Out of Limbo

So do you like what I'm doing with the sun room these days?

No, not the gloom in the back yard that augurs more rain. (Noah! Swing by here, please!) I'm talking about the three bright elastic bands artfully draped on the doorknob. Those resistance bands are a symbol of a momentous event this morning: My first physical therapy session.

You have no idea how delighted I am to be able to write that sentence.

Remember a couple of posts ago when I was oversharing about my wonky shoulder?  I mentioned that the soonest I could see the orthopedist was a full month away, and I may have passed that off with a carefree tra-la in print, but deep down my psyche was not so cavalier. Recovery from shoulder surgery is no joke and I was foreseeing the things I love to do--play the piano, knit, engage in at least minimal personal grooming--disappearing under the very real possibility of weeks of recovery.

People, that was one long month during which I tried to prepare for what might happen. I was hopeful that I would not need the surgery that the MRI report seemed to indicate was inevitable, but I also wanted to be practical in case I did need weeks of upper-right-quadrant immobilization. I made a list of British procedurals on Netflix and Acorn for occupying my mind during the non-knitting weeks. I started a Pinterest board of ultra-short Haircuts That Flatter Women Over 50, anticipating I wouldn't be able to handle a hairdryer. Truth be told, I even began to convince myself that it would be a nice two-month break from a lot of adulting if I couldn't cook or clean or weed. Summer was put on hold as we waited to see if I would be able to travel (or not) or host guests (or not) or wear regulation underwear (or not).

Weirdly, during the weeks of limbo the shoulder started to feel better, largely because I began treating it as if it were an inconvenient accessory to be carted around rather than a utilitarian body part. Mentally I considered it the equivalent of a fur handbag: Useless and only marginally decorative.

Last Friday I finally met with the orthopedist. He put me through the standard push-as-hard-as-you-can, now lift-your-arm-as-far-as-you-can evaluations I've done several times in the past couple of months, and within minutes he had a diagnosis:

"You have excellent strength and range of motion. You do not need surgery."

My mouth may have actually dropped open. Say what now?

"Your pain is being caused by inflammation. You'll get three shots in your shoulder today to relieve that inflammation, and you'll do a short course of steroids, then physical therapy to build up the muscles around the shoulder."

But the MRI report--the complete tears, the atrophy, the retraction, the stuff I didn't even understand?

"You do not need surgery."

An observation:  A medical specialist's answers tend to shorten in direct proportion to the extent to which the patient seems to be questioning those answers. Or at least that was the case in this situation.

Honestly, I wasn't questioning either the doctor's expertise or his judgment, I just couldn't believe what I was hearing. It had the feel of one of those horrible practical joke gift lottery tickets, in which the gift recipient thinks he has won a small fortune, but the fine print on the reverse side reveals the cruel zero value. I kept waiting for the fine print to emerge and for everyone to laugh heartily at my gullibility.

I was finally convinced when the first of the shots went into my shoulder joint. Again, surprise! Apparently complete lack of muscular tone is an advantage in this situation because in contrast to the horror stories I had been told, these shots hurt less than most flu shots I've had.

The immediate pain relief was astonishing, and to my delight, I've felt so, so much better. I'm still to avoid lifting heavy objects (especially from some vulnerable angles) but no other restrictions were put in place. I'm cleared to play, knit, travel, and do all the things I had thought would be off the table after surgery.

This morning I was evaluated by the physical therapist, and from now on my days will include a regimen of arm lifts ("I's, Y's, and T's," for you physical therapy geeks), resistance bands, and scapular retractions and depressions (which apparently also are a thing). Of course this also means I'm cleared to clean and cook, but who cares? 

I'm out of shoulder limbo. Let the summer begin.