So I met with the specialist and the hip replacement—which theWife and I preemptively named the fucking Catalina Wine Mixer—is a go for the end of the year.
The specialist was awesome. He took me through what was wrong with my hip—a Femoral Acetabular Impingement—the ins-and-outs of the procedure and the device, the what-can-go-wrongs (infection being the main worry), the expected level of ability, post-op (no more jogging, yoga or acrobatics (ha!), but otherwise everything else is on the table) and the possible side-effect (rare) of a squeaky hip (1).
The specialist also happened to be my age … and a Simpsons fan. Indeed, when he told me about the rare side-effect of the squeaky hip he added ‘remember that episode with the man who kept hiccuping? It would sound like that’. To which naturally I replied ‘Hic! Kill me. Hic! Kill me. Hic! Kill me.’ He was more than excited to met a fellow fan and we waxed lyrical for a while about how awesome The Simpsons is, and Seinfeld, then I broke his Community cherry by telling him to check that Dan Harmon created goodness out (2).
Then it was off to be introduced to the lovely admin lady to work out the specs.
Mikey being Mikey couldn’t help himself with his risqué talk. Having been told of the option of a unit where the ball and joint would be lined with ceramic—it’s more robust and has less issues than a purely metal affair—I loudly announced ‘I’ve decided to go for the Rolls Royce ceramic-on-ceramic action. Wait, that sounds like a movie from Fyshwick! (3)’
Later, as the specialist was leaving me in the good care of the admin people, he asked if I’d be willing to donate the bone slivers removed to a donor bone-graft program. Never having anyone ever want anything in a body-perspective from myself, naturally I agreed.
‘Where were you when I had my circumcision?!’ I practically shouted as I shook his hand in farewell.
Try the veal.
That is all.
UPDATE: That is not all. I just remembered. On a giddy whim I asked 'So ... Diet Coke had nothing to do with my hip?' At which the specialist laughed merrily and long. So much for that causational hypothesis...
(1) Given I already click-clack when I walk from my dicky knees then that’s hardly a worry. I told the specialist that at age ten said audible knees basically put paid to a planned career of Ninjaring (1a), so I would not at all be concerned by having a light-squeak to go with said knees. If it happens I'll be like a one-man-band of muscular-skeletal instruments. Mikey walks off (clash, clash, clash, clash).
(1a) One night in year nine I practiced throwing my drawing compass at a cardboard box, imagining the compass was a throwing star (1b). I vowed I would practice without fail each night until I had mastered this ability. I gave up almost-instantly. In fact ... I never did it again after that night. Later, when a friend was sick, I vowed to stop masturbating, thinking that would impress God. She got better ... but I was pretty much still whacking it out even as she was still on the critical list. Sorry, God.
(1b) When I was first getting into 1st edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons I confused throwing stars with morning stars. So my fighter character started the game with five of them ... Also, clerics—priests who have middling combat ability and less offensive-orientated spells than wizards—could only use blunt weapons (the rule being in place for both because of some minor historical accuracy and for game balance). Not knowing what a crossbow was I assumed it was okay for a cleric to use ... as it fired 'bolts'... FAIL!
(2) Check out Marc Maron's interview with Dan Harmon.
(3) Fyshwick, a large light industrial and adult services precinct in Canberra, being, in pre-internet times, the place where Australians sourced their more-than-R adult entertainment. Indeed, so synonymous is Fyshwick and more broadly Canberra with the adult services industry, you can take a guided tour of the fun parts...