Invasion of Privacy...

I see the City of San Francisco has made a law restricting the use of facial recognition software.  No, this post has nothing to do with that.  I really don't care of the government knows whether I am walking through the airport or not.  And for the record: I'm not.  Walking through the airport, that is.

I'm talking about an expectation of privacy in your personal life.  When I was in the hospital recently, there was no privacy.  When the nurse comes into the room, putting on a glove while asking if you have had a bowel movement... followed by: "Have you ever had a suppository?"  Yeah, no privacy.

Every medical person seems to want to look at my incision.  Seriously, I don't think the woman at the front counter who makes appointments really needs to look at my incision.  The PT guys, after checking the incision, poke and prod, and comment about the swelling and bruising.  That's probably part of their job, huh?

But, in your own bathroom, while cleaning up, you expect some degree of privacy.  There are 4 wall switches in my bathroom - three of them are for different lights, one is for the exhaust fan.  I was standing at the sink; just finished shaving; was well into the final bits of sponge bathing.  The door opened, and light switches were being pressed... it was like being in a disco.  Well, except I was wearing non-skid socks.  Just non-skid socks.  Joan said, "That bruise on your tailbone is nasty looking."

"Thank you for noticing."  Tailbone is a euphemism for ass.  It is a big ugly bruise on my ass.  I wasn't awake during the hip procedure, but I am pretty sure I rolled off the operating table a time or twelve.  Apparently landed on something blunt.  But, I digress.  Back to the situation at hand: next thing I know, I hear the camera click.  Photos of the bruise on my ass, the incision, and various other bruises on the back of my leg are being taken.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes, when you poke at it."

I am standing there, in all my sexy soxy-ness, with a soaped-up wash cloth ready to finish the last thing you finish when sponge bathing.  I heard the door close.  Privacy.

Two things that need to be said: I can't imagine getting through this without my Honey.  She has made this tough situation doable; been right beside me for every middle of the night trip to the potty.  Had all my meds laid out.  Scheduled things with the doctors.  Encouraged when I needed it.  I know it has been a bunch of work for her.  If she wants photos of my scarred up, bruised ol' ass, who am I to deny her that?

The other thing that needs to be said?  Thanks for asking.  No, I will not be posting those photos here.  Maybe for the Christmas newsletter.

;-)


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30/70... maybe 40/60.  Just finished today's PT session.  I am back to "part time" with the cane.  Using my own judgement.  The injury that happened last Saturday had nothing to do with the cane usage.  The result was extreme pain when tying to use the cane, thus the reason for back to the walker.  Exercising is slowly building, but avoiding the maneuver (for now) that caused the injury.  I feel I'm back on track.

While on a short walk outside, the physical therapist said, "Almost every recovery from this type of surgery has a setback or two along the way.  You are doing fine."

Pretty sure he gets paid to say that.  Kidding aside, I like these two PT guys.