Welcome Home

Now that the world is reopening, my friend Ana decided to take a trip home to Panama.  Staying with her mom and visiting family after a year.  Ana was taking a sabbatical from her stay-at-home-mom life.

After a month of being home and after the unexpected passing of one of our friends, Ana and her mom (aka “Mama”) asked me to join her in Panama.

Finally, I saw an opening in my schedule.  The week we were supposed to have travelled to Colorado to ruck (What the Ruck) the Leadville Heavy Half.  I mean … Colorado …  Panama.  Same difference, right?

With an itch to get a stamp on my passport (man, have I missed international travel!), I was finally convinced to book a flight to Panama City.

This was not meant to be a touristy-kind of vacation. After all, the purpose was to enjoy time with family.

There would be no watching of ships traversing the Panama Canal.  Or trips to the San Blas islands.  Or searching for sloths.  (We played tourist here once before.  Just three months before the world as we knew it, changed.  Welcome to the Jungle.)

The purpose of the trip was simple:  Relax.

But getting there proved to be anything but!

The day before I was scheduled to leave, I was unable to get checked in for my flight.

A Health Declaration was required before check-in.

But I couldn’t complete the Health Declaration until I had a seat number.  And I wasn’t going to be assigned a seat number until I checked-in.

Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush!

Not to mention the fact that the selections for “Country of (flight) Origin” and “Country of Passport Issuance” did not include any form of “United States of America”.

Puzzling.

Having experienced similar situations in the past (where I was unable to check-in for an international flight prior to arriving at the airport – usually because the gate agent needed to put eyes on my passport), I wasn’t too concerned.

Oh, but I should’ve been.

I dutifully took (and passed) my rapid COVID test.  

And set my alarm for 3-fricking 15 in the morning!

That type of wake-up call is usually reserved for trips to Walt Disney World, when getting face-to-face with Mickey ASAP is Priority #1!

But it is also necessary if you want to have a cold Panama beer in hand in time to watch the sunset over the soaring skyline of Panama City.

Ever eager to spend even 20 more minutes with me before I leave him for week, Keith agreed to take me to the airport.

I’m pretty sure he loves me (Prince Charming)!

Negative Covid Test and Passport in hand, I stand before what is possibly THE most un-helpful gate agent ever.

She can’t check me in, she says, until I’ve completed the afore-mentioned Health Declaration.

I tried explaining to her, the issues I encountered the day before and was met with “I can’t help you.  I can’t check you in without it.”

My repeated attempts to explain were met with her repeated negative attitude. 

Although … she did say, I could input “Seat 13A” as my seat number.  Before she summarily dismissed me to complete my task.  Off to the side and “out of everyone’s way.”

Why, thank you, Emma! (insert sarcasm)

My frustrations in completing the online form were further complicated by the feature used to enter my birthdate.

There was no place to enter Month, Day, Year (a la the Price is Right’s Showcase Showdown Wheel).  Oh NO.

There was a calendar.  With Forward and Backward arrows.  Which forced me to hit the Back arrow a total of 673 times, when you consider my age and the 12 months of the year.

And heaven forbid that somewhere in the 673 clicks, you accidentally swipe!  Causing the app to reset to today’s date!

I know this only because it happened to me No. Less. Than. THREE. TIMES!

ARGHHHHH!

Finally, having completed all fields except “Country of (flight) Origin” and “Country of Passport Issuance”, I returned to the counter.  All the while praying that I did not have to stand before Emma again.

Someone smiled upon me when my turn in line was met by the ever-so-cheerful Sherri.

I explained all of the hiccups I had encountered.  She tells me, I “could’ve selected any random seat number” and that, she “has no idea why that’s even on there” (the Health Declaration Form). 

WHAT?  ARGGGHHHHH!

But the proper country not being available in two required fields is certainly … puzzling.  That’s what I said!

I hand her my phone.  She scrolls through the list of countries.  Convinced that I had missed something.  She scrolls down.  Then up.  Then down again.

She hands the phone back and says “Why don’t you start over?”  Umm … ma’am … that’s 56 years’ worth of clicking to find my birthdate!

“I’m sorry,” she says.  And off I go again.  To click the back button six-hundred and seventy-three f*&#$@&g times.  Praying I don’t accidentally “swipe” in the process!

I only had to start the process over once.

I returned to Sherri.  Phone in hand.  Still unable to find “United States of America” or any form thereof in the designated fields.  She again looks for it herself.  As if something might’ve changed in the last five minutes.

She turns to a coworker who, blessfully, mumbles to no one in particular, “How do you say ‘United States of America’ in Spanish?”

She scrolls … and … finds on the list … “Estados Unidos”.

And the mystery is solved. 

Now why they would have everything else in English EXCEPT the country, I have no idea.  That’s some third-world country stuff right there!

Once that was all sorted, it was time to get my boarding pass and make like OJ Simpson, running through the airport.  (Don’t get that reference?  Ask your parents!)

Until …it wasn’t.

The gate had closed for my flight.  I missed it.

Sherri didn’t think she could find a flight for me today, so booked me on the same flight the following day.  And … offered to go ahead and check me in.

I called Keith and asked him to turn around and come get me.

Sherri then realizes it’s more than 24 hours until the flight.  And she can’t check me in for ANOTHER SEVEN MINUTES. 

Again, I’m asked to step aside while we wait the necessary seven minutes until I can check in for tomorrow’s flight.  Didn’t someone once say “no one puts Baby in the corner”?  Yeah … about that …

Seven minutes elapsed and Loretta calls me to the counter.  And proceeds to try and find me a flight that would allow me to barely miss the sunset in Panama City, landing at 7:30 that evening.  After having flown to Dallas, then Chicago, then Miami and on to PTY.  Um … no thank you.

I’m going home and going back to bed!

But I had to be awake in time for my second Covid test in 24 hours.  Because the first Covid test results weren’t going to be accepted upon my arrival in Panama – given that they would be more than 48 hours old.  Oh bother.

The next day, we try this thing again.  Again, waking at 3:00 a.m. so that I might be sitting on Mama’s balcony by that evening.

Following an uneventful day of travel, I make my way to Customs/Immigration Panama-style, which takes no less than an hour.  I mentioned this is a third-world country, right? (and no, I’m not poking fun at my friend’s beloved home – she herself will tell you exactly how it is in Panama!)

And finally.  I exit the airport and am pleasantly blasted by the 2000% humidity.  And hugs from both Ana and her sister.

But I can’t remove my mask.  Nope.  Not allowed. 

Even while riding in the car, we have to wear our masks.  Imagine wearing a wet blanket on your face.  Yeah.  It’s like that.

We make a quick stop at Bodega Mi Amiga for ceviche, shrimp cocktail, and cold Panama beer, before heading to Mama’s.

A slow and steady elevator ride to the 18^th floor.  And Mama, along with her precious pooch, greeted me at the door with, “Welcome Home”. 

After face-timing with Carlitos, Ana’s brother, he too welcomed me home.  I asked Ana if this was a thing.  When people return to Panama.  “No,” she said, “you’re family.”  And my heart grew three sizes that day.

We watched the sunset over the skyline, while enjoying the ceviche and shrimp cocktail.  And, of course, a cold Panama.

Our week was filled with family time, sitting on the balcony talking, and going for walks.

After a couple of days, Mama even said I looked rested.  Perhaps the dark circles under my eyes had given me away upon my arrival.

Mama’s apartment building overlooks what is Panama City’s version of Central Park.  Inside of the 2.5 mile walking trail, you will find a dog park (which is readily used), dog training classes, playgrounds, several monuments, an ampitheater, a swimming pool, and tons and tons of green space.

And El Raspadero!  Of course, there are raspas in the park!  Done the old-school way, where he shaved the ice by hand using a contraption I had never seen before.  Add condensed milk to the top and … yeah … I love raspas.

While sitting on the balcony, we talked of family and fitness, of friendships and food.  And in between, we listened to the sounds of the city.

In the mornings and the evenings (perfect for coffee and happy hour), the parakeets chirped and sang.  Often serving as my alarm clock, in conjunction with the delightful aroma of Panamanian coffee coming from the kitchen.

Helicopters, carrying the wealthy to and from their beach homes or the golf course, flitted across the sky.

While El Bollero, who’s sales calls bounced off the walls of the concrete jungle, yelled “Bollo!  Bollo!  Bollooooo!”, hoping to bring residents from their homes to buy his bollos, a corn-based meal similar to polenta.

Not to be outdone, the man collecting metal or appliance spare parts, rivaled El Bollero, as he made his way through the streets, calling for scraps.  We never did quite understand what he was saying, but we knew why he was there.

In the evenings, fireworks dotted the night sky.  Even mid-week.  Panamanians will make any excuse to celebrate.  And those celebrations often involve fireworks.  Fun!

For the first three days of my visit, there was sun.  And lots of it.  It seems I must’ve brought it with me as it had been raining non-stop for several weeks prior to my arrival.

But on the fourth day, it rained.  Not just any ol’ rainshower.  This was a full-on Panamanian “rainshower”. 

Complete with wind that howled like a banshee (whatever a banshee is). The kind of rain that poured sideways.  Relentless in its pursuit of soaking anyone who dared to be out in it.

Rain, that as Mama ever-so-astutely pointed out, made the buildings disappear.

The bursts of noise rising up from below as honking cars traverse the city.  As drivers run stop signs and dart between cars, narrowly missing each other.

And the motorcycles!  They. Are. Everywhere.  Delivering just about anything your little heart desires.  And I do mean Any.Thing.

We had Chinese Breakfast (delivered). Yes, that’s a thing!  It’s not … breakfast food made in a Chinese restaurant.  It’s Chinese food.  For breakfast!

And the most amazing wings I’ve ever experienced.  When I say “experience”, I’m not understating the deliciousness that are Whiskey Wings!  Oh My YUM!

There was Dim Sum.  And (equally amazing) burgers!

And Botox!

Yes, you read that right!  You can have a physician come to your home and do your injections!  Now … I’m not saying I did have a treatment.  But I’m not saying I didn’t.

I mean … when this hunk of a specimen doctor shows up at your door, would you let him stick a needle in your face?  (And yes, I totally stole this off his IG.)

I did mention that you can have anything delivered, yes?

There was family dinner night at Ana’s sister, Ani’s home.  Together with her daughters and their husbands.  And the puppies!  More puppies! 

Ani’s son-in-laws hosted make-your-own pizza night.  And kept our wineglasses full.  And there was laughter.  Lots and lots of laughter.

There were daily walks.  In the park adjacent to Mama’s building.

A leisurely stroll in the 2000% humidity.  Getting all of the odd looks because we had our rucks on.  Along with our masks.

But the rucks came in handy when we stopped at the fruit market to pick up oranges, bananas, and avocadoes.  And a watermelon that Ana recently reminded I had her carry (because I just didn’t know if my shoulder could handle it. 😉)

Self-conscious about the puffiness that was my waistline (never mind the utterly scrumptious dulce de leche croissant I enjoyed for breakfast!), I told Ana I wanted to climb the stairs in the apartment building.

There are 24 floors on which apartments are housed.  PLUS.  Five floors worth of parking garage.

It didn’t take long for the deep breathing to commence.  And only slightly longer for “f&*@ you”’s to escape Ana’s lips. 

I turned to her, “Are those for me?”

“YES!” she said.  But I know she was smiling.  If on the inside.

That evening, as we watched the sun dip behind the skyline, she said she’d like to do the stair climb again the next day. 

And so we did.

And my glutes are still thanking me today.  Our rucking crew calls that “perky butt”.

Having walked the park both directions (Ana was not about to let me put another watermelon in her ruck), we decided a change of scenery was in order.

A walk along the (Balboa Bay) bayfront certainly qualified.

The skyscrapers (of the Panamanian variety) on one side and the bay on the other.

We watched as the cargo ships lined up in the distance, preparing to enter the Panama Canal. We smelled the fish market long before we reached that end of park. 

And, of course, there were raspas. Technically, it was just one raspa.  And it was all mine. Adding a new Spanish word to my tourist-Spanish vocabulary:  Uva.  Which means, grape.

The day before I was due to return home, Ani, was gracious enough to set my appointment at the clinic and make sure I got my Covid test before returning to the States.

While the two tests I took before leaving home were simple (swab yourself, inserting only about an inch of the Q-Tip in each nostril), this was something entirely different.

Third world countries being what they are, they haven’t exactly moved as fast as other countries where testing was concerned.  They went old-school, where they shoved every inch of a 6-inch swab up my nostril, tickling my appendix in the process.

The clinician actually chuckled.  At me.  As I nervously patted my leg and my eyes teared up.

At the end of the day, I understand the necessity.  I do.  But I can’t help but wonder if it was really necessary to complete a tonsillectomy in the process.

We enjoyed dinner with Mama overlooking the night sky one last time.  Followed the next morning by a final cup of Panamanian coffee on the balcony.

Rested. Relaxed. Rejuvenated.

It’s always nice to go Home. 

 

Twist & Shout

As I awaited the results of my MRI (Into the Unknown), I became more and more anxious.  Not that I believed anything to be horribly wrong.  Or that I couldn’t be “fixed”.  But I wanted to know.

To know what exactly was going on with my shoulder.  What exactly the treatment plan would be.  How much time would I be away from the gym.  Just tell me already.  What.  Is going on with my shoulder?

Finally, six days after my MRI, the doctor’s office called.  I said to the nurse, “This is just the call I’ve been waiting for!”  Except she wasn’t calling with the results.  Rather, she was calling to set up an appointment so that my doctor could discuss the results.  Which makes sense.  I get it.  He’s the doctor!

But she wouldn’t even give me a hint.

And so I waited.  Another five days.

As I waited in the patient room.  I gave the old shoulder a whirl.  The swinging motion which would, 100 percent of the time, yield the clicking and popping I’d become accustomed to over the last four months.  Yep.  I twisted.  I shouted.

He opened the door.  A smile beneath his mask.   He sat down.  And sighed.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no easy way to say this.”  “Oh boy!  Here we go”, the thought bubble above my head.

“You have a full-thickness tear of your rotator cuff.”

WHAT???  How could that be?  My jaw went slack.  And I recall repeating, “I was SO not expecting THAT!”

As if to drive home the point, he slid his chair closer, showing me the MRI results.  He reviewed them himself, just to be sure.  And he agrees with the findings.  Underlining, on the report, the words, “full-thickness tear” and “supraspinatus”.

In discussing my options, it became apparent that truly, the only option available, should I wish for my shoulder to be fully functioning ever again, was to have surgery. 

Alrighty then.  Let’s get this over with.  I’ll take the first available appointment.

Naturally, I had questions.  What does recovery look like?  When will I be able to get back in the gym?  When can I start rucking again (What the Ruck?).  After all, I had a race to prepare for.  One that I had planned to take on last year, but …. Covid happened … and now was looking forward to making the trip to Leadville again (Where the Air is Thin).

The good doctor spoke of me being in a sling for six weeks, was non-committal when discussing PT (“It all depends on how you’re progressing.”), something, something, three months, something, something six months.  It was a blur.  I didn’t really hear anything past “sling for six weeks”. 

I was SO not expecting THAT!

I received notice that my surgery would be at 1:00.  Dangit.  Not his first case of the day.  And … ohhhhhh.  Wait just a minute!  That’s a long time to go without food and water.

I thought of my Dad, who, whenever he’s scheduled for surgery, will get up at 11:30 at night and eat something.  Because midnight was the usual cut-off time for food and drink.

Thankfully, on the surgery prep notes, the fine print read: Don’t have anything to eat or drink within 8 hours prior to your surgery time.

After a very restless night’s sleep (Lord knows, I did not want to miss my wake-up call!), Keith and I got up at 4:30 and he fixed breakfast.  It was difficult to sleep after, and eventually we crawled out of bed and puddled around the house.

I kept myself busy:

• Folding and putting away laundry.
• Picking up and putting away groceries.
• Making the bed
• Prepping and putting ribs in the crockpot for dinner (which, by the way, I won’t get to eat because (1) I was afraid they would be too spicy and (2) it sounded disgusting to me post- surgery anyway).

Surgery prep was pretty standard:

• Take temperature,
• Answer Covid Screening Questions,
• Complete registration, 
• Take temperature (again.  as if it would change in 10 minutes),
• Complete Covid Screening Questions (again …),
• Take blood pressure,
• Have an EKG,
• Have an IV put in (I hate needles!  Don’t look!  Ouch!),
• Talk to the surgeon,
• Fit me for my immobilizer (alas, I was not to have the big, black, bulky sling – I was given something a little different),
• Talk to the anesthesiologist.

All except one thing:  Keith couldn’t be there with me

A cast of characters, important in the process of repairing my shoulder, introduced themselves.  The pre-op nurse, the operation room nurse, the anesthesiologist, and of course, my surgeon.  The operating room nurse fed something through my IV to relax me and began to wheel me away.

The last thing I remember was stopping in front of the doors to the surgical suite and the nurse stepping aside.  I think she said something about the anesthesiologist and my IV.

And that’s the last thing I remember.

Until … I hear someone say “Mr. Miller?  Yes, she’s ready to be picked up.”

Apparently, I was awake.

All modesty faded away, as my nurse helped me to the restroom.  And when we returned to my curtained cubicle, Keith is there to help get me dressed.  I believe, but cannot be positive, that it took both of them to hold me up and steady as the three of us attempted to dress me.

It did not go unnoticed (by me) that they began with my panties.  Wait.  My panties?  I remember distinctly prior to surgery, that they told me I could keep them on.  Which I found strange, but hey!  Okay!  I asked Keith later, “did you guys have to put my panties on me?” and he said yes, I was definitely not wearing any when they were dressing me.

I feel violated.

I’m all dressed and ready to go.  The nurse situates my new constant companion, my immobilizer, around my waist.  My entire right arm is without feeling as I had agreed to the use of a nerve block.  So when she lifts my arm to put it across my waist and adhere the straps accordingly, I watched my arm move, all the while, it felt as if it were STILL BY MY SIDE.

WHOA!  WHOA!  WHOA!  That’s freaky!

And the nurse giggled.

Once home, Keith became quite the busy bee.  Helping me to the restroom.  Getting me situated in my recliner - complete with a pillow to place under my arm. 
 

And feeding me.  Finally.  The best cup of chicken noodle soup in the history of chicken noodle soup! 

A new take on our usual date night.

He fended off the dogs, who were want to jump in my lap (our pups are very attune to showing affection to whoever is not feeling well.  Doggie healing powers being what they are.)  Until he relented and placed both of them on my lap.

A knock on the door revealed a box of warm cookies on our doorstep.  My sweet friend Sarah and her dream of a nugget, Addie, had sent Tiff’s Treats to aid in my recovery.

As bedtime approached, Keith ever-so-gently helped me into my pj’s, fed me a pain pill (just in case the 36-hour nerve block somehow magically wore off in the night), and we retired to our recliners.  My husband wanted to sleep by my side. It’s no wonder I love him.  (Prince Charming) 

Sleep is blissful (thank you, hydrocodone).

The next morning, I wanted a sponge bath and Keith was happy to oblige.  He wanted to put me in (our rather large) jacuzzi tub, filled with just a couple of inches of water.  In attempting to get out of the slippery tub, I got to my knees, braced myself with my left arm, and stopped.  “Keith!”, I panicked, “you’re going to have to help lift me out of here!”  I was terrified of falling. 

Between the two of us, I managed to get to my feet.  All the while my right arm swung like a pendulum (something my surgeon told me expressly not to do!) and I can’t do anything to stop it.  I. Have. No. Control.  Also … WHOA!  WHOA!  WHOA! 

The next sponge bath will NOT be completed in the bathtub.

I spent the weekend mostly in my recliner, in front of the TV.  I mean … where was I going to go exactly?  Except to the restroom. The pups unwilling to let me leave their site.  You gotta love ‘em.

Our friends Mark and Melissa stopped by with a care package.  And an extremely thoughtful one at that.  Talk about covering the essentials!  Complete with a mini-air horn with which I can call Keith as needed; they contemplated a bell, but we agreed it was unlikely he would hear it (insert inside joke here from our rucking adventures).

Sometime around the 35-hour mark post-surgery, the nerve block wore off and feeling returned to my arm and more importantly, my hand.

That night, Keith gently removed the dressing to reveal a series of incisions and bruises – a rainbow of color spread from my shoulder to my elbow. 

Keith volunteered to help me shower.  Yeah … about that.  We know to be cautious in the shower.  We’ve already experienced one accident, which he refers to as “the time (he) broke my face”.

Just two months into our dating life, we took a shower together, in anticipation of … a trip to Fiesta Texas. (Get your mind out of the gutter!)  Innocently enough, he knelt down to scrub my feet (no one seems to believe me when I tell this story, but as God as my witness, this is how it happened!).  His legs came out from under him.  Clipping my legs from under me.  And down we went.  My cheekbone landing on his rather hard forehead.

And that, my dear maxillofacial surgeon, is how I broke my cheekbone.

So yes, we know we have to be super cautious when in the shower.

For a week, Keith was responsible for showering me (in case you were wondering, no, he didn’t mind), blow-drying my hair, and dressing me.  He also took on the responsibility of cooking dinner and folding clothes.

As the first two weeks progressed, I slowly began to do more things for and by myself.  And trust when I say, most were not without their challenges.  

Imagine these things without the benefit of your dominant hand/arm:

• Showering,
• Towel drying,
• Brushing your teeth,
• Blow-drying your hair (I have a whole new hairstyle now!),
• Dressing yourself (I have two words:  bra and shoes – bonus points if attempting to get into a sports bra and to Keith, who was so good about tying my shoes for me when I just had to wear tennis shoes),
• Putting on makeup (ever try and put mascara on the eye opposite the hand you’re using?),
• Folding clothes,
• Pushing a shopping cart,
• Washing hands,
• Taking makeup off,
• Cutting your own food,
• Using the computer (mousing and typing one-handed was exhausting!).

Not to mention, the inability to put contacts in; and I certainly was not going to ask Keith to stick his fingers in my eye.

I ventured out to grab a couple of meals with friends.  Each one having to cut my food for me.  What are friends for?  And one even zipping up my coat because, well … zipping is kind of difficult one-handed.  Thank you, Heather and Angel!

In the midst of The Great Texas Snowpocalypse of 2021, I squeezed in my follow-up appointment with my surgeon.  Or rather, his PA.

Upon entering the room, Dr. McSteamy says, “It’s so nice to see you again.”  My eyes must have easily conveyed that I had never met the man before.  He said he was in the operating room the day of surgery, standing right next to my surgeon.  Not surprisingly, I have no recollection of this.

He goes on to tell me that they discovered the cause of my injury was a bone spur at the top of my clavicle that had basically shredded my muscle with every movement of my shoulder, eventually causing the tendon to detach.  So, to all of the CrossFit naysayers out there (I’m looking at you, mom 😉), this was not entirely caused by CrossFit.   In addition, I had a small tear in my labrum (a muscle on the outside of my shoulder). 

That would explain the popping.  And clicking.  And pain.

So what are the next steps?  I’ll remain in the immobilizer for another four weeks.  PT will begin with once/week sessions, increasing after the four-week target date. 

Dr. McSteamy also delivered two pieces of good news:  I can return to the gym, focusing on lower body work only.  Oh Happy Day!  AND I no longer have to keep my wrist bound by the immobilizer.  Freedom!

I can now tie my own shoes.  I’m a big girl now!

I know the road ahead is a long one.  And I’ll be good as new.  Or maybe even better than before. 

I’ll twist my shoulder once again.  

And the shouting will be Because. I. Can.

Into the Unknown

In October, shortly before we took Plan B out for a three-week adventure along the Gulf Coast, I had a familiar pain in my arm.  A stabbing pain that briefly shot through my bicep. 

I’d felt a similar pain such as this before.  Roughly six years ago.  A pain that resulted in increasing pain and the increasing inability to raise my right arm without the assistance of my left.  A pain that ended with a visit to an orthopedic surgeon.

The diagnosis, according to the good doctor:  I was old.

Some bedside manner, huh?

What he meant, though, was that after 25 years of riding a desk and ‘mousing’ with my dominant (right) hand, my shoulder was suffering from over-use. 

An MRI revealed I had a whole lotta of stuff going on in there:  bursitis, tendonitis, arthritis, and a small rotator-cuff tear.  The chief culprit of my pain, bursitis, treated with a steroid injection.  And I was good as new.

I’ve had trouble with that same shoulder throughout the years.  Usually, nerves firing within my upper scap (ie., my shoulder blade). 

And usually something that could be resolved with a trip to my massage therapist.  Failing that, a few visits with an Airrosti doc and his gigantic paws would have all the kinks worked out.

But this time.  It was similar to the jolt in my bicep which I experienced many years ago.

I waited for the pain to increase.  For my arm to hang at my side, lest the slightest movement in the upward direction bring me to my knees.  But that never happened.

Three weeks of rest, whilst on the road in Plan B, should help.  Right? (We Be Trippin')

Well, no, actually.  That didn’t help at all. 

What did happen, was an increase in the sound that my shoulder made.  A clicking sound.  Shoulders aren’t supposed to do that.  The sound was accompanied by an uncomfortable movement beneath my skin.  One that my oldest granddaughter described as my “bones separating”. 

“Grams”, she said, “you should tell your doctor that I said your bones were separating and they’re not supposed to do that.  When you get home, you should call him and tell him I said that.  So that he knows.”  She’s six.

The pain began to migrate.  From one part of my arm to another.  From my carpal tunnel, to my forearm.  From my bicep (in two places) to my neck.  From my shoulder joint to my upper and lower scapula. 

Yeah.  Something’s not right.

Again, I try massage.  And three visits with the Airrosti doc. 

And then a referral to an orthopedic surgeon.  Where he says, the x-rays are inconclusive.  He can see arthritis on my shoulder joint (either the ball of my shoulder, the ball joint, or both).  But he can’t see much more.  Into the tube I must go.

MRIs are uncomfortable for a lot of people.  Because Claustrophobia.

I’ve never considered myself to be claustrophobic.  As a child, I loved being in tight spaces.  Perhaps as an extension of being swaddled as a baby.

As a toddler and then a young child, I loved going to the grocery store with my mom.  During the winter, as I sat in the cart, I would surround myself with both my mom’s coat and my own.  Snuggled in, comfy.

In the summer months, as mom was loading the basket, I would take items from the cart and surround myself with them.  Stacking bread and canned goods all around me. But never the eggs.  For some reason, mom wouldn’t allow me to hold them.

One of my favorite hiding places, when my sister and I played hide and seek:  the laundry bin.  Also the first place my sister knew to look for me. 

So the first time I had an MRI, it wasn’t a big deal.  I relaxed, zoned out, and simply looked forward to finding out what was going on with my shoulder (six years ago).

But this time, it was a little different.

I tried not to think about my pending entombment.  But I couldn’t help but think of my mom and her claustrophobia.  And I began to wonder if I had any form of medication that I might take to help me relax.  Benadryl?  Melatonin?  Xanax?

As the tech took me into the room, the MRI machine (I’m sure there’s a more technical name for it) sat there.  Staring at me.  With its one big, open eye. 

The room was dark, except for the light that emitted from the machine.  The light that beckoned me.  Come into the light.

The tech situated my shoulder just so.  Encasing it as they do, in a frame meant to keep you from moving.  And then she strapped me in.  WHAT?  I don’t remember this before.  And I certainly didn’t sign up for it!

My claustrophobia increasing in intensity.

She offered a sleep mask, which I gladly accepted.  And continued to make adjustments and add other implements to stabilize my arm.  She tucked earplugs into my ears.  And placed headphones on me.  Yea!  I thought.  Music!  But no.  It was simply for the purpose of her communicating with me.

Finally, she placed my Life Alert in my hand.  A small bulb which I could squeeze in the event I needed to be exhumed from the tomb … er … machine.  I wrapped my sweaty palm around the bulb.

She placed her hand on top of mine.  Comforting me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

In we go.

There were a series of scans.  Two minutes. Three and a half minutes.  Two and a half minutes.  Thirty seconds. Another three and a half minutes.  And so on.

While in the chamber of doom, I tried to find my happy place.  Despite the VERY loud whirring and clicking of the machine.

I thought of my hubby, of course.  (Prince Charming) The adventures we’ve been on.  The laughs we share.  I thought of his quick wit that catches me off guard but makes me laugh uncontrollably.  

Last week, when we heard reports of President Trump coming to South Texas, I asked, “What on earth is he coming to Texas for?” To which Keith responded, “Shouldn’t he be busy packing?” 

And the tech says, into my headphones, “don’t move”.  Oops.  Was I laughing?

I thought of my grandchildren.  My beautiful and opinionated Pumpkin-Girl.  My rough-and-tumble, all-boy Man-Cub.  And my tough-as-nails and cute as a bug, Bean.

I thought of my mom.  And her claustrophobia.  I opened my eyes beneath my mask and could see the white light.  No!  Shut your eyes!  And don’t think about your mom and her claustrophobia.

I thought of being on an island.  With sugary-white beaches, surrounded by beautiful blue water.  A cold, adult beverage in hand.  I thought of our girls’ trip to Panama and San Blas. (Welcome to the Jungle).

Is it me, or is my backside getting really warm?

I kept thinking, “go to your happy place, go to your happy place”.  And then I gasped for air, taking a deep breath.  Did I forget to breathe?

The tech: “Don’t move, Mrs. Miller.”

I thought of Walt Disney World. And the feelings the fill my heart when I walk onto Main Street, USA. (It Was All Started by a Mouse).

And I wondered what other people think about when they’re having an MRI. 

I thought of my son.  My Disney traveling companion.  And how much fun we’re going to have on our next trip.  Just 200-and-something days to go.  And what kind of Magic Band he’ll choose.  Really?  Yes, really!

Magic Bands.  I’m so glad I remembered to take my watch off.

How much longer is this going to last?

I thought of lifelong friends.  The ones who have been there every step of the way.  And the ones who have found their way back into my life.  And I miss Debbie.

Why is my arm numb?  Is that normal?

And finally.  The whirring stops.  And in my ear.  Finally.  The tech says, “we’re all done.”

It was the longest 15 minutes of my life.

She removes all the implements that are holding me still.  And gifts me with the sleep mask.

Before I leave, I turn and look into the MRI machine.  The tiny space from which I’ve just been removed.  It’s bright light still illuminating the room.

Not today, Satan.  Not today.