Day 2; less than 48 hours since the surgery to remove my pins. My shoulder is still sore, but bearable with a minimum of medication. Which brings me to the fact that in addition to rehabbing my shoulder I am also detoxing from seven weeks of narcotics.
Since my shoulder collided abruptly with the sidewalk in New Orleans, I've taken morphine, Demerol, Dilaudid, and Vicodin, but mostly it was Percoset. I've had a bottle of Percoset in my pocket or by my beside at all times. I counted the remaining pills and calculated the days before my second surgery, computed the average number of pills consumed per day and considered various back-up plans for securing more pills if I should run out. I think it is safe to say that I was drug-dependent and I don't think it is a stretch to think that I could be addicted.
I've already experienced some of the classic withdrawal symptoms; stomach upset, sleeplessness, anxiety, and muscle pain. But I'll never know if it's a result of actual physical dependence or a product of compulsively researching Percoset withdrawal for the past three weeks. Either way, none of the symptoms are particularly intense.
I'm going to go with "over-active imagination" rather than "strung-out middle-aged mom."
Rehab goals for SRD2: walk around the block and bake a cake.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Flash forward 6 weeks or so
Today will be known henceforth as Shoulder Rehab Day 1 or SRD1. The pins are out! My arm is moderately sore and my biggest challenge is not overdoing it the day after surgery. Stay tuned. My rehab focus of the day (SRD1) is rest.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Pins come out in three days
We left New Orleans promptly on the morning after my injury. Changing our return flights was expensive and we ended up flying through Cleveland, adding a significant number of miles and a few hours to our trip. Still, considering my 100% displaced humerus—the trip could have been worse.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
I maintained a steady level of percoset in my bloodstream and used a wheelchair whenever possible. While waiting to board our flight from Cleveland, I was one of five passengers seated near the gate in wheelchairs. A frantic airport employee rolled another wheelchair-bound passenger toward us shouting, “Hurry up!” and “Get out of my way!” With one arm in a sling and about 15 milligrams of percoset circulating in my system I was ill-equipped to respond. My four wheelchair companions, all older and clearly wiser travelers, stared calmly ahead, ignoring the fellow. When he finally wandered off, leaving behind the wheelchair containing his former passenger, she sighed with relief.
I don’t remember anything else. The rest of the trip was unremarkable. The percoset allowed all the details of our return travels to merge into memories of other trips, other flights.
Once I was home, our HMO was ready, willing, and able to care for me. Nobody had to worry about getting paid. A board certified trauma surgeon looked at my x-rays and recommended placing “pins” through my humerus to hold it together while it healed. The pins would remain in place for six weeks and require another operation to remove them. But, my doctor explained, this approach would greatly increase the likelihood my shoulder could regain a full range of motion.
If he said anything else it is lost in the fog of time. Those words, “full range of motion,” were all I needed to hear. I agreed to have four pins—roughly the size of #2 knitting needles—jammed through my muscles and into my bone. The surgeon tucked the ends of the pins under my skin and sewed up the incisions so no one would even know they were there. No one, that is, but me.
Here are a few of the questions I did not think to ask: Will the pins hurt? Will I need to take narcotics day and night to control the pain? Will I have to sleep sitting up? Will the pins press up under my skin and feel like I’m being stabbed from the inside? Will the pain get progressively worse over the six weeks of healing? Will I eventually realize I can go nowhere and do nothing without aggravating the constant pain? Answer to all of the above; yes.
Here’s the question I asked: When will I be able to do push-ups? Answer; three months.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Why I am blogging about shoulder rehab
>Planning our recent trip to New Orleans, my husband and I thought we were being terribly magnanimous. He offers training seminars for users of his software a few times each year. We chose New Orleans so his clients would join us in spending money there—our little contribution to rebuilding the hurricane-ravaged region. Or so we thought.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
As it happened, I fell off a Segway at the end of an otherwise delightful 2 ½ hour tour of the French Quarter and ended up placing a burden on the local emergency medical services system
First I needed an ambulance, complete with two friendly, competent and extremely patient emergency medical technicians. They took me to Tulane University Hospital Emergency Department where I occupied a bed in for several hours. The nurse who coordinated my care at Tulane apologized at one point for taking so long to check on me. He was simultaneously responsible for two other patients experiencing cardiac arrest. By then I was hooked up to a bag of Demerol so I didn’t really care.
Meanwhile, outside my room, I could overhear two patients who were in pretty bad shape; a very drunk woman who said she’d been beaten up by her boy friend, and a man who had overdosed on heroin. The woman was loud and mostly incoherent; the man pulled out his IV and trailed blood all over the floor before he was restrained.
When my husband arrived at the emergency room, he called our California HMO to request authorization for my care. The representative listened as my husband explained where we were and what had happened. He then asked what state New Orleans is in. Upon being informed that New Orleans is in the state of Louisiana he asked, “Is that anywhere near Virginia?”
When the x-ray revealed a broken shoulder, we learned Tulane would not schedule the needed surgery for at least four days. Even then, a patient with a life-threatening injury might bump me from the operating room. The medical resident appeared uncomfortable while explaining the surgery situation to us. While he didn’t come right out and say it, he intimated Tulane had experienced difficulty collecting from our HMO for such “out of plan” treatment. I couldn’t help thinking I might have been able to see a surgeon sooner if I was able to pay cash. But looking around an emergency department crowded with uninsured people, I had to appreciate the realities.
The doctors at Tulane deemed my injury stable enough to delay treatment four days, so Kaiser said I’d have to come home for the surgery. All the bottom line people at both institutions were happy and I just had to get home to Oakland with a broken humerus that was 100% displaced. Tulane wrapped my arm in a sling and swathe to immobilize it, gave me a prescription for 60 percoset, and sent me on my way.
Before leaving the ER, we thanked all the doctors and nurses who had cared for me. I especially wanted to know the names of the ambulance EMTs who had transported me as gently as possible through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. The young woman who administered the shot of morphine that helped me endure that painful trip looked down at me as she stood next to my gurney. “It’s Katrina,” she said, responding to my question. And we both just smiled.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Not the summer I expected (Pilates update)
Laurie’s Pilates Update June 2008
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
2. Dude, where’s my core?
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
1. Private, personal, peaceful Pilates
Private sessions 1 for $54, 5 for $245, 10 for $440
Duet* sessions 1 for $64 ($32 each), 5 for $300 ($150 each), 10 for $560 ($280 each)
* In Pilates jargon, a duet is a semi-private lesson - two people sharing one instructor (sorry, no singing). Clients choose duets for several reasons; they cost less, an exercise partner can be motivating, and it’s fun. You can find your own partner or let me match you up with someone. Please note; I need to work privately with each person at least once, duets are not appropriate for all clients.
2. Dude, where’s my core?
I continue to offer workplace workshops on upper body releases and strategies for preventing repetitive strain injuries (RSI). During these 45 minute group lessons I teach both standing and sitting exercises, all of which can be done in casual business attire without getting sweaty or wrinkled. Participants learn effective ways to stretch shoulder, neck, and back muscles, sit and stand with good alignment, relieve muscle tension, reduce pain, and prevent injury. A perfect “stretch break” for intensive training seminars or conferences, Dude, where’s my core? is serious exercise that’s fun. $150, plus travel in excess of 5 miles.
3. Learning about shoulder rehab the hard way
While visiting
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Not Building a Sukkah
My daughter, Sarah, moved back to Berkeley just about a year ago. It was right around the High Holy Days. Yesterday afternoon when she called it was about Sukkot, the harvest festival that follows Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. Weeks ago she had asked about our old sukkah and expressed some interest in using it to build the traditional holiday hut at her house. I explained that it was more of a sukkah kit – just a bunch of wood with the potential to be a sukkah. And, at the moment, it was jammed between our house and the fence, probably crawling with spiders and definitely threatening to put splinters into any hands that might dare to touch it.
She was still interested. So now, on erev Yom Kippur, just a few days before she would need to have her sukkah ready for the holiday, she called to say she wants the sukkah. But she doesn’t know if she’ll have time to get it, or build it, or decorate it.
“What are you doing right now?” I asked, innocently. “You could come and get it now. Or at least take a look and see what you’ll need to make it work.”
She said she’d come. An hour later, Sarah arrived. We greeted each other. I admired her new jeans and her phone rang.
Before she arrived I was baking for the holiday. But now the challah dough was rising, so I didn’t really have anything I had to do at the moment. Sarah was standing in the entry hall, still talking with her friend Mimi on her phone. I overhead her say, “Oh, Mimi, that’s so disgusting. I’m so sorry.” But when I made a face that asked, ‘Is Mimi okay?’ Sarah waved me off with a gesture and expression that said, ‘No, it’s nothing, she’s fine.” The conversation continued. I was obviously not part of it. So I wandered outside to find my gloves.
By the time Sarah caught up with me in the backyard I had pulled part of the sukkah out from between the house and the fence. I was covered with spider webs and bits of leaves and schmutz. The piece of sukkah I had found was an ungainly square of two-by-twos held together with triangles of plywood at each corner. Sarah took one look at it and declared it was not going to work. “I don’t know how I could get it to my house without a truck,” she said. “Zoe said she’d help me, but she’s out of town on the one day I’m free to work on it. I don’t think my roommates will have time either. I think I’d just better forget it.”
She helped me put the piece of sukkah back between the house and fence. Now we were both full of spider webs and leaves.
Picking the sticky bits from my hair and clothes, I felt profoundly disappointed. Without realizing it, I had created a whole fantasy in which my old sukkah rose like the phoenix in Sarah’s backyard, complete with table spread with a colorful cloth and covered with holiday food and drink. The roof of my fantasy sukkah was piled with palm fronds and the sides were decorated with garlands of paper flowers, fruit, and leaves. Someone had placed a string of tiny lights around the entryway. (In my fantasy it was nighttime.) There were candles on the table. Everything glowed.
But instead, Sarah and I were standing in my kitchen trying to figure out what to do now.
“When are you meeting Mimi for dinner?” I asked, again, innocently.
“I think we said 5:30,” she said.
“It’s already 4:30,” I said. “And you still need to go to the market?”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to get us something to cook.”
“Well, I guess we should go then,” I said.
We went.
I live just a few blocks from a little business district with a produce market, coffee mart, bakery, butcher, flower stand, and gift store. I love walking there to do errands, even just to buy an onion or a loaf of bread. It makes me feel European.
We walked directly to the butcher shop, bypassing the fresh produce and flowers, although I secretly enjoyed just seeing them as we breezed past. Sarah took a number from the dispenser when we entered the butcher shop and looked at the fresh fish while we waited our turn. “They have Cajun-style catfish fillets,” she said, pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m going to call Mimi to make sure she likes catfish.”
“I don’t know how observant she is,” I offered as she dialed. “But catfish isn’t kosher.”
“She’s not kosher,” Sarah said with a touch of irritation in her voice. Then Mimi answered.
Sarah’s number was called right after she finished talking with Mimi. The man behind the counter asked, “How can I help you?”
Sarah pointed into the cold case and said, “Could I please have two of those catfish fillets?”
I saw a strange look pass over the man’s face. I would have described it as revulsion if I’d been asked in that moment to characterize the expression. I would have been wrong.
“You’re the first person to say ‘please’ since 9 o’clock this morning,” he said. All I could see of him was his face, the case came up above my chest and he was not very tall. I recognized him from other visits to the butcher but I’m not sure he’d ever waited on me before. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes.
Sarah and I looked at each other and then back at the man. “Really?” I said. “That’s terrible!”
“Yeah,” he said, weighing the fish as he spoke. “I guess everybody’s just too busy.”
“Well, Mama,” Sarah said half to me and half to the man,” I guess you must have raised me right.”
I reached over to pat her on the back.
“I think the pat on the back should be for you Mom,” the man said. “Don’t you think?”
Sarah paid for her purchased, thanked the man once more, and we were on our way home. We left the butcher shop talking about what the man had said. Are people really too busy to say ‘please’?
Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. We Jews spend the day reflecting on where we fell short in the past year and praying for forgiveness. Many of the readings attempt to remind us that the way we conduct ourselves matters, particularly when it comes to how we treat one another.
I thought about the man behind the counter at the butcher shop this morning as we prayed. Often the difference between being a mensch and being a putz comes down to taking the time to notice the humanity of each person we encounter. A simple ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ acknowledges that, despite our differences, we are all just people on this planet. I may take on bigger challenges as I consider my goals for the coming year, but I also plan to say ‘please’ more often. Nobody who serves people all day long should have to wait seven hours to be noticed.
L’shana tova!
She was still interested. So now, on erev Yom Kippur, just a few days before she would need to have her sukkah ready for the holiday, she called to say she wants the sukkah. But she doesn’t know if she’ll have time to get it, or build it, or decorate it.
“What are you doing right now?” I asked, innocently. “You could come and get it now. Or at least take a look and see what you’ll need to make it work.”
She said she’d come. An hour later, Sarah arrived. We greeted each other. I admired her new jeans and her phone rang.
Before she arrived I was baking for the holiday. But now the challah dough was rising, so I didn’t really have anything I had to do at the moment. Sarah was standing in the entry hall, still talking with her friend Mimi on her phone. I overhead her say, “Oh, Mimi, that’s so disgusting. I’m so sorry.” But when I made a face that asked, ‘Is Mimi okay?’ Sarah waved me off with a gesture and expression that said, ‘No, it’s nothing, she’s fine.” The conversation continued. I was obviously not part of it. So I wandered outside to find my gloves.
By the time Sarah caught up with me in the backyard I had pulled part of the sukkah out from between the house and the fence. I was covered with spider webs and bits of leaves and schmutz. The piece of sukkah I had found was an ungainly square of two-by-twos held together with triangles of plywood at each corner. Sarah took one look at it and declared it was not going to work. “I don’t know how I could get it to my house without a truck,” she said. “Zoe said she’d help me, but she’s out of town on the one day I’m free to work on it. I don’t think my roommates will have time either. I think I’d just better forget it.”
She helped me put the piece of sukkah back between the house and fence. Now we were both full of spider webs and leaves.
Picking the sticky bits from my hair and clothes, I felt profoundly disappointed. Without realizing it, I had created a whole fantasy in which my old sukkah rose like the phoenix in Sarah’s backyard, complete with table spread with a colorful cloth and covered with holiday food and drink. The roof of my fantasy sukkah was piled with palm fronds and the sides were decorated with garlands of paper flowers, fruit, and leaves. Someone had placed a string of tiny lights around the entryway. (In my fantasy it was nighttime.) There were candles on the table. Everything glowed.
But instead, Sarah and I were standing in my kitchen trying to figure out what to do now.
“When are you meeting Mimi for dinner?” I asked, again, innocently.
“I think we said 5:30,” she said.
“It’s already 4:30,” I said. “And you still need to go to the market?”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to get us something to cook.”
“Well, I guess we should go then,” I said.
We went.
I live just a few blocks from a little business district with a produce market, coffee mart, bakery, butcher, flower stand, and gift store. I love walking there to do errands, even just to buy an onion or a loaf of bread. It makes me feel European.
We walked directly to the butcher shop, bypassing the fresh produce and flowers, although I secretly enjoyed just seeing them as we breezed past. Sarah took a number from the dispenser when we entered the butcher shop and looked at the fresh fish while we waited our turn. “They have Cajun-style catfish fillets,” she said, pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m going to call Mimi to make sure she likes catfish.”
“I don’t know how observant she is,” I offered as she dialed. “But catfish isn’t kosher.”
“She’s not kosher,” Sarah said with a touch of irritation in her voice. Then Mimi answered.
Sarah’s number was called right after she finished talking with Mimi. The man behind the counter asked, “How can I help you?”
Sarah pointed into the cold case and said, “Could I please have two of those catfish fillets?”
I saw a strange look pass over the man’s face. I would have described it as revulsion if I’d been asked in that moment to characterize the expression. I would have been wrong.
“You’re the first person to say ‘please’ since 9 o’clock this morning,” he said. All I could see of him was his face, the case came up above my chest and he was not very tall. I recognized him from other visits to the butcher but I’m not sure he’d ever waited on me before. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes.
Sarah and I looked at each other and then back at the man. “Really?” I said. “That’s terrible!”
“Yeah,” he said, weighing the fish as he spoke. “I guess everybody’s just too busy.”
“Well, Mama,” Sarah said half to me and half to the man,” I guess you must have raised me right.”
I reached over to pat her on the back.
“I think the pat on the back should be for you Mom,” the man said. “Don’t you think?”
Sarah paid for her purchased, thanked the man once more, and we were on our way home. We left the butcher shop talking about what the man had said. Are people really too busy to say ‘please’?
Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. We Jews spend the day reflecting on where we fell short in the past year and praying for forgiveness. Many of the readings attempt to remind us that the way we conduct ourselves matters, particularly when it comes to how we treat one another.
I thought about the man behind the counter at the butcher shop this morning as we prayed. Often the difference between being a mensch and being a putz comes down to taking the time to notice the humanity of each person we encounter. A simple ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ acknowledges that, despite our differences, we are all just people on this planet. I may take on bigger challenges as I consider my goals for the coming year, but I also plan to say ‘please’ more often. Nobody who serves people all day long should have to wait seven hours to be noticed.
L’shana tova!
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
On the Other Side
I can breathe again. I gave my teacher a Pilates lesson and she liked it! I spent the past week obsessed with this lesson. I made at least seven different lists of the Pilates exercises I would teach her. I wrote one on the airplane to San Diego to attend Comic Con. I wrote lists in the special notebook I keep just for Pilates. I wrote them in the margins of the newspaper while finishing breakfast. I typed them and eventually I think I even dreamed them.
When I had finally decided on the 18 different exercises and the order in which I would teach them, I started practicing. I don't have all the Pilates equipment at home, so I had to pretend. My family gave me odd looks when they found me pantomiming how I would move the springs on the reformer from one set-up to another. I not only imitated the motions for each exercise, I also practice giving cues to my imaginary student, out loud.
Afraid I wouldn't sleep, I reviewed my list and revised my notes up until right before I went to bed. Then I got up extra early so I could arrive at the studio with time to practice the entire work-out. I spent over an hour doing the exercises, intermittently checking my instructors' manual and making changes in my set-up notes.
When the time for the lesson finally arrived, I was nervous, but I was also prepared. After about 30 minutes, my teacher said, "You're doing great. Really, you're doing a really good job." I could feel my whole body relax.
There was more feedback, mostly positive, but some constructive comments too. I particularly need to smooth out my patter, get it down to the few really effective cue words for each exercise. But I'm pumped, because it is so clear that I've progressed since the last time I taught my teacher.
I feel great. Which is good, because I gotta get going on my next work-out plan. My teacher put herself on my schedule in two weeks and I want to be ready.
When I had finally decided on the 18 different exercises and the order in which I would teach them, I started practicing. I don't have all the Pilates equipment at home, so I had to pretend. My family gave me odd looks when they found me pantomiming how I would move the springs on the reformer from one set-up to another. I not only imitated the motions for each exercise, I also practice giving cues to my imaginary student, out loud.
Afraid I wouldn't sleep, I reviewed my list and revised my notes up until right before I went to bed. Then I got up extra early so I could arrive at the studio with time to practice the entire work-out. I spent over an hour doing the exercises, intermittently checking my instructors' manual and making changes in my set-up notes.
When the time for the lesson finally arrived, I was nervous, but I was also prepared. After about 30 minutes, my teacher said, "You're doing great. Really, you're doing a really good job." I could feel my whole body relax.
There was more feedback, mostly positive, but some constructive comments too. I particularly need to smooth out my patter, get it down to the few really effective cue words for each exercise. But I'm pumped, because it is so clear that I've progressed since the last time I taught my teacher.
I feel great. Which is good, because I gotta get going on my next work-out plan. My teacher put herself on my schedule in two weeks and I want to be ready.
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