You Need a Hip Replacement… Wait, Me?! I’m 37! Episode 6 Blog.

The Story I Couldn't Fit Into the Mic:

I recorded episode 6 from a place I’m still growing in—from the middle of healing, not the end. And if you’ve listened, you already know I shared about the day I found out I needed hip surgery. But the blog… the blog is where I let you in a little closer. It’s where I tell you the parts I wasn’t quite ready to say out loud.

Because the truth is, the story behind my left hip replacement wasn’t just about my body. It was also about my heart, my faith, my history, and the kind of fear I had never felt before.

“You’re 37. You need hip surgery.”

That sentence hit like a brick.

It was the end of August. I had just come back from a road trip to Chicago with my husband. I was walking through shops, laughing, living in what felt like almost normal. Sure, there was pain, but I kept brushing it off, hoping it was just an easy fix kind of thing, maybe something an injection could fix.

I walked into that appointment full of hope and left with something completely different.

The doctor looked at my X-rays and said the words: Avascular Necrosis. AVN.Then came the real blow: “We need to schedule surgery right away.”

I felt the room shrink.

It didn’t make sense. How was I just walking all over Chicago and now you’re telling me my hip is deteriorating? I was in denial. Completely. I smiled politely, nodded through the appointment, and went back to life “as normal.” But “normal” doesn’t really exist when you’re living in a body that’s crying out. I felt unseen and in shock all in one, cried for a while, then let it be!

By October, I couldn’t hide it anymore. The pain was unbearable. Walking became impossible without support. I was 37, and I was using a cane. That version of me, the one in denial, was slowly being stripped down to face reality.

The Second Opinion That Saw More Than Just My Hip

I booked a second opinion with another orthopedic doctor. That appointment changed everything. It was November 11th. I remember the date because what happened that day stayed with me. This doctor—Dr. Watson—was detailed. Gentle. Human. He actually looked at me. Not just my X-rays, not just my chart—me.

He found something the first doctor had missed. He told me the left side was actually worse than the right. He told me I needed surgery—soon. But what stood out most wasn’t what he said, but what he did.

I cried in that room. The kind of cry you try to hold in but can’t. And he didn’t rush me. He didn’t treat me like an inconvenience. He asked if he could pray for me. And in that moment, I felt a weight begin to lift.

I still wasn’t ready. But I knew I wasn’t alone.

The Fear That Took My Breath Away

I didn’t talk much in the podcast about what the prep time looked like emotionally. But here’s what you didn’t hear:

I was terrified.

Not just nervous. Not just uncomfortable. Terrified. I was afraid of dying. Afraid of bleeding too much on the table. Afraid of going into a sickle cell crisis while under anesthesia. There’s something so uniquely vulnerable about being a chronically ill person going into surgery—you carry more than your medical chart with you. You carry every memory of being dismissed, misdiagnosed, misunderstood. And you wonder if your body will betray you at the worst possible moment.

But what hurt most was the silence where I needed a voice.

When My Mom Wasn’t There

The morning of my surgery, I was getting a blood transfusion—part of the pre-op plan because of sickle cell. My husband was right beside me, holding my hand, comforting me. I’m so grateful for him. He’s everything I needed in that moment.

But someone was missing.

My mom.

She’s been there for so many of my medical moments. She’s held my hand through crises, through childhood hospital stays. But not this time. We had been at odds. A fight had created space between us, and instead of being by my side, she was hurt—and so was I.

What I felt that morning wasn’t just fear of the surgery. It was the ache of emotional abandonment. The old wound of not being fully seen when I was hurting. Of ego getting in the way of presence. It brought up memories from long before this surgery. It reopened things I hadn’t realized were still bleeding.

And yet… even there… I wasn’t left alone.

God Showed Up

Dr. Watson prayed with me before surgery. The team treated me with kindness. I felt God whisper to me something I’ve never forgotten:“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” – Exodus 14:14

And I was still.

The surgery happened on November 26th. The plan was to be discharged the next day. But because of a mini sickle cell crisis post-op, I stayed until the 28th. That was Thanksgiving Day. And even in that sterile hospital room, something holy happened.

Healing in the Hospital

I’ll never forget how God’s love showed up.

Friends visited. My pastor friend brought me coffee and prayers. My baby girl (bestie's kid)—who’s like my own—was there too. People called, checked in, and poured love into a body that was sore and swollen but safe.

I don’t remember every detail. Pain meds and recovery haze make memories blurry. But I do remember the feeling: I was held.

God’s hands and feet showed up that week—in nurses, friends, doctors, and even unexpected visitors.

Looking Back Now…

I was 37 when I had that surgery. And I was scared. And grieving. And more cracked open than I had words for.

But I was also becoming.

If you’ve ever gone into surgery afraid you might not come out, or felt the sting of someone important not showing up—just know: You are not dramatic. You are not weak.You are not alone.

Some of the hardest healing happens before the scalpel even touches your skin. And sometimes, miracles look like a prayer whispered by a surgeon or a visit from someone you didn’t know needed to see you on a hospital bed to remind you—you’re loved.

Thank you for reading.

If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share this post with someone who’s walking through something hard. And if you haven’t yet, listen to Episode 6 on Spotify or watch it on YouTube (with subtitles in English, Spanish, and Portuguese).

This space was created for stories like this—for messy middles, for joy in the journey.

With so much love, yours truly!

Jaja Fortuna🧡