The old woman's socks catch my eye as soon as she lowers herself into the chair. They are detergent-commercial white and covered with small, cheerful ladybugs. In a room whose decor can best be described as Upscale Institutional, such whimsy seems an act of rebellion. I smile with appreciation, but her eyes are closed. She looks bone weary. In an orthopedic clinic, this is not a metaphor.

A clipboard-wielding helper squats next to her, and speaks in the patient, authoritative tone used to address the infirm.

"Right here. Sign your name right here." Ladybug opens her eyes, but doesn't move to take the pen.

Clipboard pauses. "Right here," she urges. "Your name."

Another pause.

"Mary Louise Allen. Mary. Louise. Allen." 

I close my eyes.

A year ago, I learned I have hip dysplasia, the medical term for hip sockets that are too shallow to allow proper joint function, and because of this my right hip is in the advanced stages of arthritis and my left one will follow. It wasn't the 50th birthday present I'd been hoping for. My doctor outlined my options, all of which end with a hip replacement at a too-young age, predisposing me to a second, more complicated surgery when that one wears out. Unless I die first.

Many people suggested many things.Rose hips. Glucosamine. MSM. Pilates. Rolfing. Acupuncture. Also, it was advisable to quit eating foods I enjoy. Their well-meaning counsel only served to deepen my dismay. Not only was I facing a hip replacement, but my friends had me confused with someone else. I have never belonged to a gym or finished an entire bottle of vitamins.  

Because the devices have a life-span, the recommendation is to put off surgery until you can't stand it anymore. I'm sure this is sound, and I love a doctor who truly considers surgery a last resort, but he had no idea who he was talking to. My degree is in putting up with things, especially if someone is likely to be impressed by my exceptional fortitude. I'll see your arthritis and raise you an amputation. 

As I  put on my coat to leave, I pictured him shaking his head, years - maybe even a decade - later. "Wow," he would breathe, "when I saw your x-ray, I never thought you'd last six months. You're amazing!" 

Almost 12 months to the day later, I'm back in the clinic with the ladybugs. Just walking into the place gobsmacks me with the fact of human frailty. I can be as heroic as I want, but it's a house of cards. One day, the wind's gonna blow. As if on cue, my hip resumes its dull, familiar ache.

Making the appointment for a new consultation felt like admitting defeat. Last night, I tossed and turned with anxiety, preparing my speech. Once the preliminaries are attended to, I begin. I'm fine, I say, it's still not that bad, but my husband and my friends say it's affecting me more than I think, so I thought I'd get your opinion, seeing as you have a medical degree and all. He smiles without condescension, and gives a thoughtful, perceptive answer. Then he looks at my latest x-ray and says Yikes, which does not seem like a good sign.

I know a hip replacement is a highly successful procedure and I'm immensely grateful it's available. I have insurance, and sick leave, and people who will bring me flowers and cook me meals and make witty jokes about doing laps at the mall with my walker.

Still. I was the hula hoop champion of Easterby Elementary School. I could do more than 100 jumps on my pogo stick on a rocky slope without falling. I leapt onto kitchen counters to reach rarely-used condiments like a gazelle with jiggly thighs. Even with my new techno-hip, those days will not return. 

I left without making an appointment for surgery. I'm still not quite ready. But tonight, when the pain began, I let go a little more.