At My Age?

I woke up in pain. Tried to roll over. Couldn’t. You need to get up, I scolded myself. You’ve got things to do.

Dress the kids. Make breakfast. Get everyone ready for one of our family’s favorite fall activities—the Harry Chapin Memorial Run Against Hunger.

The starting line was just a block from our house. My kids, Ryan, five, and Emma, three, loved to jog the short distance alongside my husband, Matthew, and me.

But today the prospect of walking a short race was like asking me to climb Mount Everest. Pain shot from my hips to my toes—a pain I’d been feeling more and more whether I was playing with the kids or walking through the office at my new job.

Somehow, I managed to get dressed. “Mommy’s legs hurt,” Emma said when I limped downstairs. By the time we got to the corner my lower body felt as if it would collapse at any moment. “I think Mommy’s going to sit this one out,” I said.

Matthew and the kids took off down the street. “Go, Ryan! Go, Emma!” I cheered after them. As they disappeared over a hill, I couldn’t help worrying. What if this pain turned out to be something serious?

I couldn’t afford to be out of commission. There were too many things to do. Who would take the kids to and from daycare? My husband couldn’t always do it. Emma had trouble sleeping…only my lullabies seemed to work. And my new job was complex. My coworker couldn’t do it alone.

Still, I couldn’t deny the pain. It got worse every day. I was 47, but some days I felt 97. I just can’t fight past the pain alone anymore, I thought.

A week later, I sat in my doctor’s office nervously awaiting his diagnosis. Multiple sclerosis? Something worse? “Arthritis,” he said.

“Arthritis?” I was taken aback. “Aren’t I too young for that?”

No, I wasn’t the only one to have arthritis at my age, the doctor said. I felt mildly relieved. Then the doctor held up my X rays. “If you weren’t sitting here, I’d think I was looking at the X rays of an 80-year-old,” he said. “You have severe osteoarthritis. You’ll need surgery—both hips have to be replaced. Then you’ll require several months of rehab.”

Major surgery. Hips replaced. Months of rehab.

The only surgeries I’d ever had were two C-sections when my kids were born, but that was different—I knew what to expect. Now I was facing a cloudy future of rehab centers and artificial parts that could break down. “Can’t I just take something?” I asked.

The doctor shook his head. “You have to deal with this, Susan,” he said.