in Geneva-the-Lake for lunch on the way home and my brick-sized cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Katie? It’s mom. Why is there a blinking sign in my garage?”

“Uh.. Oh. We forgot to put that back.”

“Yeah, put it back. It’s illegal to steal those. Where are you?”

“Geneva-on-the-Lake. We’re coming home soon.”

“Ok, whatever. Put that sign back when you get home.”

Oops.

We finally made it home and dropped everyone off at their houses. I headed home with my best girlfriend, Colleen, and we talked about how much trouble she’d get in if her mom found out we’d gone to Cleveland the night before. Her parents were a lot stricter than mine and she’d told her mom she spent the night at my house.

When we finally ran into her later that day, she asked us what we did the night before.

“Oh, drove to Cleveland and stayed in a seedy motel room,” I said.

Colleen looked nervous.

“Haha Katie Fish. You’re sooo funny,” her mom said, rolling her eyes, and walking away.

Colleen might or might not have punched me after she was out of sight.

I can’t really remember.

It is this:

I gave up what everyone else has to be alone.

Yes, I gave up the fighting. I gave up a LOT of fighting.

I gave up his drinking problem, including all the lying, hidden liquor bottles, and failed attempts at rehab that came with it.

Gone are the accusations and name calling. Gone are the ultimatums and control and the constantly walking on eggshells.

Other bad things are gone, too, of course, but those were the main things I wanted to say goodbye to. The main reasons I left.

And now? Now I wonder.

What if I’m looking for a perfection that doesn’t exist? I mean – everyone fights. Everyone has flaws. I’m full of them. TONS of people have drug and alcohol addictions and chemical imbalances. Seriously, half the people I know that are dating or married practically hate each other.

Maybe what I had was normal. Maybe I gave up something that’s as commonplace as air for something I hoped would be better – but maybe I was wrong.

Let me back up. I gave up the bad things – but there were good things, too. A lot of good things. (Duh.) Things that were so good they often made me cancel out the bad things and allow him a clean slate. He was generous, loving, protective. He was smart. He finished school. He had a great job, was independent and self-sufficient.

But most importantly, he loved me. He asked me to move to Maryland with him, and said he wanted to build a future with me.

And I said no. I didn’t want to move. In fact, I didn’t even want to date him anymore. I’d had enough.

But I could have. I could have been doing what everyone else is doing. Or most people. Getting by in a relationship that is, at times, so amazing and fulfilling and, at times, disastrous and dysfunctional. With someone who is both everything and nothing I want.

Instead, I’m alone. (Cue sad music…) And wondering if maybe I was expecting too much. Wondering if what I want is too idealistic to even be possible. Maybe what I had was as good as it gets for anyone and I threw it away because it wasn’t good enough for me. Maybe it should have been. People do that right? Settle? I could have done that.

I could have learned to white knuckle it.

Maybe.

It’s a huge party island, with bars far outnumbering any other type of establishment. Everyone drives around on golf carts and there are boats lining the side of the island. It’s actually a really pretty place.

However.

We opted to stay on South Bass Island State park and camp out in tents. Like, dumbest idea EVER.

Friday night it poured – aaallllll night. I woke up to water dripping in my face and a huge puddle of water and mud inside the tent, soaking the air mattress, blankets and pillows. Everything was wet. Everything was muddy.

As I made my way to the disgusting campground bathroom I passed our fire pit/picnic area. We had forgotten to put some of the food away the night before. The animals had gotten into the cooler and eaten all our hot dogs. They also ate three bags of chips and managed to break into a huge plastic tub of peanut butter pretzels.  (Obviously, we are not good campers. We’re lucky someone remembered a flashlight.) So, not only was everything wet and dirty, but our food was gone, too.

Needless to say, we spent the day in town and not on the campsite. And things improved, since Saturday was beautiful and we drove the golf cart all over, checking out the restaurants and shops and people. By the time we got back to the campsite Saturday night, most of it was dry. The inside of the tent was still damp and dirty, but at least it wasn’t raining.

Sunday as we packed our things to go we started talking about coming back again sometime this summer but definitely NOT staying in a tent at the campground.

“You know,” Gaby said, “We’re big girls now. We all have big girl jobs. We could have afforded to stay in a hotel.”

And she was completely right. We didn’t even look for a hotel; we just decided to camp, because we always have in the past. This last trip made me realize we’re getting old and camping has completely lost its appeal.

When we were finally home Sunday afternoon and I was bringing in all my bags from outside, coiled up under the air mattress, was a wiggly, disgusting brown snake who almost gave me a heart attack. That sealed the deal. No more camping again.

EVER.

But Put-in-Bay, definitely. Just in a hotel.

Drunk Talk by Doggy, Episode V

My friend Scott, explaining why he loves boobs so much.

If you haven’t read the article in the news yet, the latest is that the pilot of Flight 3407 “failed three general aviation check rides from the Federal Aviation Administration before his hiring in 2005.”

The check ride is the final part of the process of receiving pilot certification, and includes “oral and flight-performance examinations.”

But the pilot of Flight 3407 only disclosed one of these failed check rides on his application to Colgan Air. Who, now everyone is looking at saying, “Why didn’t you look into this? Why didn’t you know he failed three check rides before you hired him?”

And their reply, weak at best, seems to be typical of the airline industry.

From the Buffalo News:

“Consistent with standard practice in the airline industry, Colgan did not attempt to access information on prior general aviation check ride failures by its applicants,’ he said.

“Because of restrictions imposed by the Privacy Act of 1974, the FAA would release those records only if the pilot agreed in writing to their release, said Laura Brown, an agency spokeswoman.”

If the airline industry doesn’t have to check things like failed test flights, how can they measure the skill of their pilots? How do they know the excellent pilots from the ones that may need more training? It seems there were several indications that the pilot may have needed more training, yet somehow he managed to get the job anyway. If this is true, how can the airline possibly ensure their passengers safety?

I don’t want to imply that I believe the crash in Buffalo can be blamed solely on the inadequacies of the pilot or his staff. I know a multitude of factors, including the icy conditions, contributed to this tragedy. I realize that had this been even the most highly skilled pilot with decades of experience, this crash still may have happened.

However.

I’m flying this Saturday. I’m getting on a plane to go to Denver and I am supposed to be able to trust that the pilot of the plane I’m flying on is not just capable, but a highly-skilled professional who has had sufficient training, including training in emergency situations and poor weather conditions. I’m supposed to believe he doesn’t possess any flaws that could jeopardize the safety of the flight or my life. I’m supposed to trust he’s sober, well-rested, and healthy enough to fly.

I’m supposed to be able to trust that the airline who hired him knows exactly what his capabilities are and trusts wholly in his skill as a pilot. I should be able to believe that the airline I’m flying on would never accept a pilot who’s failed multiple test flights without first insisting on further training.

I can’t really trust any of those things. FAA rules and regulations that protect the pilot over passengers need to be revised, rewritten. The discrepancies in standards between the FAA and the NTSB need to be amended and the two organizations need to reach agreements on important issues – like if and when to use autopilot in icy conditions. The fact that these two organizations are even at odds makes me feel less safe.

Okay. I’m done ranting. Maybe I’m just nervous for the trip – but reading about those failed flights makes me question my sanity getting on a plane.

And, in case you’re wondering, I will be packing extra Xanax in my carry-on.

Real life has been busy. I’ve started physical therapy for my stupid hip. I hate it almost as much as I hate going to the Y. Except at the Y no one is hovering over me, watching me half-ass my workout.

Also? No giant rubber bands.

Apparently I suffer from hip dysplasia, which, judging by its Google image results, seems to be more commonly found in dogs than 29-year old women. And supposedly this is something that can be corrected in infants and toddlers with the use of leg braces, but my family was too poor for that. No, not really. Actually,  no one ever knew it existed.

So, in a condensed, dumbed-down version (because I can’t do medical speak), the dysplasia, which is an unchangeable part of my physical anatomy, is pretty much having shallow hip sockets. Instead of fitting securely into the socket, everything is loose and moves around, giving me that wonderful feeling of my hip not being completely connected to my body.

The looseness and movement which results from the dysplasia, causes irritation to the bursa sacks, which are found throughout the body and act as cushions between bones and tendons. Once the bursa sacks swell and become irritated, voila! Hip bursitis!

So painful you begin to lose your will to live!

The goal is for physical therapy to strengthen muscles so that they can compensate for the shallowness of the hip sockets. Right now the only goal it has accomplished is making me hate my life.

Anyway. Moving on, then.

I’m getting ready to go to Denver for work in less than a month. I’ve never been there and I’m really excited for the opportunity to go. I can’t wait to take pictures. Also, nevermind. I can’t do it. Just insert drinking and high elevation joke here.

And have I mentioned that all my girlfriends are getting married and failed to take note of the fact that I am a terrible bridesmaid? Because I have a few weddings coming up soon and I’m starting to run low on friends. I can’t afford to lose any more.

I mean, I love buying pretty, expensive dresses that I end up puking all over!

Ok. This short life update is getting long. Not on content, I know. Just words. Takeaways: I’m not dead. My hip sucks. I still have friends for some unknown reason.

Bonus items: I got my first sunburn of the season and am VERY excited. I made three new CDs for my car. I’m reading a new book. And I recently made deviled eggs and did NOT screw them up.

I know. I should be more medicated.