Waking up after rotator cuff surgery
is like nothing I’ve experienced. The doctor had told me I was a good candidate
for the surgery. No major health issues. Otherwise strong and hearty. “Piece of
cake,” he’d said, compared to other surgeries I’ve had: hysterectomy, and not
the minimally invasive kind. Spinal surgery—that was the minimally invasive
kind.
I’d also had bi-lateral
carpal tunnel releases and a right elbow tendon release. Are you beginning to
see a pattern here? Had I not listened when my mom said to go sit quietly with
my hands folded in my lap? Actually she had never said that. It was my grade
school nuns. And I guess I did not listen. Or else my body is just determined
to wear out faster than a Fiat in the early days of manufacture. Maybe that’s
it. When they were doling out tendons, muscles and spinal what-nots I got lemon
parts. The bottom line though is I’ve had a few surgeries. Some major. And even
some where I had to adjust to single-handed and left-handed living. So why did
the recovery from rotator cuff surgery seem so different?
First, is the waking up
feeling like a cockroach, on its back. Ah, Kafka must have had this surgery.
Strapped to my right arm was
a contraption I’ll call it. That included a sling, which I’d expected. But Velcro-ed
to the sling was an oblong pillow, with a blue tennis ball at the end. What’s
up with that? Was that to tantalize me so I’d be motivated to follow
instructions and recover enough to hit a killer overhead serve? Or was that the
Doc’s “get even”? I’d
made some bad joke on the way to the operating room about my overhead serve.
Doc must not have thought it funny. OK. I’ve never had a killer overhead serve.
Mostly I just tried to lob it over the net. And not in a long, long time.
Back to
the contraption connected to my arm and upper body. Straps around my neck,
around my waist and everywhere else. The pre-surgery instructions had said
bring a big, loose shirt. I brought a men’s XL dress shirt. That was not big
enough to put the sling-contraption through. So it sort of draped over my shoulders,
with no bra underneath. Luckily I was sufficiently drugged I didn’t really care.
But when I woke up enough to realize how I was dressed I was a bit horrified.
And
then I realized the contraption, if I kept it on 24-7 as directed by the Doc’s
instructions, would not allow me to actually cover my chest unless I resorted
to a Halloween ghost costume: a sheet
with a head hole cut in it. We experimented with cutting up some of my husband's
old t- shirts. They left big gaps. But they had the advantage of being in style
as “oversized boyfriend wear.” Finally I could say I was on trend.
Then
there were all the other rules. My husband had listened carefully to post-op
instructions. While I had laid in a stupor of drugs after the surgery. I was
supposed to always have my hand higher than my elbow. Except for the three times
a day I was supposed to bend over and swing my arm like a pendulum. And my
shoulder was supposed to always be at least at a 30 degree angle.
So I
was supposed to sit in a recliner which created the correct angles and support.
But the recliner was designed for a right-hander, with the handle on the right
side. With the contraption on my right hand and upper body, my left hand could
not come close to reaching the handle. And though I have reasonably long,
strong legs, with the contraption and significant pain (did I mention the
pain?) I could not maneuver the recliner open or closed. Of course, my husband
was willing to assist but that meant he could not leave the room in case I
needed to get out of the chair, say at any time over the night. Which is where
the instructions suggested I sleep.
At some
point I discovered I could hop out of the open recliner and then hop back in.
the instruction sheet did not have any prohibitions on hopping. But I imagine
that's only because they had not thought of it.
So why
was I so poorly prepared for this cockroach-like existence after surgery? Well,
for one thing I had thought I was only having a bone spur near my rotator cuff
removed. Not a tear in the cuff itself repaired. I had been experiencing pain
in my right shoulder for over four years.
Here’s
how it began. Several years ago, on a fateful, fall day I was walking our two
dogs and they both spotted squirrels to chase. In different directions. I’d
gone to the Doc who dutifully examined my shoulder and listened to my tale. And
recommended an MRI. Since my insurance had changed to, what is it you call the
Cheapskate Plan? Oh, “consumer-driven”.
So as
the consumer, driven by cost-saving, I decided I knew better than the orthopedic
specialist whether I needed an MRI. Instead of an MRI I consented to the much
cheaper x-ray. Which showed a large bone spur sitting right next to my rotator
cuff.
I tried
cortisone shots, physical therapy, new dog leashes, and a lot of aspirin.
Nothing made the pain go away. After about four years of consumer-driven
cost-savings, I opted for surgery to remove the bone spur, not knowing the
spur, plus dog pulling, already had torn my rotator cuff.
So I
went into the surgery, as a result of my own stupidity, ill-informed of the
extent the surgery, the pain, or the recovery would ultimately involve. The
pain I’ve been able to handle much better than I’m handling the contraption.
I’m grateful
the Doc was able to fix the cuff at the same time he removed the spur. I just
wish he had told me about how awkward and uncomfortable the contraption would
be. And that his office had provided some post surgery clothing guidance that
did not leave me as uncovered as women who get paid to show off their chests.
