The Perfect Surgery
My surgeon and I have 2 very different definitions of the word perfect.
To me, the perfect hardware removal surgery would mean...I don't know...that all the hardware would be removed. But maybe that's just the crazy talking. Maybe I've had a few too many pain pills. Because my orthopedist tells me, "The surgery went perfectly, Brittany!" Yet he's standing there telling me that the head of one of the screws broke off while he was trying to remove it. So he left it in there. To me, perfect doesn't include broken screws.
I hate the word perfect because you might as well say impossible. Earthly perfection is purely objective. There is no right answer. My definition of perfect is different from yours. We place varying degrees of value on portions of the equation. Your perfect is not my perfect so no one is ever authentically happy. It took me awhile to realize this. I spent most of my youth pursuing this ever-elusive so-called perfect.
I'm sorry, but the only thing that's perfect is God's love. End of story.
So I guess it doesn't matter what my orthopedist's definition of perfect is because no one's perfect is every going to measure up to my definition. My version of the perfect surgery would have erased the past. I mean, that's what I was looking for, wasn't it? I wanted all evidence of my medical history removed. I wanted a clean slate. I expected the scars on my leg to be the only trace of the 6 surgeries and countless years that have gone into rehabilitating my hip. I demanded the impossible, and that's not all that fair, now is it?
But still. Dude. Seriously. It was hard enough explaining why a person my age had the hardcore hip hardware that I flaunted when undergoing medical diagnostics. But at least that could be explained. I now have what looks like a stray screw floating inside the middle of my femur. 6 surgeries. Countless scars. 1 stray screw. No rational explanation.
Please, people, help me out. This is dying for a good story. "I got in a fight with a nail gun." "My brother thought I was a two-by-four." "It was a dare."