(I chose this title because my sister wanted to create a WhatsApp group after my hip replacement called “Hip-Op,” to keep everyone close to us informed of my progress. “Get it? it’s like hip-hop only it’s “hip-op” instead.” I gave her a withering stare. The group was never created.)

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned: it’s been six months since my last blog post. And what an exhausting six months it’s been.

My birthday, my forty-second birthday was a bit different this year. Traditionally, my friends and I go out for dinner, but instead I decided a bit of surgery was in order. Come on now, lots of women in their forties opt for surgery – a tuck here, a lift there! But no such luck for me. As I mentioned in my last blog, my life had become miniscule. By February, I could no longer bear weight through my right leg. I was prescribed bupromorphine patches, and was considering using them when I read that I’d have to wean off them before hip replacement surgery. It was becoming clear that surgery was going to be my only choice.

In March, I found out that my urgent surgery was scheduled for Friday, 24 April. I was terrified, but what terrified me more was the prospect of continuing as I was indefinitely. Two hours’ sleep per night, tilted in my wheelchair. Losing the ability to stand for any length of time. Constant pain, even when taking the maximum dosage of painkillers. Deep depression, caused by a sense of uselessness and failure. By this stage, I had been in chronic pain for nearly six years, not taking it seriously enough because I’d been told that it was a side effect of my depression, or aging with Cerebral Palsy. Trying to push through it all in the belief that it was my own fault.

When D-Day came, I wasn’t scared. I’d spent so much time, night after sleepless night googling the surgery, looking up the restrictions, aftercare instructions, exercises and possible complications that I couldn’t have been more prepared. We checked in and I rushed to the toilet, determined not to piss myself in the middle of surgery. Of course, I’d forgotten that I’d need to give a urine sample before surgery. Lads, I was drier than the Sahara. I’d only drank small amounts the night before as per pre-surgical instructions, and I had nothing to give. Legally, the hospital had to make sure I wasn’t pregnant before they could proceed.

“Oh, is that the reason?” I clasped my hands together. “I’m definitely not. My hip is so fecked that hanky panky is the last thing on my mind.” The staff thought it was hilarious, but no dice. I missed my original surgery slot. While I was waiting, I was instructed to lie flat on a bed. The pain in my hip was so severe that I couldn’t lie straight. They had to give me pain meds which did nothing; you could hear my screams across the town. The nurses were shocked by how bad the pain was. They’d ordered an ultrasound, but thankfully I was finally able to produce some precious pee before it came to that, and ascertain that there were no little Fitzgeralds waiting to be discovered.

Many disabled people might tell you that their childhoods have been largely dominated by surgeries, but this wasn’t my experience. Apart from my c-section in 2012, I’d never gone under the knife, and I was s-h-one-t’ing myself. I was brought down to surgery and put into a little room with five or six doctors. They sat me up and bent me forward so that my boobs were pressed against my knees. The pain- which was the hip pain – was unbearable. Then they successfully administered the epidural, and all sensation in my legs floated away. For the first time in six years, I couldn’t feel any pain whatsoever, and I remember not caring in that moment about anything, even the possibility of dying on the table. Before entering the operating theatre, I closed my eyes and asked my mum (now deceased seventeen years) to look after Alison if the unthinkable should happen to me. The staff probably thought I was mad.

I was given a needle through my arm. Next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. I’d gone in at half one; it was now a quarter to four. As I opened my eyes, the nurses were chatting about their weekend plans and smiled as they clocked me earwigging. Then it was up to the ward. I don’t remember much about that evening. My phone was buzzing with endless notifications but I barely had the energy to hold it.

The next morning, the surgeon came by and told me that the operation was a success. He also told me that my old hip had shattered in his hands as he was taking it out of me. In other words, I really could not have gone on much longer.

I can’t say that I was instantly pain-free, but it was a different kind of pain, manageable with drugs and ice. The staff ensured that I was drugged up, and I was introduced to Oxy, which I stayed on for three weeks. I was spoiled in the hospital with a steady flow of daily visitors, to whom I will always be eternally grateful. John Paul was amazing. He kept things ticking over at home and took over with Alison, ensuring that her routine was as normal as possible, and was with me in the hospital every hour that he wasn’t occupied. He also took great care of me when I came home, ensuring I didn’t have to worry about anything. He still won’t let me do certain chores, much to my frustration, but I suppose after six years of being in pain, some things aren’t worth the risk of dislocation at the moment.

My sisters also both deserve a shout out for their efforts during this time. Laura came up from Cork and stocked my freezer with food and medicine cabinet with vitamins. Alex became a live-in nursemaid when I came home from hospital, helping me shower, toilet and even stayed overnight several times a week. Were it not for these kindnesses, I might have had to consider alternative recuperation arrangements, and everyone who knows me knows of my deep and somewhat irrational fear of being institutionalised. I’m also blessed with good friends who brought me out of the house and helped me to embrace the world again after hiding from it for so long.

Before I had the hip replacement, I was told by so many people that I wouldn’t know myself, that it would be worth it, and that I would get my life back. For the first month after the surgery, I was stiff and sore and thought I’d made a mistake, but almost five months since the operation, I can confirm that if you are in as much pain as I was, a replacement is certainly worth it – PROVIDED (sorry for shouting, screen-reader-users) you do your walking and your physio. In my experience, the physio and walking has to be done, otherwise you can seize up quite quickly. I always said I’d be happy not to return to full-time walking as long as the replacement took the pain away. And for safety reasons, a return to walking full time would be ill-advised for me. I used to fall all the time and think nothing of it, but now a single fall could dislocate the prosthesis, so there’s more at stake.

It’s hard work, but slowly, I feel I’m getting my life back. The biggest obstacle I have right now is tiredness, but I think a lot of that is down to me weaving more activity into my life. I’m back batch cooking, something I haven’t had the energy for in years. I’m back trying to do at least two hours’ writing a day, and I try to do three twenty minute walks from one end of my house to the other (I’m not confident about walking outside the house yet, but I know it will come). Considering that I’d reached a point where I couldn’t even bear weight through my right leg at all prior to the operation, I must admit I’m pleased with my progress.

The cause of my hip woes was discovered to be a condition called hip dysplasia. I’m not sure how long I’ve had it, but in my case the dysplasia involved the femur (thigh bone) being pushed right up into the hip socket, and the head of the femur grinding against the hip socket. Who knew that a case of sciatica could turn out to be something completely different? Hip dysplasia is typically diagnosed in infants, but adults can also be diagnosed later in life, having not developed pain or other symptoms until their thirties and forties, which is what happened in my case. That said, given our gait and muscle tone, it’s not unusual for us wobbly CPers to have hip dysplasia. I admit I do look back sometimes and wonder if I overlooked some obvious symptoms. I’d always get a stitch in my right side after walking. If I fell, it would always be the right leg that buckled first. And it would explain why, despite all the physio I’ve done over the last few years, I never felt that the right leg was getting stronger. That’s the biggest change I’ve noticed in these last twenty-two weeks: my leg finally feels the benefit of the physio.

Operation “Sort My Life Out” is now in full swing, as much as my energy will allow. I’m back writing godawful blogs. I’m actively looking for work  – I’m registering with Employability, who help disabled people find work, as well as doing a jobseeking course online. Every day I make a small step towards progress. And I really hope this doesn’t sound arrogant, but I’m proud of myself. Proud that I found what was causing the pain all these years. Proud that I was brave enough to risk a complex operation. And I would urge anyone reading this who is experiencing chronic pain not to give looking for answers. I shudder to think what my future would look like now if I had.