Steven Harper's Blog, page 30
January 22, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 8 (Physical Therapy)
That's a lot of time. Hell, I feel like all I do is go to work and deal with my shoulder. I don't have the energy to write. I barely manage some exercise. I don't go anywhere. I spend most of my downtime watching TV and playing iPad games. I'm not used to this, and I don't like it.
It's also why the aftermath of the surgery has taken over my blog. It feels like I have nothing else in my life to write about!
The therapy clinic is a small, carpeted sort-of gym done in beige and brown. It has compact weight machines, a little staircase, a pulley system, a rack of free weights, bouncy-balls, and other such equipment. When I went here for PT before surgery, in the hope I could strengthen my shoulder and avoid surgery, I lifted heavy weights and did planking exercises on yoga mats. Now? It's different.
T--, my therapist, starts me off with baby exercises. They include stuff like moving my shoulder in certain ways, pinching my shoulder blades together, propping my half-dead arm on a pillow and backing up until it hurts as a stretching thing, and using a pulley system to raise my bad arm up until, again, the pain tells me to stop.
When those are done, T-- massages my arm and shoulder very, very gently. He used to put me on a bed with my feet and knees propped up, but that gave me unexpected flashbacks to surgery and got me all upset, so I asked him if there was another way to handle the massage. T-- said he can do it with me sitting in a chair just as well, so that's what we do, and I'm fine.
Once the massaging is done, we move to more stretching. T-- cradles my arm and slowly raises it. "Tell me when the pain reaches level four," he says. I shut my eyes and wait for it. Eventually, the pain starts. Usually I get a spike of it that quickly passes--T-- says it's because the bones in my arm are shifting position--and then a drawn-out, gradual increase of pain that makes me breathe hard and finally makes me tell T-- to stop. He holds my arm up at that level for a couple minutes, then slowly brings it down. Then he raises my arm at another angle. "Tell me when the pain reaches level four." We do this in a number of different directions, and by the time it ends, my shoulder is a ball of fire and I'm sweating, even though all I did was sit in a chair.
Pain is the actual metric here. Apparently, in PT you're SUPPOSED to be in pain all the time. You pull back just as it becomes unbearable--but that means you get these spikes of unbearable pain. It's exhausting, both physically and emotionally.
I also FEEL weak. As in, I'm a weak person. I used to do multiple sets of 70-pound bicep curls. Now I struggle to lift a single set of a fucking one-pound weight. It's demoralizing and humiliating.
I know it's temporary. I know things are improving. That doesn't make it any less shitty and humiliating, you know?
Worse, I learned that I'll be in PT for longer than I thought. It was supposed to two months--one month of stretching, followed by one month of strength work. But yesterday T-- said that, no, PT usually goes THREE months after surgery. I almost broke down when he said that. I've been doing this shit since September, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of it eating up my life, of it handing me this schedule, of the pain, pain, pain it causes. And now I've learned it's going to last yet another month.
I'm feeling kind of low right now, as you can probably tell.
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Shoulder Surgery 7 (Living With It)
I'm in pain almost all the time. It ranges from a vague, nagging ache to a vicious, gnawing pain. And if I move wrong, it explodes into a howling agony. It rises at the end of the day, probably because I'm tired and can't ignore it as easily. I'm doing my best to stay off the hydrocodone and stick with ibuprofen, but it's a rare day that I don't take at least one powerful painkiller. As anyone living with pain knows, it's . . . tiring. You never get a break from it, you know? It's not like at the end of the day, someone says, "Time's up! You've done your bit for the day," and the pain stops until tomorrow. No, it's always there, and you have to decide if the ibuprofen is enough, or if you want to take another step toward dependency and take the strong stuff. I guess I don't really need to be worried; it's rare for me to take more than one opiate pill a day.
There's the sling. God, I hate the sling. It's bulky. It gets in the way. It's like carrying around a giant cat you can't put down. It means I only have one hand to do anything. I get to work, for example, and I'm pulling a flight bag behind me (because I can't carry a backpack or briefcase), which means I don't have a hand free to open doors, pick up papers from the mailroom, or even fish my keycard from my pocket. It's hard to maneuver in a classroom or hallway filled with people, and I try to stay at my desk or on a stool in my classroom during the day. I can't wear regular pants to work because with one hand, I can't manage buttons or zippers in the bathroom. I can't wear my usual fleeces because I can't get a long-sleeved shirt on or off over my head. So I bought a bunch of jogging pants and zip-up fleeces. I look like I'm teaching gym.
I'm "allowed" to take the sling off to shower and dress. I'm also allowed to remove it if I'm sitting at a desk and my arm is at waist height "as long as you're comfortable," the doctor added. This lets me sort-of use a computer at home. At work I can't take the splint off to type, really, because when I get up, I have to put the splint back on, and at work, I tend to use my computer in short bursts instead of sitting for an hour or more.
My range of motion is increasing. Here, the hyperflexibility that contributed to this problem in the first place is actually helping me. But I still can't reach forward for much of anything. Last night, I slowly, achingly, barely, managed to return my toothbrush to the holder on the sink with my right hand, for example. I can't raise my arm in the shower. Instead, I have to lean forward and let my arm hang loosely so I can wash under it.
Going outside is . . . well, awful. I can only put one sleeve of my coat on, and the rest of it just drapes around my shoulders. I can't zip it or even close it fully, so I freeze anytime I have to go anywhere. I only go outside to get to the car. I can't go on walks or do anything else outdoors.
I can't really cook, either--making a sandwich or pouring a bowl of cereal are about all I can handle--and Darwin refuses to try, so we're living on frozen food and takeout. As a result, I'm having more of a tendency to eat unhealthy food right now, partly because I'm bored and partly out of a need for comfort. I worry about gaining weight, but so far, I haven't. In my darker moments, I suspect it's because I'm losing muscle mass.
I'm managing =some= exercise. I can't run, but I can walk, and I can use Darwin's elliptical. (Someone has to!) Before the operation, I was running at a high speed for about an hour a day, six times a week. Nowadays I can manage half an hour on the elliptical about three times a week. So my exercise regimen is down to a quarter of what it was. I'm trying to increase it, push through the fatigue, but I can only go so far. It's frustrating. I went from athlete to invalid in the space of two hours. I've worked hard for years to get my body to a healthy weight and gain good endurance, and now I'm afraid it's slipping away.
I can drive, as long as the roads are dry and I can use one hand. Slippery roads that require two-handed control are a no. Long drives are also too tiring. About 20 minutes is my max. At least I can drive to work! Poor Darwin doesn't have to drive back and forth between home and the school twice a day anymore.
It's challenging to be at work. We have all the problems of teaching with COVID, and now I have the sling, general pain, and a lack of energy. I've told my students what's going on, of course, and asked them to please keep things low key, but they're teenagers--quick to forget, often thoughtless of other people--and their behavior really doesn't change. I've had to modify my teaching. I don't demand their attention, for example. Instead, I have to sit in pointed quiet in front of the room until they realize I'm waiting for them to stop talking, and they shush each other. It takes longer to get anything done as a result. However, I've been teaching for 27 years, and I know the workarounds. I know where I can cut back, what I can leave out, what I can shorten so I can handle it. It's an advantage of being a veteran.
I have two sleeping positions: on my back with my arm propped on a pillow, and on my back with arm crossed over my chest. I sleep until pain in my arm wakes me up, and I switch to the other sleeping position until the pain wakes me up again. Rinse, repeat. This morning, though, I tried lying on my good side, with bad arm draped across my body and propped up with a pillow. This actually worked well enough to let me fall back asleep, and I see it as progress. I'm hoping tonight I can sleep that way all night!
Today, for the first time since the operation, Darwin and I were able to cuddle on a bed. (No, that's not a euphemism.) I laid down on my good side like I did above and put a pillow between us to prop up my bad arm, then rested my hand on his chest. It's the first time we've been able to do this since the operation. (Darwin can't hold me because he might accidentally shift or move in a way that hurts my shoulder.) It nearly brought me to tears, I'd missed it so much.
Theoretically, I'll get out of the sling permanently in five days. I'm keeping my splint fingers crossed.
Whenever someone asks me how my arm is doing, I say, "A little better every day." And that's true. It's also a struggle every day.
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January 16, 2022
Dual Birthday Dinners
Today (Sunday), Max wanted to take me for dinner. (He couldn't come up to Lapeer because he had to work.) We went to a nearby Italian restaurant I like and had more conversation that ranged from first-time mortgage lending to impact of TikTok videos on the anime industry.
So it was a nice pair of dinners!
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Lone Star 911: The Silliness of Texans
Then there's this season . . .
A snowstorm has whipped through Austin, you see, and the city is DEVASTATED. I mean, FLATTENED. Beneath the snow and ice and cold temperatures. It's just a horror!
And I'm laughing.
A whole pile of drama comes up when a building collapses "under the weight of the snow." Except the snow, as we can clearly see, is maybe half an inch thick. Apparently, Texans can't build a building that can handle any extra weight on the roof. One wonders how it stood up to flocks of pigeons over the years.
We have an injured man who flees a cabin in the woods, and the two people he leaves behind wonder how on earth they'll find him, despite the fresh snow surrounding the cabin that would leave tracks a child could follow. Apparently Texans are stupid.
The city is brought to its knees by the storm, and the newscasters on the show talk continuously about the horrific levels of snow that have fallen, but in all the shots, there's barely a dusting on the ground. Apparently Texans are blithering scaredy-cats, terrified of a few snow flakes.
And then there's this one storyline . . .
A boy of maybe twelve is home alone during the storm. Through the window he can see the neighborhood kids having a snowball fight, and he longs to join them. His mother on the phone admonishes him not to go outside because "you know what cold air does to your asthma." In the end, he goes outside anyway, only to find the snowball fight is over and everyone is cold and going back in. Still, he goes down to a local body of water (a river? a lake?) and pretends to play hockey by himself, sliding here and there on the ice. The ice breaks and dumps him into the water. The water carries him away from the hole, so now he's trapped underneath it. Some time later, an elderly couple are out and about, rescuing half-frozen turtles. The man sees the boy's face below the ice. The boy screams all the air out of his lungs when he sees the old man. Horrified, the couple tries to call 911, but they can't get a signal because the snow took out all the cell towers, so they hurry off to find a house with a landline and call 911 from there. But there are no fire trucks available, so the dispatcher sends an ambulance, the only rescue vehicle she can find. The paramedics arrive on the scene and, to their terror, slide three feet when they try to stop. They have no real ice rescue equipment, so they McGyver up some rope by tying sheets together and one of the paramedics crawls out onto the ice with a laryngoscope, which he uses to chop through the ice right above the kid's nose. The ice, however, is three or four inches thick, and it takes quite some time for him to break through.
By now, the kid has been under the ice, by my estimation, for at least two hours, probably three. He's had no air in his lungs for most of that time.
The adventurous paramedic breaks through the ice, but it creates a huge hole and he ends up plunging into the water himself. Somehow, he manages to grab the kid, and the rest of the team haul on the sheet rope (which miraculously doesn't break) and slowly, achingly, pull the pair out and slide them to the shore. The paramedics rush the boy back to the ambulance, but it has somehow, all by itself, slid off the road and is sitting at a cockeyed angle. Oh no! The ambulance is useless! So they put the kid in the old couple's car with the heater on and, using an ECMO machine from the ambulance, manage to resuscitate the kid while the paramedic who fell into the hole sits to one side blowing on his fingers to warm himself.
Oh, man. I'm laughing throughout.
--Everyone who's dealt with asthma knows that cold air is GOOD for asthma. The mom should have TOLD the boy to play outside.
--Before the storm blows in, Austin is enjoying mild, sunny weather. Everyone is walking around in spring jackets. In other words, the temperature was clearly well above freezing. And yet, within a couple hours of the snowstorm hitting, THE LAKE FREEZES OVER. No. Just no. There wouldn't even be a hint of ice on a lake or river until we had a couple-three days of cold weather, and it would be a couple-three WEEKS before anyone could step on the ice without it breaking immediately.
--And even if you can accept the flash-frozen lake, how is it that the ice was so thin it broke under the boy's weight, but the paramedic had to chop through several inches of it? If he had to chop through that much, the ice shouldn't have broken in the first place.
--The boy screams all the air out of his lungs, but still bobs near the surface under the ice. If he had released all his air, he would sink.
--The ambulance has enough sheets to create a rope thirty or forty feet long? That's a lot of sheets!
--The ambulance is parked on a level surface, but somehow, entirely by itself, slides off the road. How does that work?
--The paramedic who fell into the lake sits in front a car heater, blowing on his fingers, and this is sufficient to warm him up. My! What a hero, able to overcome hypothermia in a single bound!
--The absolute maximum anyone spent under ice and lived to tell about it is two hours, and it took paramedics over an hour and a half of work on him to get a pulse. This boy was under the ice for much longer than that, and he was awake and talking within five minutes of being put on an ECMO machine. Huh.
--When the boy originally goes outside, he leaves his asthma inhaler behind, and the show makes a big deal of it. Clearly, the inhaler will be important later! But . . . nope! No mention of it is made again. As it happens, the kid being asthmatic never even comes up later. He didn't need to be asthmatic at all, really. The writers could have just had him go outside to play by himself.
The whole thing is farcically bad. It makes Texans look like a bunch of blithering idiots who are flattened and frightened by a half inch of snow. Everyone in the show runs around screaming their heads off about the awful, scary weather while tromping around in snow that doesn't even reach the tops of their shoes!
The show is being unintentionally funny--the worst kind of humor.
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Exercise, Post-Surgery
Fortunately, I didn't gain weight. For a while, I was actually losing it. (!) Then it occurred to me that I was probably losing muscle tone. You can lose muscle surprisingly fast, in fact. But my shoulder--and pelvis--hurt too much consider a return to routine.
But a couple days ago, I decided to re-start everything. The doctor said I can walk, but I can't run (it would bounce my shoulder around too much). So I got on my treadmill and walked for 45 minutes. My heart rate barely broke 85, but I was able to do it, so--win!
Yesterday, I walked for a few minutes, then decided to get on Darwin's elliptical. I can use it one-handed, and it's a no-impact machine, so my shoulder wouldn't bounce around. This worked very well, actually. I don't like the elliptical in general, but hey--I can stay in shape during the enforced convalescence.
I did catch on to the trick of lining my sling with a towel. Don't want the sling, which I can't wash, to get sweaty. Ew.
We'll see how it goes today!
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January 14, 2022
Surgery 6 (The Letter)
Once I was recovered enough to think straight, I considered what to do about the operating room staff who made sexual assault jokes at my expense while I was unconscious. I looked up the clinic's web site, but it didn't list a clinic manager or anything, and I couldn't remember the names of any of the staff I'd met. No names were anywhere on my discharge paperwork, either.
I decided that meant the doctor who had operated on me was the person in charge. So I wrote him a letter detailing what had happened. I made one small change, though. Rather than mention my recording, I just said the staff made their remarks before the anesthesia took hold and I overheard them. I mailed copies to both the clinic and to the doctor's office.
A couple days later, I had my official surgery follow-up appointment. I was anxious about it. Not because I was worried about the doctor becoming confrontational or anything. I can handle that. I was anxious because I didn't WANT to deal with a confrontation (or a denial) while I was supposed to be healing. But it had to be done.
I brought Darwin into the examination room with me for moral support.
The exam began with a nurse, who examined the incisions and removed my stitches. This turned out to be tricky--whoever had closed had tied everything too tight, making it hard to dig the thread out. Then the nurse left to get the doctor.
I fidgeted until the doctor finally came in. I thought he might go through the follow-up stuff and save the letter for last or something, but he didn't.
"I got your letter," he said. "And I want to tell you I'm very sorry that happened. It shouldn't have. I'm shocked the staff said those things. It wasn't professional in any way, and it doesn't represent the way we run things."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"I will be taking this up with the staff," he added.
"I want to know their reactions," I said.
He nodded. "Of course. I'll contact you about it." This was followed with more effusive apologies.
I felt better, even relieved. I'd been expecting denial, actually. The medical community, in my experience, never apologizes for anything. An apology can be seen as an admission of wrongdoing and therefore a potential malpractice suit. So the doctor's words caught me off guard. I was glad about it.
He went on with the exam, and produced on his pad a set of photos taken from the operation showing my joints and tendons before he'd done anything. He took the time to point out what had been wrong--a torn shoulder ligament, both bicep tendons partly unattached, a clavicle bone spur that was grating. Then he showed some after photos and explained what he had done--repaired the ligament, re-attached the tendons with bone screws, ablated the spur. I appreciated this quite a lot. I have a need to know exactly what happens during any procedure, and this doctor was telling me everything without prompting.
He gave me more instructions about care. I'll be in the sling until February at least, at which point I'll work on strength at physical therapy instead of stretching. I can take the splint off at a desk for short periods as long as I keep my arm at waist height, and I can sleep in a bed without it "as long as it's comfortable," the doctor warned. He said I should avoid driving still, since I don't have full control of the car when I drive with only one hand.
Then he apologized one more time and left.
Okay. I felt better. I felt heard, and I felt that the situation would be addressed. The whole thing wasn't over yet, but it was going in a good direction.
A few days later, I was doing wimp exercises in physical therapy when my phone buzzed. The ID said it was the bone and joint clinic, so I picked up instead of letting it go to voice mail.
I spoke with a woman who identified herself as the clinic's version of an office manager. "The doctor said you wrote him a letter and he wanted the issue addressed," she said. "I haven't read it yet because I want to hear about it straight from you. Can you tell me what happened?"
I repeated the story. I finished with, "I told the anesthesiologist about my history so that the team would understand my reactions and be able to help me better. I trusted them to be caring and professional while I was unconscious and completely vulnerable. Instead, I got the opposite."
The manager fell all over herself to apologize, as the doctor had. "This isn't representative of the staff at our clinic, and it's definitely not our policy to treat patients this way," she finished. "I'm extremely sorry this happened."
"Thank you," I said, "though I really want to hear this from the staff."
This created a little hemming and hawing. She said it was her job to be point person and deal with this issue, but she would have individual meetings with the staff members to make sure they understood the seriousness.
"I need to know their reactions," I said. "I'm not interested in filing anything, but I need assurance that there will be a permanent change in behavior and attitude."
She said she understood, and asked me to give her a few days so she could meet with everyone. She promised to call me back, apologized yet more, and hung up.
Okay, then.
The manager hasn't called back yet, though it's been four days. I'm still patient. I do intend to press for personal apologies from the staff in question. Written or verbal, I don't care. Yes, I'm aware that I have grounds--and evidence--for a fairly serious lawsuit that could let me retire early. But I'm not interested in ruining anyone's career. I'd rather they had an "oh fuck" moment and changed their behavior. After all, if they did it to me, they must have done it to other patients. This can--should--be a wakeup call and make them better people.
We'll see.
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Surgery 5 (The Second Procedure)
The second operation was scheduled for a week after my shoulder operation. This wasn't on purpose--it just happened that way. The procedure was supposed to be a minor one called a Urolift. (You can Google it if you want details.) Because my urologist stressed it's a simple, easy, painless procedure, I decided to go through with it, even though my shoulder was still recovering. It made sense, actually. The two procedures were completely unrelated, so the one wouldn't exacerbate the other, and I wouldn't have to take yet more time off work if I bundled the two operations together. Additionally, I was worried that the pandemic would overwhelm the hospital and shut down "elective" operations if I put mine off, so it was a good idea to get it done now.
I did ask the urologist if me being in a sling would pose a problem for the operation, and he said it wouldn't. He also said that there was about a 20% chance that they would have to put me on a catheter when the procedure was finished, but it would only need to stay in for 24 hours. I wasn't worried.
I should have been.
So on another Monday, Darwin drove me to the hospital in Wherever. My usual anxiety was blunted by the painkillers I was still taking for my shoulder. The pre-op nurse seemed surprised that I had the sling, though I had told the hospital about it when I scheduled and when they called with the pre-op instructions. I told the nurse that under no circumstances could they remove my sling while I was sleeping--the threshold for detecting damage to my shoulder was pain, you see. Feel pain? Stop the movement immediately or you could tear something. Under anesthesia, however, I wouldn't feel any pain and wouldn't be able to tell someone to stop moving my arm. So the sling HAD to stay in place at all times. The nurse seemed a little hesitant, but finally agreed.
The pre-op stuff was becoming routine for me. I had my recorder taped to my finger again, and this time, no one seemed to even notice it. SPOILER: When I listened to it later, there was nothing untoward. The worst of it was overhearing the staff talk about their favorite TV shows while they were draping me. During the operation itself, there was almost no talk at all. No complaints.
Then I woke up. In terrible pain. Awful, horrible, screaming pain. But I was groggy from the anesthetic, so I could barely talk. As the anesthetic wore off, the pain continued. My entire pelvis was wracked with it.
I was wearing a catheter. The nurse said the doctor spotted some blood and had put me on it. The catheter, though, was causing the pain. A catheter shouldn't hurt, but oh, this one did. I was thrashing and moaning, and demanding help. And Darwin wasn't there to advocate for me. The pain grew worse and worse and I was crying and shouting. And over in another section of the recovery room, some staff members were singing Happy Birthday to someone. It was surreal.
Finally, my screams convinced the nurse that I needed painkillers. She gave me a slow dose ("We have to inject it slowly so it doesn't hit you all at once"). It did absolutely nothing. I kept screaming. I was half delirious now, and had only a vague idea where I was and what was happening. When I listened to it all on the recorder, I realized I remembered less than half of what I said. The nurse, who seemed exasperated, finally gave me another med, and the pain at last faded. It didn't disappear; I just wasn't screaming with it.
And then they dressed me and sent me home with Darwin. I was to return to the urologist the next day to have the catheter removed.
At home, I sat dazed on the couch, my arm in a sling and a catheter taped to my leg, wondering what the hell was going on with my life. I didn't have the concentration to do anything except sit and rest, which was all I needed to do anyway.
An hour later, the hospital's painkillers wore off, and the pain came thundering back.
I started shouting again. It was horrible, debilitating pain. It came in waves. Every time the catheter drained a little, I screamed with it. Poor Darwin was completely unnerved. I told him to call the urologist's emergency number. He did, and in a few minutes, the urologist called me back.
"How are you doing?" he said cheerfully.
"Shitty," I said through clenched teeth, then cried out as more pain ripped through me. "This catheter needs to come out now."
"That's probably not a good idea," he said.
More pain, more screaming. Then I said, "I'm taking it out. I know how. Just cut the balloon drain and pull."
"That may not work," he said cautiously. "Sometimes it doesn't drain all the way. You need to have it done at a facility."
I hung up on him and Darwin got me into the car for a drive to the emergency room. I considered calling an ambulance, but figured it would be faster if Darwin just took me. Every bump and jolt on the road made me howl again. Darwin's hands were white on the steering wheel.
The ER in Clarkston is weird. The entrance, clearly labeled EMERGENCY, actually puts you in the pharmacy. I had to limp past a staring pharmacist, holding the catheter bag and trying not to scream again. Through another door was the actual ER. The nurse wanted to do all the paperwork before helping me, but another wave of pain crashed over me and I howled until she brought me back into a room.
Another nurse came in and I explained what was going on. "I need the catheter taken out NOW," I finished.
The nurse didn't argue. He drained the anchoring balloon with a syringe--another pain wave--and then said, "On three."
I remember thinking to myself two things at that moment. The first was that I didn't want him to count to three. I wanted him to just pull the fucking thing out. My second thought, hard on the first, was that he wasn't going to count to three. It was a ruse to stop me from tensing up, and he was indeed going to pull it right away.
(Things get a little gross here. Just warning you.)
I was right. The nurse pulled the catheter out. I actually fainted for a few seconds. Then I was pissing full-on blood, and that almost made me faint again. I stayed in the ER until I wasn't bleeding anymore, and they sent me home.
Was the pain over? No. It wasn't steady, but every time I went to the bathroom, I buried my face in a towel so I could scream without upsetting Darwin.
In the morning, I demanded an emergency appointment with the urologist, but the best they could do was for me to see the PA. Darwin brought me in--he's clocking an impressive number of miles as my medical chauffeur--and I had a heated, pissed-off conversation with said PA. She said she didn't understand why I was having such problems, but she gave me some anti-spasmodics that were more powerful than the ones I had before and said the pain should fade "soon."
It went on for days, actually. After two days, the pain faded to something that only made me wince, but it still hung around. Yesterday was the first day I've been able to go to the bathroom without noticing any pain.
I have a follow-up with the urologist in two weeks, and I'll be demanding some answers. This operation was supposed to be easy and pain free, even if there was a catheter. I want to know what the hell happened. The hospital should have admitted me rather than send me home. They should have realized that, once the pain meds wore off, the pain would come back. I needed observation, but they just shoved me out the door, and I wasn't clear-headed enough to tell them I needed to stay.
So this procedure was its own source of hell. At least the pain has cleared up. But it was days and days of needless torture. If I had known this was even a remote possibility, I wouldn't have had the procedure done. The urologist has a lot to answer for, and I'm going to make him answer for it.
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Surgery 4 (Afterward)
Living after rotator cuff surgery is, to put it mildly, utter hell. You have to sleep upright, which is uncomfortable and not conducive to good sleep, and just when you need sleep the most. The pain is constant. I was all right the first day, when the nerve block was still in force, but by the second day, the block mostly wore off and it was awful. Any movement that jarred my arm created agony. Painkillers helped, but not entirely. I didn't eat much. I didn't want to, and anyway, the movement hurt. I couldn't summon the concentration to read or even watch TV. I originally had visions of sitting on the couch, binge-watching THE WITCHER, but I couldn't keep track of anything I saw on the screen, so I gave up.
Darwin had to do everything for me, from bringing what little food I wanted, to dressing me, to getting me in and out of bed.
On the third day home, I really needed a shower, and the post-op instructions said I could take the sling off long enough to take one. Darwin and I cautiously slid my arm out of the sling, and that created a blaze of pain. My arm was also stiff from being immobilized for more than two days. I stood in the shower while Darwin washed me down. I couldn't do anything except stand there. Darwin had to dry me off, and that was more pain. I was crying and yelling with it, which upset and scared Darwin (he says it hurts him when he sees me in pain). The incisions on my shoulder were big and angry, and it was bruised to boot. Then there was the problem of getting dressed. Putting on a shirt when your arm is bent and unbending it causes unthinkable pain is my least favorite thing to do. The whole ordeal took more than 45 minutes, and I was so exhausted afterward I slept for two hours.
But really? The worst part was sleeping apart from Darwin. Darwin and I climb all over each other in our sleep, and the contact is a major part of our day. It's reconnection and affection and more. And when I'm unhappy or sick, I need this more than usual. But there was no way to have it. I had to sleep propped upright on the living room couch with pillows, and Darwin couldn't share the space. Even if it were possible, he might jar my shoulder. For several nights, I sat out in the living room, high but awake on painkillers, trying to tell myself this was temporary and would get better.
I started physical therapy two days after I got home. It's at the same place I was doing it before, but now it was very different. Before, I was planking and lifting weights and sweating. Now PT consisted of me sitting in a chair while the therapist gently massages my shoulder. Then he tells me to make my arm completely limp while he raises it slowly upward until I yelp to stretch it. The final stage? Squeezing a washcloth ten times.
The whole thing left me feeling deeply depressed and humiliated. I had gone from athlete to invalid overnight. Darwin constantly reassured me that it was all right, that this was normal, that this was temporary. But going from planks and weights to squeezing a washcloth was demoralizing in the extreme.
One day at physical therapy, the therapist put me on my back with a pillow propping my knees up while he worked on me, and suddenly I was back in the operating room when I had all the urinary tract procedures, and I lay there in fear and shock and not knowing what to do. The physical therapy that day was also particularly painful. When it was over, I trudged out to the parking lot where Darwin was waiting in the car (he doesn't go in with me--covid), got laboriously into the passenger seat, and boom--I started to cry. Darwin asked what was wrong, and I couldn't articulate an answer. It was just everything. The pain, the stress, the trauma, all of it. After a while, it passed, and I was able to explain what was wrong.
I also realized that a chunk of this is re-living trauma from past operations and assaults. The new operation was opening old wounds. The recognition didn't make me feel better, but at least I understood where all this was coming from.
The next time I went in for PT, I told the therapist that lying on the bed gave me painful flashbacks, and he said he could do the work with me sitting upright. That worked out much better.
After a few days, the pain became more bearable. I still had to sleep on the couch, but I was able to take the powerful painkillers only once a day instead of continuously, and I could move around more. I still needed help showering and dressing, but could handle some tasks on my own.
Just in time for operation #2.
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Surgery 4: Afterward
Living after rotator cuff surgery is, to put it mildly, utter hell. You have to sleep upright, which is uncomfortable and not conducive to good sleep, and just when you need sleep the most. The pain is constant. I was all right the first day, when the nerve block was still in force, but by the second day, the block mostly wore off and it was awful. Any movement that jarred my arm created agony. Painkillers helped, but not entirely. I didn't eat much. I didn't want to, and anyway, the movement hurt. I couldn't summon the concentration to read or even watch TV. I originally had visions of sitting on the couch, binge-watching THE WITCHER, but I couldn't keep track of anything I saw on the screen, so I gave up.
Darwin had to do everything for me, from bringing what little food I wanted, to dressing me, to getting me in and out of bed.
On the third day home, I really needed a shower, and the post-op instructions said I could take the sling off long enough to take one. Darwin and I cautiously slid my arm out of the sling, and that created a blaze of pain. My arm was also stiff from being immobilized for more than two days. I stood in the shower while Darwin washed me down. I couldn't do anything except stand there. Darwin had to dry me off, and that was more pain. I was crying and yelling with it, which upset and scared Darwin (he says it hurts him when he sees me in pain). The incisions on my shoulder were big and angry, and it was bruised to boot. Then there was the problem of getting dressed. Putting on a shirt when your arm is bent and unbending it causes unthinkable pain is my least favorite thing to do. The whole ordeal took more than 45 minutes, and I was so exhausted afterward I slept for two hours.
But really? The worst part was sleeping apart from Darwin. Darwin and I climb all over each other in our sleep, and the contact is a major part of our day. It's reconnection and affection and more. And when I'm unhappy or sick, I need this more than usual. But there was no way to have it. I had to sleep propped upright on the living room couch with pillows, and Darwin couldn't share the space. Even if it were possible, he might jar my shoulder. For several nights, I sat out in the living room, high but awake on painkillers, trying to tell myself this was temporary and would get better.
I started physical therapy two days after I got home. It's at the same place I was doing it before, but now it was very different. Before, I was planking and lifting weights and sweating. Now PT consisted of me sitting in a chair while the therapist gently massages my shoulder. Then he tells me to make my arm completely limp while he raises it slowly upward until I yelp to stretch it. The final stage? Squeezing a washcloth ten times.
The whole thing left me feeling deeply depressed and humiliated. I had gone from athlete to invalid overnight. Darwin constantly reassured me that it was all right, that this was normal, that this was temporary. But going from planks and weights to squeezing a washcloth was demoralizing in the extreme.
One day at physical therapy, the therapist put me on my back with a pillow propping my knees up while he worked on me, and suddenly I was back in the operating room when I had all the urinary tract procedures, and I lay there in fear and shock and not knowing what to do. The physical therapy that day was also particularly painful. When it was over, I trudged out to the parking lot where Darwin was waiting in the car (he doesn't go in with me--covid), got laboriously into the passenger seat, and boom--I started to cry. Darwin asked what was wrong, and I couldn't articulate an answer. It was just everything. The pain, the stress, the trauma, all of it. After a while, it passed, and I was able to explain what was wrong.
I also realized that a chunk of this is re-living trauma from past operations and assaults. The new operation was opening old wounds. The recognition didn't make me feel better, but at least I understood where all this was coming from.
The next time I went in for PT, I told the therapist that lying on the bed gave me painful flashbacks, and he said he could do the work with me sitting upright. That worked out much better.
After a few days, the pain became more bearable. I still had to sleep on the couch, but I was able to take the powerful painkillers only once a day instead of continuously, and I could move around more. I still needed help showering and dressing, but could handle some tasks on my own.
Just in time for operation #2.
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January 9, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 3 (The Recording)
I heard all the conversations I remembered in the pre-op area. I heard myself talking with the nurse and I heard myself tell the anesthesiologist about my history of trauma. I heard myself get wheeled into the operating room, heard my startled response to how cold the room was, heard the rustling noises and the conversation as the staff got me into the bed, heard the anesthesiologist administer oxygen and tell me the anesthesia was coming.
That's where my memory ended, of course. But the recording kept going.
On the recording, the anesthesiologist said, "By the way, he said he was sexually assaulted twice and that the operation is making him nervous."
A man whose voice I didn't recognize snorted. "Maybe it happened during disco," he said, which got some laughter.
"Seriously?" said a woman, and I recognized the voice of my prep nurse. "Does he think we're going to do something to him while he's asleep?"
"He wants to know where YOU were during the eighties," said someone else, and everyone laughed again. Then the conversation turned technical about the operation.
I sat there, staring at my computer. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. Maybe I'd misheard. I backed up the recording and listened again.
Snorts. Laughter. Disco. Where YOU were during the eighties.
I can't begin to explain how I felt. Outraged. Scared. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety. These people were supposed to be helping me, and instead found time to mock me while I was drugged and helplessly unconscious. How could I trust callous and uncaring people like this with my operation? With my body? I HAD trusted them, in fact, and they had knowingly betrayed that trust, and laughed while they did. My pain and fear were FUNNY to them.
I didn't know what to do. I played it for Darwin, who was as shocked and horrified as I was.
(This was a week ago, and it still makes me shaky to write about.)
I walked away from the recording to give myself time to process what I had learned.
And in the interim, I had another operation.
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