Then at 3:17 AM on a Tuesday morning, everything changed.
I woke up to a crash from our bathroom.
Racing in, I found my wife Nancy on the floor, sobbing.
The bottle of pain killers had rolled under the bathroom sink.
She couldn't reach it.
Her hip - the one that had been "manageable" for months - had finally given out.
"I can't do it anymore," she whispered. "I can't even get my own painkillers."
Nancy is a critical care nurse. Was a critical care nurse. For 19 years, she worked in the ICU - lifting, turning, and repositioning patients who couldn't move themselves.
The pain in her hips was gradual, then sudden.
Now she could barely stand up from a chair without grabbing the counter.
But Here's What Destroyed Me:
When I tried to help her up, she screamed.
I touched her hip.
That's all it took.
We hadn't hugged - really hugged - in 4 months.
Every embrace ended in wincing.
Every attempted comfort became another reminder of what we'd lost.
The woman who once lifted 100 kilo patients couldn't hug her own husband.
And I just stood there.
Useless.
An orthopedic surgeon who couldn't even help his own wife.
I'd tried everything my training taught me. Physical therapy. Cortisone shots. Ice. Heat. TENS units.
Nothing worked for more than a few hours.
The "experts" weren't any better:
- Her physical therapist? Stretched and strengthened twice a week for $150 a pop. The relief lasted about as long as the car ride home.
- Pain management doctor? Pumped her full of cortisone shots that made her gain 15kgs and feel like a zombie.
- The hip surgeon? Wanted to slice her open for a $20,000 procedure with a 40% failure rate.
That night, something inside me snapped.
I wasn't going to watch the woman I love turn into a prescription drug statistic.
I wasn't going to let some surgeon use her as a Mercedes payment.
I went to war with everything I thought I knew about hip pain.