Told You I Was Hurt

When I last wrote I told you about my impending MRI. It happened. The good news is that there was no preparation for the procedure, unlike the unpleasant week's worth of prep for "The Procedure Which Must Not Be Named."  Yes, the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) is a marvelous machine that is designed to turn exceptionally brave people into quivering shells of their former selves...but at least you don't have to spend the night before it in the bathroom. I survived and now I am on the other side.

Let me start at the beginning....maybe. My shoulder hurts. I don't know why my shoulder hurts. It just hurts. It has hurt for a long time. A really long time. It has felt this bad for about a year. I know what some of you are thinking, and as my son would say, "You know they have people trained to help you when you're hurt." At the risk of having to turn in my "I Don't Need To Go To The Doctor" badge from my Man Meetings, I have been to the doctor...lots of them! (Well three is a lot for a guy)

I admit that I let it go for a long time. I thought it was just sore. I slept on it wrong. I bumped it somehow. Or possibly worse, "I just won't move it that way." I honestly couldn't remember an event that would have made it hurt like this and I have been to doctors enough to know that if you don't tell them why something hurts they'll most likely tell you that it is just a sprain/strain/pain and you should ice it then put heat on it and it will most likely get better in a few weeks. So I waited a few weeks.

And a few more....

And a few more.......

And a lot more..............

The list of things I was choosing not to do got a little bigger every week or so. Volunteering to the the end-zone referee in a PeeWee football game was first to go. One raising both arms for a touchdown and I would have been incapacitated for hours. Getting things off of high shelves was next to go. This one hurt my pride. I was once the go to guy in the top shelf game! No longer would people seek me out because what good is having the big crock pot, the Christmas decorations, or the turkey platter if you had to suffer through whimpering and wincing to get them. Jake, who is still shorter than me (depending on shoe selection and hair style) is top (shelf) dog around here now.

The 'cannot do' list was getting longer until finally I was adding things to it like turning on the light switch and sleeping. Off to the doctor I went. In my mind I'm ready to take care of this. I have done the wait and see method to healing and it's not working. The doctor should see that I do not come in for any old thing. Let's move! I walked out with the advice to ice, then heat, then rest....then in two weeks...call for physical therapy. OK, that's at least something. I've had good results from PT before on other issues so I was all in.

I went in weekly for a while. He measured how far my arm could move and recorded the pained faces I made when he made me go too far so they could all have a laugh watching it at the Physical Therapist Christmas party. (all right, not really, but still) I remember one week I had a break from school and he wanted to see me three days in a row. I went in and he was able to get me to move a whole 3 degrees past where I started. He thought progress! I thought I was just getting able to handle the pain better and that I really wasn't seeing improvement.

Enter the specialist! I had heard of these guys before. Hooray! They have the good stuff. Boo! The good stuff comes from a needle. I hate needles. Another problem is that I have heard of this stuff, cortisone, for years and the people who described it to me didn't do it any favors. I knew one person who vividly described her experience of getting the shot while laying down and saying that she would have done anything to crawl away from it. I heard adjectives like burning, uncomfortable, and stinging...but I also heard adjectives like magic. All right let's try it. I psyched myself up for the worst thing in the world and was treated to a whole lot of nothing. He said, "I'm done" before I even thought he got started. Then he said, "Don't use it for a week." Ha! You don't know me doc! I'm tough! I can handle anything! Have I told you how I have put up with this pain for so long!? Hit me with your best shot! So I went home and decided to make the bed...using my newly shot arm. Oh that's what you meant doc! Unimaginable pain by just moving a little? I understand now.

So I spent the week walking around with my left arm very much like a salami in a nylon. It just swung willy nilly this way and that and it felt fine, as long as I didn't use a single muscle in it. After a week I decided to take it out for a test drive. I raised it a bit. So far so good. A bit higher. Still good. I even did some wild and crazy things like sleeping and washing my hair with both hands! I was healed! Healed I say! Something in the back of my mind reminded me of another adjective that EVERYONE used when describing the cortisone shots...temporary. Nah, I can see that this is the ticket! I just needed a week of doing nothing with the head start of the shot. I'm good to go! For precisely one week. I was back to square one...and I still had no idea why I was hurting so bad.

This was not like me. I used to be able to use both arms. I remember being able to do actual physical labor. Then it hit me...I think I know. In Mexico we helped build a roof on a church. To build this roof we needed to place beams across two walls. They were gigantic! Without describing the entire process they leaned them onto one wall and pushed one end. The other end went straight into the air and then started falling down. Two of us needed to stand arms outstretched to catch these 20 foot long 6X8 beams that were falling toward them while standing on folding chairs...about 25 times! When I called the doc and told him that a) the shot stopped working ridiculously quickly, and b) I knew what caused it, he scheduled an MRI.

"Do you work with metal?" No
"Do you have any implants?" No
"Are you gonna be ok if we stuff your XXL body into a tube made for L?" I beg your pardon?
Well, maybe the questionnaire didn't say that exactly but it should have.
I was able to fit my broad shoulders into this tube only by reaching my good arm across my body and holding the "I can't take it anymore" button on the other side of my body. I got to stay stuffed in  this machine for about 45 very noisy minutes. I never squeezed the panic button but completely understood why people would. And a few days later I found out, I have a tear that will probably require surgery. That should be fun. I can't wait to write about it...using only my right arm.

It Only Hurts When I Don't Laugh

I've noticed that, among the people who read my musings, the most popular and the most reacted to are the ones where I am describing how terribly uncomfortable I am, or when I have been in significant pain. Apparently, I have the ability to see humor in places others don't and the more nervous and upset I am, the more I try to mask it with laughter. No, no, it's healthy...I think. Anyway, I usually try to write on troubling days to see if I can capture the hilarity. Be warned, today's should be a doozy!

First, in the interest of full disclosure, I should explain that I am now two days past the event that caused my discomfort so I know the outcome. I'll be talking as if my world may be ending in a swirl of disorientation and pain...but I actually turn out ok. I know, I know, I alluded to unpleasantness on a grand scale, the ruthless among you will just have to make do.

I think I'll start with a scene from a movie. (I do that...you'll get used to it) In the buddy cop movie Lethal Weapon 3 the cops, Riggs and Murtaugh, are picking up an informant, Leo, from the hospital. Leo is upset and complaining that they do all sorts of unnecessary things at the hospital just to make money.

Leo:  Where does it say that a gunshot wound requires a rectal exam, huh? Yeah, with a telescope big enough to see Venus! 

Riggs: I guess all he saw was Uranus, huh?

I remembered this scene because of its humor but more importantly because I needed to go to the hospital...and I hadn't been shot.

Yes, as half of the people reading this are clicking the little "X" up in the top right corner as fast as their little fingers can fly, I'll explain to the rest of you that I shall not be describing anything gross. Personally, I think it's important to get these things out there so others know that they are not alone. No, I did not feel all alone. I felt like I had joined a great big room full of people like me...old men. When I called to make the appointment I told the person who answered the phone that I needed to make an old man appointment. She laughed, but she made the correct appointment without any further explanation.

Ok, deep breath now, I'm just gonna say it...colonoscopy. Yes, you heard that right. Pretty sure the doc was a Star Trek fan because he seemed ready to "boldly go where no man has gone before." I want to make sure everyone knows that I am talking about a colon-oscopy and not a Colin-oscopy because frankly, I have no interest in what happened with the NFL this year.

The thing about this particular test is that there are steps leading up to it. EIGHT PAGES of steps to be exact! 2 sided! The first step takes place 7 days before the procedure. You read that correctly, 7 full days before the exam I needed to think about what I was supposed to eat, drink, what medicines to take and what to discontinue. The details get more and more restrictive as C-day (as opposed to D-day) gets closer. It started with cutting out foods that were high in fiber. This seemed counter-intuitive to me since years of television commercials extolled the virtue of fiber being the whisk broom of the digestive set. When I asked for clarification on what exactly that meant, I was told that I was to start eating white bread, white rice, no fruits or vegetables, you know "all the bad stuff." Little did she know that I had been getting ready for this test since I was 17! Actually, I'm kidding. I am a fruit-aholic and I haven't eaten a slice of white bread since my mom, decades ago, dropped a piece camping and the ants on the ground walked around it. Although, the thought of a Krispy-Kreme and pizza diet seemed like something I could get behind...you know, for science.

A couple days before the event I was required to start taking a bag full of digestive aids. I walked out of the CVS with three items that I have never purchased before...and a six-and-a-half-foot long receipt! When your wife is a big deal in the Essential Oil game, trips to the pharmacy are few and far between. You know you're in for it when the people telling you about their experiences with these powders, pills, and drinks start with phrases like, "It's not that bad." The problem was that I needed to do all of this while drinking an ocean of water! It states in the doctor's instructions that I am to drink 8 ounces of clear liquid every hour I am awake. Let me remind you...I am an elementary school teacher. I don't have the luxury of stepping out to visit the facilities whenever I need to, especially since a significant portion of my day is taken explaining that recess and lunch are the correct times to go to the bathroom. We don't want to miss class time! I made it without being called a hypocrite!

After work, the night before, things start to get interesting. "Interesting" is the polite word I use to describe what happens when you take more than two full weeks worth of laxatives in the span of about 12 hours. As Forrest Gump would say, "That's all I'm gonna say about that." I will add, however, that I was motivated to live to the letter of the law written on these eight pages because of one sentence. Paraphrasing: 'Failure to adhere to these rules will result in a less than ideal view and you will need to start over." Uh, no thanks. No fiber, lots of water, drink all this...yes ma'am!

Then it's the morning of the exam. This is when the nervousness hits. I'm not a giant wimp. I can handle some discomfort. I once had a doctor ask me how I was able to still be walking around since I should have been in disabling pain. Meh, you gotta do what you gotta do. And then someone gets out a needle...and I am a whimpering little child calling out for his mommy. This procedure called for sedatives and those are administered via I.V. This was in the back of my mind ever since they told me I needed this test, but now Sylvia had dropped me off, I was wearing 60% of a gown, and the nurse was holding a stabbing device. Because of the vibe I give out I'm sure, I was given the nurse with a sense of humor. She started in saying things like, "I hate needles" and alluding to not having done this before...all while I was hyperventilating and explaining the virtues of an old rag and a bottle of ether. Poke. Done. It's never as bad as I expect it to be. But I did nearly die.

Anyway she rolled me into the room while I took a selfie that I can't show you since I didn't ask her permission to publish it. I met the doctor, a different nurse, another person who I forget what they were going to do (but I knew they weren't going to be giving me another shot so it didn't matter), and everyone kept saying my name and the reason I was there. There's a poster on the wall that had a list of all the things they were all supposed to say to make sure I was the right person in the right room for the right procedure. They all followed the rules. I suppose it's a good thing. I would have hated to get a hysterectomy! Then I met the person who told me she was going to be taking care of my sedation...and then they told me I was all done. I really liked that sedation person!

And just like My Big Fat Greek Wedding I now have to wait for the results from the bibopsy. Maybe they'll prescribe some Windex. With the Windex I would have been a shoe-in for the "Cleanest Colon of the Day" award.

Finally, looking ahead for some of my more sadistic readers who really get a kick out of reading about my pain and suffering and were disappointed that things went so smoothly. I'm going in for an MRI on my shoulder soon where some are telling me it might require surgery. Cross your fingers!

My Princess Bride

Allow me to set the scene. It's spring break and Sylvia and I are watching something on the Hallmark channel (Ok, so I like the Hallmark channel...), everything has been building to this formal wedding, and the music begins to fade so they can start the ceremony. I'm sure it's exactly like the director wants it to be...

From out of nowhere Sylvia pipes up....(Hold on...I'll tell you in a bit)

Did you ever have one of those moments that perfectly intersects the incongruous and the expected? This was it for me. I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe! But I think I need to explain...

First, in case one of the 8 people who read my ramblings also happen to be one of the 4 people on the planet who have never seen this movie...in other words, my mom, (hi mom!) I am talking about The Princess Bride. It is often quoted in innumerable settings, the quotes are easily recognizable, and almost everyone who has seen the movie thinks it is just great! And why wouldn't they? The movie, in my humble opinion, is wonderful! As the Grandpa explains to his grandson while trying to talk him into listening to the story in the beginning of the movie, it's got "fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." What's not to love!?! Right?

Well, let me tell you, I can attest to the fact that this movie is not everyone's cup of tea. In fact, I have it on good authority that there are people who think, perish the thought, that this movie is, and I'm quoting, "stupid." {{shudder}} I live with one...and she let's me know her opinion whenever it happens to be on the TV. I can see her point. It's fantasy, it could never happen, some of the characters have really silly voices...(ok, I'm just kidding. I love it and can quote it over and over...try me!) but to each their own.  Honestly, when Jake is leaving the house and tells us goodbye (we have a very polite son) odds are about even that after I say "Bye" I will add, "Have fun storming the castle!" Sylvia just rolls her eyes. 

Yes, Sylvia and I are one example of when opposites attract. When we were doing our pre-marriage counseling appointments the subject of how we were going to raise the kids, loving Princess Bride or not, never came up. Was it a risk? Sure.  We decided to let the kids decide when they were old enough. We are making it work.

So the other night when the marriage scene was playing out on the Hallmark channel (where everything is down to earth and events happen just like in real life) you could have knocked me over with a feather or the tail of an R.O.U.S. (Rodent Of Unusual Size) when she belted out, in perfect cadence and tone:

"MAWAGE...."

I just about fell off the couch! I burst out laughing and couldn't stop! Poor Sylvia, who was laughing at how hard I was laughing, looked at me as if to ask, "Isn't that right!?" 

"Yes, Yes....that is right! In fact it is perfect! Wow! I can't breathe! My sides hurt!"

It's things like this that remind me I made the right choice when I proposed to her...with a ring from a Cracker Jacks box. (true story)

I am one step closer to hearing this when we renew our vows in the future, "Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam..."

Don't look at me like that...It could happen!

Pop in the Sack?

We've all seen it in movies. The lights are low, soft music playing, things are moving just a little slower than usual....maybe there's a candle lit.

That's not what I am talking about.

No, I am talking about middle of the day, unnaturally bright, unseasonably hot, a sheen of sweat on bodies because of the humidity, middle of a camping store, buying a Dr Pepper...in Tennessee.

I'll back up. Sylvia and I had some friends over about a week ago. We started talking about how words were different in different languages. We talked about how German was wildly different than other languages and we all roared with laughter at the stark contrast between lyrical Spanish's butterfly (mariposa) and German's hard edged and highly exaggerated, by me, (SCHMETTERLING!). We started talking about different dialects within different regions of the country and different ways of talking. The whole exchange got me to thinking about that time, in Tennessee, when I bought a Dr Pepper...really.

It was 1982, I was 16, and the family was camping across the country so we could go to the World's Fair in Knoxville. We had already had "The night of a million mosquitoes" and I had already saved a drowning boy. I was a world traveler in my eyes. I was not, however, ready for what happened next.

I went into the campground store and grabbed a couple snacks, looked at the comic books to see if I needed any, and grabbed a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. I brought the whole collection up to the cashier who was about the same age as me. She rang up my snacks, told me it was $1.61 (I don't really remember how much it was...I'm just trying to use details so you think I have an amazing memory), and then she asked me a question in that quick southern twang that I remember to this day. "Youwanpopinthesack?"

Let me remind you that I am, at this point, 16. I have to admit that while my upbringing had me immediately rejecting the notion that I had actually heard what I thought I heard, it took me back. My hormone addled brain, for a split second, translated her question into, "You wanna pop in the sack?"

Did I really say that I was a world traveler? Ha! I was as naive as the day is long. I was afraid of my own shadow. Shy didn't even begin to describe me. Late bloomer is how I describe myself now but let's face it....I was a doofus. I had seen enough coming-of-age movies to imagine, even for an instant, that this was the start of something. In fact, did she just take off her glasses? Did she undo her ponytail and start shaking her hair from side to side? Did she turn her head to the side and grin as she looked at me with one eye? It's weird how so many thoughts can cross your hyperactive immature brain in the span of about a two seconds. As if my entire future depended on it, I decided to act! As smoothly as I could, with a bright red face, I managed to squeak out, "Wha...?"

Back to reality in a flash while I see that she never moved, hair and glasses still in place, and her "grin" was more like an annoyed exasperation as she held up the glass bottle of Dr Pepper she said slowly, "Do you want the POP" slight shake for emphasis, "...in the SACK" now she shook the paper bag that now held my snacks. Ohhhhhhh, my brain processed, she thinks I'm a moron. That makes so much more sense than what I was thinking. From somewhere deep inside I was able to belt out proudly, "No thank you." and I was on my way.

Aren't dialects fun!