My Gimp Stint

My Dear Reader,

It has been requested that I tell the tale of my recent status as the resident cripple, and I am determined to never leave you disappointed. Here it goes!

First of all, one of the hardest aspects of recovering from shoulder surgery is that I had surgery on my right shoulder, and I happen to be right-handed. That means that I've been typing each entry since my operation with my left hand because I'm physically incapable of reaching my right hand to the keyboard. It also means that writing has become very tiring and time consuming these days, but it's still just as rewarding, so here I am.

Something that I didn't expect is that my arm tends to go completely limp, meaning that I have to put effort into any motion thereof. To give you an idea of what this means, let me just say that it has been suggested that I might have a promising career as an actress in zombie movies. My elbow is just fine, and I have a full range of motion there, but my shoulder is too weak to let me move my arm away from my body, which is just fine if you never have to change your shirt or shower. I manage, but it takes a lot longer. When I was wearing my sling, it was easy for me to have a motionless shoulder and not look like a freak, but now it's impossible. When I walk, my left arm will swing like normal, but my right arm won't. I have therefore developed a fake swing that I do as I walk, and while other people are going over their mental to-do list or contemplating about the meaning of life, I think up down, up down, up down. I know, it sounds stupid, but my options are somewhat limited. I can't exactly replicate my natural reaction to gravity and momentum, and it gets tiring after a while, but it works well enough to stop people from thinking that I'm a homeless vet. I'm not making that up.

After few trial-and-error experiences, I've decided that the best way to explain my condition when the need arises is to be perfectly blunt. I started out saying things like, "Could you please cut this hamburger into four?" at which point the waiter would inform me that the said hamburger came with a steak knife, and that I was free to cut it any way I wanted. I would then sit there and try to figure out how awkward it would be to tell him that I could only lift one of my arms high enough to get food in my mouth, and restaurant-style burgers required two. Then I would realize that I would have to continue by informing him that cutting a hamburger that big would also require two hands. Instead, I've found out that it's a lot quicker if I just say, "Excuse me, I have a bolt in my shoulder, could you please cut this into four? You really don't want to make me start bleeding." In cases like this, the waiter doesn't exactly need to know that the bleeding wouldn't happen either way.

I have also discovered that my shoulder is the perfect excuse for getting out of doing things that I don't like doing, such as country dancing. I get asked every other day, and if you are one of those people who keep asking me to go, Dear Reader, please accept my humble plea that you stop inviting me! I hate country music that much.* Luckily enough, now my conversations with country dancing enthusiasts goes something like this:

Country Dancing Enthusiast: Hey, let's go country dancing! It'll be quite the time!

Cecily: Um, I have a bolt in my shoulder.

Country Dancing Enthusiast: Oh, right. That might just kill you. I hereby apologize for asking.

Cecily: You should.

This is contrasted my my bosses at work, who are afraid that they are going to break me. I'm trying to figure out how to use this to my best advantage, like fainting and then asking for a raise. We'll see.

Anyway, the good news is that I am on the mend, thanks to my physical therapist who has a very pleasing resemblance to Brent Spiner. He even shares the first name. Starting last week, he introduced me into a whole new way of living, which includes a strict regimen of a half-hour of hurting myself as I wake up, followed by another half-hour of pain in the afternoon, and ending with a final thirty minutes of masochism. Brent has ensured me that this is "safe pain," as opposed to all of that unsafe pain out there, lurking in the shadows. After that, I pay him to hurt me for at least an hour and a half twice a week, while I secretly hope that he will break out into the lifeform song. I'll catch him one of these days. At the end of each appointment, I am measured, and this time not in inches, but degrees. I manage to get ten to thirty degrees closer to gimplessness.

Regards, best wishes, and shoulder mobility,

-Cecily Jane

*Yes, that's right. So do seventy-five percent of Americans and one hundred percent of every other country.