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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