Dual citizenship.

Over at "The Seated View," Lene Andersen, responded today to a description of a book as containing stories about people dealing with chronic illnesses. She quoted from that description and responded to it:

And I quote from the Book Descriptions: "In 2003 Cohen published Blindsided, a bestselling memoir of illness. The outpouring of support revealed to him that not only does the public want to hear from people who overcome the challenges of illness, but that in the isolated world of illness, there are people who want their voices to be heard. Strong at the Broken Places was born of the desire of many to share their stories in the hope that the sick and those who love them will see that they are not alone each” (emphasis mine). And I got a little stroppy.

She goes on to explain "the stroppy":

Which brings me to the reason for the stroppy: that line about the overcoming (which isn’t written by the author, so I’m not dissing him). I looked it up and to overcome: to defeat, to prevail over, to surmount, to conquer. And that's the tricky bit, because traditionally, yes, the public only wants to hear from people who "overcome" the challenges of illness. They don't want to hear about the daily struggle unless it culminates in an achievement, unless you're the plucky kind, preferably pretty enough to qualify for poster child status, the one who can smile through the hardship, remind the great unwashed of how lucky they are to be healthy. And you know what? There is no overcoming of disability.

(Even though I have quoted a lot from her piece, you should read the whole thing.)

I am ready to confess that I have not (yet?) experienced living with a chronic condition like MS, or ALS, or arthritis, or Crohn's. But I am going to try to learn what I can from over a year of pain and a couple of spikes.

One thing I have noticed so much recently--and that Lene's piece made me think about--is how ready people are for me to be finished with my recovery. I have received any number of e-mails from friends saying, "I trust by now that your shoulder is back to normal..." or well-wishing comments from colleagues, making it clear that what they are ready for is good news. These comments are hard to hear, because, frankly, I am ready for it, too: who isn't, really. But after I smile at them and tell them how much better everything is, I feel like a big fibber, because I am also extremely aware of how far I have to go, of what is still wrong, and also of my fear (understanding?) that this recovery process will probably continue until something else goes downhill.

In The Body in Pain, Elaine Scarry writes about the inability of a person in physical pain and a person not in pain to communicate about it:

For the person whose pain it is, it is 'effortlessly' grasped (that is, even with the most heroic effort it cannot not be grasped); while for the person outside the sufferer's body, what is 'effortless' is not grasping it (it is easy to remain wholly unaware of its existence; even with effort, one may remain in doubt about its existence or may retain the astonishing freedom of denying its existence; and finally, if with the best effort of sustained attention one successfully apprehends it, the aversiveness of the 'it' one apprehends will only be a shadowy fraction of the actual 'it'). So, for the person in pain, so incontestably and unnegotiably present is it that 'having pain' may come to be thought of as the most vibrant example of what it is to 'have certainty,' while for the other person it is so elusive that 'hearing about pain' may exist as the primary model of what it is 'to have doubt.'

When the pain from my infection was coming on (I did not then know what the problem was), I called my then-orthopaedist's office for help. The nurse told me to take some Advil. I told her the pain was very severe. She said she would talk to the doctor and call back later. "Later" means two different things when you have a schedule to uphold and when (it turns out) you have a colony of organisms outgrowing and devouring your joint. Yet, I see upon reflection, this nurse probably gets many complaints of pain: it is easier and more natural (and probably even necessary) to doubt.

Looking back now on my account of that weekend of pain, I am reminded that I do not succeed in communicating the feeling of the pain. In fact, my memory of the weekend makes it hard for me to imagine that that account describes the same experience that I remember. As Virginia Woolf says, "English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear has no words for the shiver or the headache...." I do describe the various parts around the pain, and, I am ashamed to note, I do it all in the rhetoric of see-how-much-better-I-am-now. Well.

Susan Sontag writes:

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

Sometimes now I do feel like I was living abroad for a time, and even now I take occasional trans-oceanic flights, getting back just in time for some meeting or to teach a class. These days, my trips are less frequent than they once were, my stays abroad shorter. In fact, I can even think as the night-side kingdom as "abroad."

In my file of important documents in my desk I still have my c. 1997 readers' cards from the British Library and the National Library of Ireland, for whenever I need to go back. I expect that even if for a time I stash my night-side passport in that folder, it will never expire.

Is it "Happy Birthday" or "Happy Thanksgiving"?

OK: it's official. In the latest installment of "My Shoulder Sucks: A Melodrama," I have a surgery scheduled for 20 November to fix the damned thing. Happy birthday to me. OR is it Happy Thanksgiving? It will fall smack in between, so why not both?

You might be wondering what exactly is wrong with my shoulder (I am too...). Apparently there is a tear in the labrum, and as I understand it, it is a SLAP lesion. (Read here about shoulder anatomy and labral tears.) This kind of tear will not fix itself; I have been trying to use physical therapy to strengthen the muscles around the shoulder, in hopes that that might take the pressure off the labrum and get rid of the pain.

But as I have thought more about this, and spoken with my PT, I realize that really it is not so much a question of whether surgery is needed, but when. So now it is scheduled.

I understand that while this is typically an outpatient surgery, I will be kept over one night, on IV antibiotics, to stave off a recurrence of the infection horror.

It is interesting: I can type this post without losing my mind in anxiety. That was not true on 21 September when my doctor first mentioned the prospect of surgery. This itself is progress.

WOO-HOO.

FORGIVE ME FOR SHOUTING.

IT IS JUST THAT MY PICC LINE IS OUT, AND I AM ECSTATIC.

I CAN LIFT THINGS WITH MY RIGHT HAND AGAIN, TAKE SHOWERS, AND IN A DAY OR TWO, GO SWIMMING.

I CANNOT LINGER HERE. I NEED TO GO HAVE A LITTLE PARTY.

PICC up the pieces (say what?)

I was thinking yesterday, as I was infusing my antibiotics, what an amazing piece of technology the PICC line is. Thanks to it, I do not need to have someone prick my arm and find a vein every time I need my antibiotics, and they can draw blood through it, too. Basically the way it works is that they put a needle into a vein in your arm, then somehow feed a lengthy tube up the vein until it reaches a more central vein. In my case, the intravenous line goes from the middle of my upper arm up to where my shoulder and neck meet. But here is what it looks like on the outside:




That little golden ball you see is the antibiotic, and these things are also amazing. They are sort of pressure-packed, so that as soon as I unhook the little valve in the tubing that connects the antibiotic bomb to my PICC line, the pressure of the ball starts pushing the drug into my body: no need for gravity to do the work, as with a traditional IV, and therefore no need for one of those metal carts you usually see with people on IVs.

Today we went over to the infusion center again, for what I hope to be my final blood draw. (Typically a home health nurse would come to the house to do that, but because I will be visiting my parents next week, that is not possible, and they must do blood tests and change the dressing on the line once a week.) There was a bit of a wait, because it was busy in there today. The PP was waiting in the waiting room (of all places), and got to talking with the other people waiting on people getting their infusions. (Many people either choose to--or must, for reasons of insurance--get their antibiotics infused in the doctor's office, so it is open seven days a week.) It turns out that everyone in there was there because of an infection that resulted from surgery. And I learned in the conversation in the infusion center itself, that one woman, whom the others call "Saint Teresa," had been coming in there since the fall of 2005. That is once a day, every day, every week, every month, for more than a year and a half!

The whole experience has made me both marvel at the achievements of medicine, and wince at the reality of how dangerous it is to be hospitalized. And it is all a lesson in patience.

Start wearing purple for me now.

I am chipping away at my list of 10 things to return to my life. Technically, first I need to add number 11, the thing I had forgotten on the original list, and it is a double, namely

11. Wearing pullover shirts and back-clasp bras.

I hope there might be progress on this one over the weekend, but I can tell you that there has been significant progress on #4, 6, 8, and 9. Last night I made the (albeit, very simple) sauce for the fish that the PP grilled. Now granted: this is not the same as cooking an entire meal, but it is a start! And now I can read THREE paragraphs and sometimes even FOUR in a row! And my hair is looking less and less stupid. And I can even sleep for a while on my right side. Life is great, ain't it?

But most important, NUMBER ONE. That's right, folks. I am cutting back on the pain meds, which means that I got to have a glass of wine with dinner last night. HOW GREAT IS THAT???? I can tell you with complete honesty that the lack of wine in my life was making me wanna walk like a camel. And I can further tell you that the juice of the vine has never been so perfect, so delicious....

But what I really wanted to tell you is that the Start Wearing Purple Sweater is DONE. I had been lacking the #9 circular needle to finish the neck, but I got that on Thursday, and yesterday I did my first ever circular knitting (Magpie was right: it was no big deal) and finished the darn thing. I may have mentioned that my cat Jacques Monod is in love with the sweater. Here is photographic proof:

The night when I blocked it, I had it lying on a towel on the kitchen counter, drying. I was in the other room, but I heard this sound, like a cat jumping onto the counter. When I got out there, there was Jacques Monod, rolling on her back, on the sweater. I wish I could have gotten a photo of that.

Anyway, here is the finished item:


The pattern came from Hip to Knit, and I made it with this yarn (Hibiscus Heather). The PP thinks it is so awesome that now he wants one. Luckily it is a unisex pattern, so I do not have a big math project ahead of me. [UPDATE: He changed his mind, and picked out something else so we will not be too his-n-hers.]

Please note that this is the world's simplest sweater: there is not even armhole shaping in the front and back pieces, which is why the shoulder line hangs down my arm so much. But I am extremely proud of this, partly because I managed to finish the thing, and partly because (and please forgive me for boasting) it fits perfectly. This is partly luck, and partly the miracle of making your own clothes--namely, that you can tailor them to your bodily irregularities.

Here is my situation, and it makes shopping for clothes a challenge: swimmer shoulders. No, no, no, I am not talking about rotator cuff problems (for a change), but rather about having more developed shoulders than the typical female. Hence, I usually have trouble finding tops that are comfortable but not sacks. Granted, the sweater is sack-like, but I achieved precisely the sack that I wanted by shortening the sweater itself (I am short-waisted) and lengthening the sleeves (I have longish arms--no ape jokes, please).

And it really is rather smashing, isn't it? Perhaps I'll have another glass of wine tonight, just because I am so awesome.

I'm sew tired.

I am about halfway through the sewing needed to finish up the Start Wearing Purple sweater. Too bad it will be all done just in time for Not Sweater Season. But still--I never tire of the magic of mattress stitching, even if it is tiring doing all the work.

For those of you who are not People of the Knitting, mattress stitching is used for attaching two pieces side-by-side. So, for instance, I am using it to join the front and back of the sweater, and to turn the sleeves from flat pieces into little arm-holding tubes. The magic of the mattress stitch is that you wind your darning yarn back and forth around the stitches on each side, and then you tighten it up, and PRESTO! the gap between them disappears, and unless you are looking closely, the two pieces look like one solid piece. Pretty cool, eh?

And I have not knitted all day, even though today is my "day off": no doctor's appointments, no visits from nurses, no visits from physical therapists. I suppose if I get this sewing done, then I can get back to the good stuff.

Of course I am short one #9 16" circular needle set needed to finish the rollneck on the sweater.... Perhaps I can bribe a friend into taking me to the yarn store this afternoon.

In other news, I have started a list of things I used to take for granted that I should not have. Here are the first 10:

1. Drinking red wine.*
2. Being able to lift more than 5 pounds with my right arm.**
3. Driving.*
4. Reading more than a paragraph or two without nodding off.
5. Showering.***
6. Bowel regularity.****
7. Swimming and/or exercising at all.
8. Making it through the afternoon without a nap.
9. Cooking for myself.
10. Putting my hair up in a way that does not look stupid.

----------------
* I can do this again once I am off the super-duper pain meds.
** I cannot lift more than that now, because more lifting than that could put stress on the PICC line. We do not want to have to reinsert the PICC line.
*** Cannot get the PICC line's dressing wet.
**** Sorry for TMI

Friday Random 10: Driven by a strange desire Edition

Here is something I am looking forward to, more than I can really express: being able to sleep on my sides. I had been accustomed to avoiding sleeping on the left side since I started having trouble on that shoulder, but I am SUCH a shoulder sleeper, that I spent much of the night on my right side. As the pain in the shoulder got really bad after the arthrogram, though, even that got difficult, because having the shoulder lean left or right felt bad. And now, with the PICC line in place, I cannot do it at all.

Occasionally I have tried sleeping on my stomach with no pillow. I told my mother that on the phone recently, and she said, "I thought that was bad for you." I asked her, "What, are you worried about SIDS?" She laughed and reminded me it is bad for your back. I told her I was not really thinking of this as a long-term but rather a temporary solution. But that does not work so well either.

So it is all night on the back for me. Not that I sleep that constantly, because of the drugs and all the napping.

But one of the interesting things about all this is that I seem always to be on the verge of dozing off. That means that often I start dreaming before I even fully fall asleep, which makes the veil between the waking and sleeping times a very thin and fluttering thing. These are thin times, as the Celts would say.

Or maybe it seems that way because of all the time I have for contemplation, which makes me more open to noticing small pleasures and surprises in life. Yesterday the doctor changed my antibiotic, so I had to go to the infusion center at the hospital to have it infused (instead of doing it myself at home). When I got there, there were three people receiving their own particular infusions. I was struck that in however long they had been coming there daily, they had all gotten to be . . . I am searching for my adjective here. They all seemed to enjoy talking to each other, and seemed to enjoy each other's company, and seemed to be doing something more than just passing the time. They reminded me of the retired men you see eating breakfast together at Hardee's, or a knitting group, or people taking a water break during a pick-up basketball game, or a Red Hat Society, or a book club, or the French Table, or any such group of people who do not necessarily have more in common than that one shared interest, but there they are, having a great time. They had given each other nicknames, they liked to tease each other and the nurse, and it was the most warm, friendly group of people you could imagine. As people came and went, the conversations shifted slightly, and of course there was some talk about the infusions themselves, but mostly it was this strange warm thing in an otherwise sterile, artificially lit room.

I felt like I had been given a glimpse of something special, a world usually roped off from the well. It made me feel less bad about my own situation, and not because these people were so worse off, but because they had taught me something, all without really thinking about it.

Haven't done this in a while:

1. "The Carnival Is Over," Dead Can Dance, Into the Labyrinth
2. "Jolie Blonde," Queen Ida and her Zydeco Band, Caught in the Act
3. "Come Running," Van Morrison, Best of
4. "The Kraken," Squirrel Nut Zippers, Perennial Favorites
5. "Anansi Abstrakt," D. J. Spooky, Songs of a Dead Dreamer
6. "Great Balls of Fire," Jerry Lee Lewis, Best of Sun Records, Volume 1
7. "Grace Under Pressure," Jade Fox, Gilles Peterson Presents: The BBC Sessions, Volume 1
8. "What Is It This Time," Jamie Lidell, Multiply
9. In 3's," Beastie Boys, Check Your Head
10. "Alla Gossar (All the Young Men)," Triakel, Nordic Roots: A Northside Collection

Phenergans Wake: The short version.

There was one point this weekend where the nurse said, "I am going to give you the Finnegan injection first. That should help with the nausea."

"Finnegan?" I said.

"Phenergan," she said. It turns out to be an anti-nausea drug, not a major late modernist epic of surreal proportion. Though the experience was surreal too.

* * *

When I went to see the shoulder specialist on Friday, he determined that there was indeed an infection in my shoulder joint: hence some of the pain. In addition to the regular scary things about infections, particularly those caught in a hospital (in my case, the hospital where I got my arthrogram), the bacteria can degrade the cartiledge of the joint, so he wanted to get it out immediately.

Hence the surgery scheduled for Friday afternoon (i.e. cancelled physical therapy appointment, which, Joe, I believe might be the same as physiotherapy). So I went home and grabbed some things, and the PP picked me up and took me to a different hospital for the surgery. The checking in took a good long while, because it was short notice, but eventually we were checked in and waiting for a good long time in my new room (private!). They had to wait for my breakfast to be digested, and run bloodwork, and then wait for an operating room to open up, and then I had surgery around 6:00 p.m.

It seemed to go fine, and in addition to flushing the infection out of the joint, the surgeon got some "debris" out, which he thought might be related to the original pain. The whole procedure, including the knocking out and coming to, lasted about two and a half hours.

Then I spent the rest of the weekend and most of Monday in the hospital, letting the anesthesia wear off, taking pain medication, letting the wound heal so that they could take the drains out, getting my strength back so I could walk easily to the bathroom or up and down the hall a bit, removing the old IV line and putting in a PICC line (is like an IV but which can stay in the body for many weeks), and beginning physical therapy to get range of motion and strength back in the shoulder.

Now I am home, having come home last night around 7:30 p.m. I can hardly express how relieved I am to be home, but perhaps this example gives some sense: it is so nice not to have anyone come into my room at 11 p.m. (after I've been sleeping a couple of hours), turn on the lights, empty the trash, turn off the lights, and slam the door on their way out. Not to mention all the needle-sticks. And not to mention that for my first meal after 24 hours of fasting (with some IV drip I guess) was a breakfast consisting of a biscuit, sausage links, and grits. (Had no one heard of soup?)

But we are home. I still have a PICC line in, which allows me to get my antibiotics injected everyday, and it allows them to draw blood without sticking me yet again. Last night I had a bath! I am still taking some pretty prime pain meds and yes, the pheneran for nausea. I understand the antibiotics will probably go 2-3 weeks. In the meantime I do physical therapy 3 times a day, and a therapist comes to the house 3 times a week.

Just wanted to fill you in. Obviously I will not be thinking about swimming for a while, but once the PICC line is out, I may begin some water therapy.

All your sanity and wits they will all vanish (I promise).

The start-wearing-purple sweater is off the needles--all that is left is the sewing (bleh). I should have realized that such a chunky yarn would make a WARM sweater. I suppose that will be a good thing in sweater season, but I hope I have not accidentally made a sweater too warm for SC.

But this means I need to find a new project. How exciting! I have gotten a good bit of self-pity yarn lately, and the PP even made a trek to a yarn store that is a little ways from town with me last week, before the shoulder went ultimate haywire. The ladies at the yarn store (like pretty much everyone who meets him) were so amazed by him: he was actually interested in the yarns (I had set him on a mission to find some specific things, and the PP loves new things anyway) and he was looking at a book called something like Knitting for Men, and picking out prospective sweaters (all of which, of course, involve cables that I do not know how to do yet--but soon!). They were amazed that he was not just itching to get out of there. "He's a keeper!" they kept saying.

Don't I know it. And none of us knew then how incredibly kind he would be to me the entire time of the weekend of doom.

Anyway, today is a big day!

This morning I go to see the shoulder specialist who comes highly recommended from another swimmer and my coach. I have my x-rays and my MRI pictures in a little envelope for him, along with some paperwork. If I do not document him to death, I hope he will be able to come up with something.

Then this afternoon is my first appointment in a while with the physical therapist. While I do not expect us to make any immediate progress on the actual shoulder problem, he should be able to help me get the joint loosened up and re-strengthened after the arthrogramathon.

I'll post a report after my appointments, but keep your fingers crossed for me.

Confusion: my mistake.

Dear Readers,

A couple of folks have expressed confusion at what sent my weekend south.

The real answer is that we don't know. But the going hypothesis is that about 5% of the population has a severe pain reaction to the "dye" (not really a dye, but a chemical whose name I do not remember) that they use in an arthrogram. That could explain why the pain in my shoulder began on Friday and increased so dramatically. Or, it could have been a little bit of that, exacerbated by the "palpating" in Friday's appointment. Or it could have been the 15 cc of fluid that was injected into my already tender shoulder. Or some combination of the three. Or there could be an infection in the joint, but that does not look likely, since my temperature is remaining very steady at normal, and the pain is going away instead of increasing.

What I do know is that the pain that came on this weekend was not caused by sports, since I have not done any since the needlefest on Thursday.

And what else I know is that this pain makes me nostalgic for the soreness I had before the test. You know, the pain that led me to get the test? Won't it be grand to get back to that point?

Again, sorry for the confusion.

Yours truly,
Isis

It's all just a matter of time-uh.

I may not yet be able to drive my manual-transmission car, but that does not mean I am not making progress.

For instance, as of today, I can use my left hand to pull up my pants! And I can touch my face with my left hand! Perhaps even wash said face!

The secret to my success? I am glad you asked: it is a combination of pill consumption that even an old person would envy and many hot baths, where I practice moving my left arm around in a low gravity warm water context. Oh yeah, and the passing of time.

Today I am more sore than yesterday, but it is no longer the joint hurting anymore but instead the muscles. Muscles that have been clenched into leetle tight wads and have recently been getting bits and pieces of workouts as I try to lift my arm (much exhaling of breath).

And, thanks be, I CAN KNIT AGAIN.

I am working on the world's simplest, chunkiest, start-wearing-purplest sweater. I have now finished the front and the back, and I have knitted the shoulders together using that cool move where you knit them together and bind the stitches off all in one slick move. (Good thing that move is slick, because there is nothing slick about the series of moves it presently requires to pour myself a cup of coffee.) Now I have started on Sleeve #1, making notes about mistakes as I go, so I can replicated them on Sleeve #2. Exciting news on the sleeve front is that I have learned the "make 1" increase. Watch me go!

Stay tuned as tomorrow I try to leave the house!

What a weekend.

You may not find this as exciting as I do, but I am typing with two hands!

This is exciting, because for pretty much the entire weekend, I had no use of left arm. And what moving it did, felt like someone was ripping it out of my shoulder socket.

You see, that shoulder pain I was feeling on Friday got even worse, and I realized that it was important that when I described the arthrogram itself as sucking beyond most sucking--well, now I knew what some more sucking felt like.

Sucky.

As Friday went on the pain got worse and worse, and finally we convinced the doctor's office that I was not just being whiney, but really hurting, and they gave me vicodin. Cool: that helped some, and it definitely mellowed me out, but what they did not tell me and should have (and indeed the directions from the pharmacy even contradicted this) was TAKE WITH FOOD. I had taken the first dose right at dinner time, but I kept taking it every four hours as prescribed, so by the early morning my stomach was getting empty. And then, when I tried to eat, I could not eat more than one bite without being sick.

Four times of that later, and still in excruciating pain (this is early Saturday morning), we were trying to contact the on-call doctor again and again. Having started this rigamarole around 5:30 a.m., we finally reached a nurse around 10:30, and then around 1:30, I was back at the doctor's office, where I got stronger drugs. (The car ride, though, was no fun.) The new meds had anti-nausea stuff in them, too, thanks be.

Yesterday things kept improving and by evening I could be up and around. Even getting to the bathroom was no big deal! And solid food! And, can you believe it, I was able to knit again.

This morning feels like a whole new day. Thanks to super-meds, I got good sleep, and at one point I even managed to turn onto my right side (away from the sore arm).

Does this blog sound like I am charting the accomplishments of an infant?

No work for me today, which is dicey, given the time of the semester. But my goal is to able to drive by tomorrow.

The so-called results.

Just back from my appointment with the orthopaedist.

The OUTSTANDING news is that there is no rotator-cuff muscle tear, and no serious degradation of the biceps tendon. And all that means NO SURGERY. HUGE sigh of relief.

The bad news is that they cannot really tell why I am experiencing this pain, so it is back to physical therapy, which may or may not do anything. Apparently my labrum, which is a part of the shoulder that the ball of joint touches, I THINK, is stretched, but this probably is not the source of pain but rather a symptom of swimming.

The doc had a student with him today, so they did a lot of "palpating," which in regular human speech means touching the places where the pain is and moving my shoulder all around to see what hurts. All that, plus the leftovers from yesterday's arthrogram fun, mean that my entire left arm fucking hurts. I am wondering what the repercussions of an entire afternoon of bourbon drinking might be..... Probably would not put me in the best frame of mind for this evening's swim team banquet, which includes masters + kids team.

So I am really happy not to be looking at surgery, but profoundly frustrated not to know what to do. I do have an appt with a special shoulder doc for next Friday, so maybe he will have some more detailed or specific sense of things.

Oh, and no swimming for now, of course--but you had guessed that, hadn't you?

Ow ow ow.

One thing is certain: I would not be able to stand up to tortune.

I did successfully get my arthrogram + MRI done today, and, 4 hours later, I am home to tell the tale. The MRI was no big deal: as I explained to the tech who was giving me the earplugs, the PP's snoring pretty much sounds like that, so I sleep in earplugs all the time. And they do wrap you up pretty well before they send you into the magnetic tube, so it is pretty easy to hold still. And they give you a nice blanket, since the room is about 45 F. So all in all, not bad.

But the same cannot be said of the arthrogram. If you have never had such a test, it goes like this: they take an X-ray, then they use some kind of fancy camera to look at your shoulder (or whatever) while they try to figure out where to stick a needle, then they mark you with a sharpie, then they inject you with numbing solution, then they stick in the needle, inject dye (to magnify the contrast of various kinds of tissue) into the joint, take another picture, and presto you are done.

Well, presto, that is, if they can quickliy find the right spot to shoot in the dye. The doctor did mention that sometimes that is not so easy, but I figured I would not be such a case. I am sorry to have to tell that I was indeed such a case. I was not allowed to wear a watch during the procedure, and if I were I am sure I would not have been allowed to consult it, but I can tell you that however long it took, of moving the spinal needle around while it was stuck in my shoulder, and trying to get it readjusted, and all amidst tissue that has not been feeling the best lately, seemed like an eternity. Even with the numbing, you still of course feel quite a bit, and it is that horrible metal on tissue feeling, combined with the fun probing feeling. Combined with eternity.

But now the procedures are done and I am off to my massage appointment, which I have been anticipating all day, although she'll have to avoid all the little bandages and injection points. And tonight may be one of those nights that requires its share of scotch.

Results tomorrow, gods and goddesses willing.

Trying again.

I went to swim practice last night, for the first time since March 21.

You see, the alternative exercise thing has not been going as well as I would like.

Here is an exchange I had with my coach last night during a set of vertical kicks:

COACH: So, how is it going, being back?

ME: It SUCKS.

COACH: But isn't it better than sitting home by yourself?

ME: Yeah, that sucks more.

That about sums it up. Sure, I had been doing some spinning classes, which I really enjoy, but getting signed up for them requires surrendering your first-born, and I am all out of first-borns. And although I can sometimes muster the energy and dedication to get out for a run on my own or a cycle in the basement, sometimes I cannot.

So I had to face the swimming demons and get back in the pool.

Here, for the sake of testimony and bandwagons, is last night's practice:

900 kick warm-up (was supposed to be 1000, but I did not have time once I took off my short fins)
450 designated kick set (3 x 150: 50 easy, 25 fast, 25 easy, 50 fast)
50 random extra
300 kick (while the others were doing some kind of drill-swim thing)
~900 combination vertical kicking and lap-kicking in the diving well
300 kick (3 x 100 descend BR kick @ 2:00: 1:10, 1:04, :57)
200 kick easy
TOTAL: ~3100 yards

I realized in the course of this that whatever streamlining I was doing back when I was just kicking may have been the aggravating factor, keeping the shoulder from healing. Coach says I am not allowed to beat myself up for this, so I am working on LIVE AND LEARN. Or in this case, probably LIVE, GET SURGERY, AND THEN MAYBE LEARN.

MRI got postponed yesterday because of stupid scheduling snafu (though not until after I spent over an hour sitting in the Dr.-Phil-infused waiting room trying to get work done), so now that happens Thursday. Maybe I can still get my results Friday--we shall see.

Chin up.

Have a nice day.

How exactly are we to express our minute rage at those small injustices life gives us?

I am not talking about the real, big ones, the substantial affronts or serious injustices, the times when everyone agrees we have a right to our fury. But what I mean are the small things--the scheduling mishaps, the cuttings in line, the feelings badly expressed, the unintended insults, or perhaps bad climate conditions that do not lead to any real disasters. Because these things, too, generate their own small angers, the kind that leaves us not righteously indignant, but embarrassed at the smallness of our world-view. These are the times we feel like children, but unaccountably inhabiting overtall, overweight bodies, perhaps with less hair than we’d like, or more hips, but still wanting to let loose one of those completely-unaware-that-there-is-a-world-there wails, the kind where fresh tears come leaping out of your eyes, almost like in cartoons, and everyone around you, whether in our home or in an airport waiting area, has to feel our pain and just deal with it. But no, big person in your increasingly saggy and wrinkled skin, such an outburst is not something you can indulge.

Instead we must smile that furious smile we reserve for the people we cannot speak to, for fear of upsetting our karmic balance or getting ourselves in real trouble. These are the times we hope we are scoring real points, accumulating a case against someone who told us we have the tools to deal with life. We might imagine a courtroom scene with that person, where we lay out all our exhibits, each lettered in an alphabetic order that cannot really conceal our indignation. Because we have our positions ready: we can go forward with our opening arguments, our evidence, our peroration. Our case is irrefutable, really, and they should have made a deal with us before the jury marched in. But it is too late for that now, and we know we have victory locked up.

Assuming that there is any justice, really.

I know all there is to know about the waiting game.

Going for an arthroscopic MRI (where they squirt dye into the shoulder to better see what's going on with soft tissue) on Monday morning, and on Friday I discuss the results with the doc.

All that to say the cortisone shot did not really do the trick.

So we'll see....

Progress?

I don't want to jinx anything, but I think this cortisone shot might be doing its thing.

The PP and I had dinner at friends' last night, and then this morning we went to swim practice with our old swimteam. It was great to see folks after way too long, but because there have been, ahem, coaching changes there, there was no coach, just a group of swimmers, including my coach-friend who helped me train for Nationals. A feeling of frivolity was in the air, so we had "practice" moreso than practice. To me, it was GREAT to be in the water again (after a week and a half), so I did not mind kick-kick-kick. During a fly set, where my lanemate was swimming a 25 fly fast, I'd swim 25 fly kick underwater (with the big fins), and my lanemate was almost swimming on top of me, and he said he could get a draft off me. That was funny.

At one point in the "practice" the group was doing a set of 50s, where you swim 25 build and then 25 easy, IM order. I did most of the set kicking with short fins, but I tried out a little breaststroke swimming (with a much narrower, tightened in pull, in order not to strain the tendon), and that felt good. I also swam 4 x 25s of freestyle with short fins (and with a much wider entry, again to avoid the tendon). That felt good, too. So it was not enough swimming to make anything hurt or sore, but just to feel around a little.

This coming week is our team's spring break, so I think after that I will try to come back slowly.

Meanwhile, spin spin spin!

Thursday Unrandom 10: I will give you anything just please don't stop spinning Edition.

It is now officially one week since I last swam. Wow--time flies, sort of.

I'm pleased to report that the cortisone shot seems to be helping, in that there is not the lingering achiness in the shoulder that I had before, although I cannot be certain whether that difference is from the shot or the lack of swimming. It is sooooooooo tempting to try swimming again, but I will be patient, although I may break down at some point and do another kick practice, just to be in the water. It is a little like a cost-benefit analysis: will just being in the water feel good enough to make up for not being able to use my arms? Often, yes, if I am not trying to do the kicking too frequently.

But I digress, because I came here today to tell you about my recent bike ride. Wish you could have joined me today for my beautiful ride through wine country. It was a gorgeous day, nearly incandescent, with lush scenery.

OK, let's be honest.

Wine country = my basement.

"Incandescent" = completely artificial lighting.

"Lush scenery" = boxes, paint cans, old light fixtures, and the water heater.

But it was 30 minutes on the trainer, with some good intensity mixed in, and I am happy for that.

(But unhappy that I cannot think of as good a name for the bike trainer as "thrillmill." How about "strainer"?)

This is just another episode in the continuing saga of not swimming, which has also included some pleasants jogs around our local park full of blooming daffodils and tulips, some time on the bike machine and thrillmill at the Y, and a fun spinning class (GREAT instructor + pretty fun music = all the difference), and long walks with the PP. I need to get out for a run tomorrow, but for today I'm feeling sweaty from the cycling, and happy from the little adrenaline burst.

The greatest difficulty in indoor cycling, as you may know, is heart-wrenching boredom. But a few good tunes can really help. So here is the playlist from my recent ride:

1. "L.I.P.S.T.I.C.K.," Ralph Myerz and the Jack Herren Band
2. "Natasha '75," Ralph Myerz and the Jack Herren Band
3. "Single," Pet Shop Boys
4. "Somebody's Watching Me," Rockwell (don't even say it)
5. "Stop, Drop and Roll," Squirrel Nut Zippers
6. "Bedlam Ballroom," Squirrel Nut Zippers
7. "State of the Nation," New Order
8. "Such a Lovely Thing," Devotchka
9. "Sunday Arak," Balkan Beat Box
10. "Take Me, I'm Yours," Squeeze

Can you tell that I was using my little player that plays tracks in alphabetical order? (Some by artist, of course.)

In the meantime...

Thanks for the words of support for my last post: I really appreciate that. The resounding question seems to be what I will do for exercise since I am not swimming, and since no one seems to think that knitting counts. Funny, that was the big question for me, too, the thing that kept me in the water for as long as it did.

I decided on Wednesday night, while I was showering after my shortened practice, to join the local YMCA, since it seems to be the nearest gym with the widest offerings. When I got home that night I checked out their workout classes (they also have a pool with open swim hours, for a future time when I want to do swimming at times other than designated masters practice). I was specifically hoping for spin classes (yes, Joe, I am a lemming!), because I used to enjoy them for off-season triathlon training, and even taught them for a little while. Next to swimming and actually doing a big bike ride, they are my favorite kind of exercise--and definitely the best indoor thing. The Y does have spin classes, along with various other aerobic classes--including something called "Body Blast," which just seems like it would smell bad. I see they also have Yoga, which might be good if I can modify some of the arm stuff, or just for the future. Also, there are the usual cardio machines and weights, although I am not looking for weight stuff just yet. In short, this might be a good thing generally, as it will fill in some facility gaps I have been feeling since the move. So my application form is filled out, and I'll go tomorrow morning while the PP is at swim practice.

Also, I ran yesterday. Woo-hoo! I wore my little music device to keep me motivated, and to block out any impressions of people laughing at me. Truth be told, this was my third run of recent times, as I did a bit of running during recent travel. Yesterday's was 50 minutes, a combination of running and walking, and, I think, 2.5-3 miles. (I don't have one of those fancy GPS gizmos.) (And I'll ask the PT today whether I need to wear a sling.)

It is funny: 6 years ago when I had my bad ankle tendonitis (way worse than the shoulder thing, because I did not realize what it was as it was setting in), it was running and cycling that were impossible, swimming the only alternative. Now? Isn't it ironic.

Today I'm also getting an injection in the tendon, to see if that helps with the healing and inflammation. I know that for some people, these things really work, while for others, not so much.

We'll see how it goes.