Me and my bursa — strolling down the avenue

I have been having various adventures in the healthcare system recently. Some of them have involved my delicate lady parts, so I have eschewed writing about that, as I do want to remain relatively prim.

My hip, however, is a different story. It has been bothering me for years as a result of mishap at an office picnic held by the insurance brokerage where I worked many years ago.  I was playing volleyball, called out that I would get the ball, leaped up and was knocked to the ground by a much taller team-member who either didn’t hear my call or didn’t care. Rumour had it she was angling for one of the romantic attention of one of partners, and I have since thought, nastily, that she was just showing off for his benefit. Whatever her motive that day, her on-going ploys did not end well — for her, but that is another story.

However, she certainly got my attention. My hip hasn’t been the same since. I did not get proper medical care at the time, figuring I was too busy and the pain would just go away. It didn’t. I now have serious arthritis in that hip, but oddly it is not the cause of my pain and limping. It is my hip bursa – something I did not even know I had.

So welcome to bursa world. And yes, it is derived from the same Latin word which gives us burse (the little case which carries the chalice linen to and from the altar at the Eucharist services) and bursar, not to mention bursary:  you can look those up yourself in the unlikely event that you need to. It seems, however, to have nothing to do with a town of the same spelling located in northwestern Turkey.

Bursa means little sac or purse and is a cushiony fluid-filled item between the tendon, muscles and bones around a joint.  There must be lots here and there in the human body, but the one I am concentrated on is on the point of my hip, site of that ancient collision: the trochanteric bursa.

chttp://www.sportsinjuryclinic.net/sport-injuries/hip-groin-pain/hip-bursitis

I became a fan of bursae when both my family doctor and the orthopedic surgeon he referred me to concluded independently that I had bursitis. My pain did not resemble hip pain: No referred pain to the groin, but lots on the surface of the hip joint.

Thank goodness, I would not have to undergo my much-researched hip replacement.  Although everyone I have talked to says their hip replacement was just the thing, I have had my doubts. As a massage therapist I did not return to said to me enthusiastically during our one and only session together, “When I was in training, I was allowed to watch a hip replacement operation, and it’s just like de-boning a chicken.”

Since coming to Parkhill, I have discovered a wonderful deep tissue massage therapist. Because of the pain, my muscles have become twisted and taut, and I limp when I walk. She has pummeled the adhesions in those muscles to a fare thee well and has encouraged me to do exercises to stretch those muscles out.

I hate to admit I have not done them as faithfully as I know I should chiefly because they require being on the floor a good deal of the time. The bedroom rug is always a bit linty to lie on and hard to arise from. I’ve been too lazy to get my yoga mat from wherever it is in the basement.

In any event, during my annual health review (apparently we don’t get annual physicals anymore), my family doctor and I discussed bursitis, and he gave me a sheet of exercises, several of which I discovered I was already doing.

There was one, however, which I had not done and which immediately attracted me because I did not have to get down on the floor to do it. I looked at the sketch; it showed someone hanging their bad leg over the edge of a bench.

 



Even if not in doubt read the directions; I know this now.

 

The bed would do just fine. I hung it over for the recommended 35 to 45 seconds. Easy peasy, I thought until I decided it was time to stand up.

Riveting red-hot pain coursed through my leg from my hip to my ankle. Greg chose that moment to ask me about going to the post office. I gasped and said I really couldn’t answer just now. I was at an angle of 45 degrees over the bed on my one good leg with my other leg suspended in immobile agony. I pondered having to go through the rest of my life in this state: both boring and utterly tortuous. Greg made an attempt to rub the worst pains. That helped a bit. After what seemed like an eternity, I notice the pain was slowly subsiding. I was able to return my right leg to the floor and stand up.

I must have torn every tiny little muscle fibre down my entire leg.

Only then was I up to re-reading the instructions. Apparently, you should do this first on the floor with the bad leg drooped over the good leg, giving a drop of inches, not feet.  Then graduate to what I did in one fell swoop.

But wonder of wonders, I was able to walk more freely. I did not limp as much. Later during my walk at the community centre, I was able to walk over the imaginary log – with both legs one after the other!! What a breakthrough!

Also try not to fall off the bed - or bench. (pictures by Greg)

I would not recommend plunging into any new exercise without fully reading the directions. Trying out and asking questions afterwards, my preferred way of learning, is not always a good idea. However, in this case, I am happy to say it has had amazing unexpected results so far. No pain no gain, indeed! It has all worked out in the end. And I have new motivation to keep up my floor exercises — as well as to vacuum more frequently. Plusses all around.

A cane changes everything – on public transit

I have moderate arthritis in my right hip. I hasten to say it is not the ravage of age, but the result of  “an old athletic injury.” The one time after high school when I played volleyball, I was clobbered by a larger team-mate going for the ball I had called.   That was at a company picnic nearly 25 years ago, and over the years, my hip has degenerated (along with my enthusiasm for athletic conviviality).

As a result, I now use a cane.  I bought it at Shopper’s Drug Mart. It is black, has nifty “brass” fittings for adjusting the length and a sporty handle. I have resisted the temptation to put my name and address on it with sticky tape or to tie a ribbon to it to identify it from a distance. To my eyes, it is a dashing as well as helpful accessory.

So far, I have not permanently misplaced it, but store clerks have reminded me when I have left it behind. I appreciate this. But there have been other more unexpected consequences — especially when I ride on public transit.  

Now when I take the train, no more standing in line for me and my aching hip; I receive pre-boarding no questions asked.  Sometimes upon seeing me and my cane, Via Rail personnel even call me “dear” and offer me the use of the elevator. When I get where I’m going, the conductor frequently offers his hand as I clamber down the steps. I take it. I feel it does most men good to feel useful (in an unencumbered way), and I avoid pitching headfirst onto the pavement.

But riding the TTC has been the biggest eye-opener. Normally, Torontonians do not give up their seats. Oblivious to those less agile, they sleep, or fix their attention on the latest bestseller, the commuter newspaper or the floor.  Despite those guilt-inducing public address announcements, they ignore the pregnant and elderly. But to my surprise, now that I ride the subway using my cane, people not only notice, they react. 

I have had several young men rise and offer me their seat.  Sometimes I am all right standing, but not often, and in any event, such gallantry should be encouraged, and I am happy to help. They are bashful.  It’s quite sweet.

My encounters with women have been a bit more complicated.  In one case, I happily accepted the offer of a seat from a strapping young woman, a Bay Street beauty with a fashionably draped scarf, sensible shoes and a Blackberry.  Too late, as I made eye contact with her mid-section, I realized that she was probably about four months’ pregnant and might have appreciated the seat herself. Or was she merely plump?  Fortunately she got off two stops later, thereby relieving me of that moral dilemma.

Just yesterday, I was packed with the other transit sardines in the first car of a subway train which had been delayed and took on more passengers than necessary. When it finally left the station, I was standing about half an inch away from a very affectionate pair of women. The taller of the two was a ringer for Jennifer Jones, and her partner had very short hair with lightning stripes shaved above her ears.  Trying to find somewhere else to look, I squelched the thought that the latter ought to be have been taller. The stereotype was unworthy of me and probably irrelevant, given the apparent nature of their relationship.

Thus, alone with my questionable thoughts, I became aware of Jennifer Jones looking at me with riveting concern and asking a bit too loudly if I wanted to sit down.  I said it was all right, I didn’t mind standing. Undaunted, she continued with fervour, “Because if you want a seat, I’d be happy to ask someone to give theirs up for you.” 

By now fully alert, I again declined her offer, but I did thank her earnestly for making it.  Idealism in the young ought to be encouraged. Then I oozed closer to the front of the car where I feigned interest in the next station and wondered why I attract this attention.  

Do I appeal to some primal desire to protect the weak and fragile?  Likely not, as Torontonians’ primal desires don’t seem to run along those lines, at least not on the TTC. Maybe there is an implied threat offered by someone with a cane, especially a dandy cane like mine.  Do people see my cane as a potential weapon?  Or do people simply fear I might topple over and land on them?  It is a mystery.