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.
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.
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.
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!).
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.
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.
