Hip Stories

I have hurt my hip. And it’s not for the first time.

When I was pregnant with my third and final baby I developed issues with my right hip. 3 pregnancies in under 4 years had resulted in an excess of relaxin – a hormone that loosens up your joints to allow the baby to pass through your pelvis.

It was painful at the time, and I had physiotherapy after he had made his appearance, which seemed to sort out the majority of my aches & pains. But the truth is that walking distances, especially when I’m in a hurry, causes it to act up.

Cut to Wednesday. That third baby is now 10 and a half years old, and he has signed up for rugby camp at a location we can only get to by a 10min walk followed by a 15min bus journey and then a 20 min walk uphill. I dropped him off and came home. I picked him up and came home. And on the way home my hip was niggling. It wasn’t happy and, while it wasn’t shouting for attention, it wasn’t exactly easy to ignore.

Now, here’s where I admit to you that I did a really stupid thing. Are you listening, my lovely? Because I’m really hoping that if you find yourself in a similar situation, you don’t do something similar.

All week I had been looking forward to attending the Wednesday drop in class for 5 Rhythms. My husband had especially arranged his schedule so he would be home to watch the kids, and I had crowed on Twitter about how excited I was and how good I knew I would feel after spending 2 hours allowing the music to flow freely through my body.

About 20 minutes before I was due to leave, I had a wobble. I was hugging my husband and I drew back so I could look him in the eye, and the pain sang its way through my right hip.

‘Maybe I won’t go tonight,’ I told him.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘If you don’t feel like going, don’t go.’
I thought for a moment or two… and here’s where I made that mistake.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s ok. I’ve been really looking forward to it. I’ll be fine. I’ll go.’

I didn’t feel the pain while I was dancing. The music was beautiful, heart-stirring. My bare feet travelled across the wooden floor, my hands creating complex shapes in the air, my arms defining long lines out and away from my body. And yes, my hips. My hips moved and swayed like the swelling of the tides as the rhythm of the music crashed through me. I felt ecstatic.

It was on the way from the dance class to the bus stop that I knew. My hip, by this point, was actually throbbing with a sharp glassy pain as I stood waiting for the number 29, which seemed to me to be taking its own sweet time. Changing buses at Princes Street and walking down to York Place to get the next bus, I had it confirmed. I should have stayed home. I’d done something really silly, and now my body was paying the price.

And I did that thing that we always do when we make a mistake. I berated my stupidity. I tore strips off my inner self – the one who wanted to feel the pulse of the music vibrate through her body as she created unchoreographed stories with her neck and calves and fingers and shoulders. And yes, her hips. I called myself names. I rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of me.

By the time I got home, I was feeling very sorry for myself.

The next day I could hardly walk. I hobbled from bed to sofa to computer chair to dining chair to sofa. And as I recognised the extent of my pain, feeling into the edges of it – can I do this? can I move like that? what if I stretched my leg like this? – I swiftly realised that collecting my son from rugby camp would be a problem.

Cue my second mistake. Oh yes. This is indeed a catalogue of errors.

I was offered help and I chose not to take it. I’d been given a lift up to the camp, and I figured, it’s all downhill to get back to the bus. I can do that. If I take my time.

It took me an hour and a half.

Finally home, I sat nursing my hip, asking myself why I had not accepted help. Was it because I didn’t want to put anyone out? Even when they’d freely offered? Yes, I think that was partly it. I think the deeper issue is that I’m still holding onto a belief that life has to be hard. And that by accepting help, by making life easier, I was somehow missing the point of it.

It strikes me now that this deep and spirit-suppressing truth was what led to the injury in the first place. Niggly hip? Oh, for goodness sake, woman. Don’t be a wimp! Get out there and dance like you said you would.

If I had listened to my body with a compassionate heart, I wouldn’t have left the house. I’d have let the pain settle, as it usually does.

If I had accepted the help I’d been offered, I’d have been home a lot sooner, I wouldn’t have had to endure walking such a distance on my poor hip and, I suspect, I wouldn’t be aching half as much as I am today as I write this.

And yes, I’m sure there are other interpretations for an aching hip. Fear of moving forward. Fear of the future. Difficulty expressing yang energy. Even a form of gestation evoking past pains connected to past pregnancies.

But at the end of the day, I have a strong feeling that the simple explanation is the most valid. There’s a part of me still determined to walk the hard road.

So, my darlings, my advice to you? Be ye not so stupid. Choose to listen to your body with compassion. Choose to receive help. Choose ease and softness and gentleness. Be kind to yourself. Be aware of any tendencies you may have to choose hardship and consciously choose an easier path.

And as for me? I’m resting. I’m being loving towards myself. I’m accepting help. I’m learning. I’m singing an homage to my hips…

Lucille Clifton Reads ‘homage to my hips from BillMoyers.com on Vimeo.