If you know me, you know I rarely sit still. Even when I am “watching” television, I am usually doing a word puzzle or craft project. When I am driving, I ponder and grapple with ideas. I like to be on the move mentally and physically.

So when my husband finally decides (after 10 years of avoidance) he needs full replacement hip surgery, I have mixed emotions. A new hip will hopefully mean less pain for him. I selfishly hope it will also mean greater willingness to accompany me on walking adventures. I am worried that something might go wrong and definitely didn’t want to see him in pain. I am excited that he will get to be more active. I dread the weeks of recovery. He says I am more anxious than he is.

As it turns out, for us at least, the process is relatively uneventful. The surgery center is amazing. He checked in and less than three hours later, the doctor is showing me a model of the new hip and explaining the procedure that has gone well. Three hours after the surgery he is up, walking up stairs, and headed home. A body part is fully replaced and we have him home in his own bed by sunset. It seems miraculous to watch him climb the stairs into the house without struggle.

The next few days are a blur of medication schedules. He has to get up and walk for 10 minutes every hour and do daily exercises. He has to be reminded not to cross his legs and to kick out his leg when he wants to sit or stand. Unlearning a lifetime of habits is hard work. So is caring for a person unlearning a lifetime of habits. Of course my discomfort is only empathetic, his is real.

Thank God our daughter is home to help look after her Dad. I originally told her she didn’t need to come. I am glad that she emptied the wound drain and removed the tubing from the incision the day after surgery. I apparently am not nurse material.

The only really tense moment come in the middle of the night two nights after surgery . His surgical spinal pain block finally wears off. He goes from no pain to substantial discomfort just like that. I couldn’t help but think of the birth of our first child. I was feeling no pain until my water broke. I went from zero to 10 just like that. He says I squeezed his face until he thought his jaw might break. As I am clutching his grasping hand while he comes to terms with the new level of pain, I can relate. Life’s patterns of pain and renewal are familiar.

One week in and we are both stir crazy. He has to get out of the house. I agree to a drive through restaurant for lunch and to park the car near the river. A low risk outing will do us both good. As luck would have it, there is a suitable bench a few steps from the car. Seeing my strong husband navigate a walker to a park bench is a little disconcerting, but life is full of challenges. The sun is shining and we are smiling.

Two weeks in and we drive a few hours to his brothers ‘getaway’ property. I fuss over using a walker in unfamiliar and uneven terrain. He fusses that a cane is sufficient. I am fearful that their lovely yet boisterous dog might accidentally cause injury. He dismisses my concerns. He is with his family and clearly enjoying the lack of routine…until I impose meds and exercise in his otherwise lovely day. He calls me the “general” (I demanded a promotion from drill sergeant) but he is clearly relieved when I insist we go. His first full day adventure fed the soul but taxed the body.

Three weeks in and he is cleared to drive. We slowly reintroduce normal things like visits to church and the grocery store. I return to work obligations outside the house (thankfully I can usually accomplish much of my to list from home). He makes his first post-op doctor visit and gets a good report. He can stop using the cane unless he is tired or feels unstable (at least that is what he tells me). We go out for dinner and live music at a local winery to celebrate. In what may be a first, I am the one dropping him off at the door. Usually it is the other way around (at least when I wear high heels that make the climb up the rocky hill difficult).

Four weeks in and we visit with our children in Kansas City. We kill time in Parkville and walk the shops and restaurants. When he gets tired he sits and waits for me (he has long perfected this strategy). I smile at the familiarity. He even attempts a round of mini golf. I exult in my victory. He scoffs at my glee in beating “a crippled old man” (his words).

Five weeks in we go camping. I try to do the heavy lifting, but he is impatient and no longer quite as willing to follow chain of command. It is a different experience as I must hike and bike alone (he is doing great, but there is no need to push the envelope). He feels up to the cave tour. (We knew the walkways were paved and the spaces large as we have toured the cave before, but had forgotten how steep the inclines were in places. It is amazing what you don’t notice when you are able bodied.) He does great, but the walk is perhaps a little too long. So he finds a bench with another woman also rocking a cane, while their spouses make a longer climb into the last area of the cave. I take a picture of him sitting far below and feel love. Five weeks after surgery and he has conquered a cave.

I might have mentioned that I don’t much like sitting still. This summer has been slower. There have been no grand adventures, but lots of little ones. He will tell you he spent about as much time with books, tv, and puzzles as he cares to. I have mowed the lawn, washed dishes, sorted laundry, swept floors, developed training materials, taken zoom meetings and a thousand other tasks to occupy my time at home. The summer has been slow, but it has also been happy.

It is nice to know that when we are forced to slow down, that we can do so with humor, patience, and love. The surgery is symbolic. We age. We slow down. While we will not go quietly into that good night….we will go. All of us must. But in the pain, there was joy. In the uncertainty, there was prayer. There was family support. There was boredom and “we can make the best of it”entertainment. We found ways to create playful adventure in the midst of restrictive movement. They say aging is not for sissies. But then, this is one “Sissy” that aging hasn’t met yet. I don’t stay dormant long, and neither does he. We continue to do what we can, when we can, for as long as we can….prisoners of hope.