This is one of those times. I've taken up competitive recumbent spin-biking. I'm sitting on the trusty steed, far to the right, against the wall. I've decided to put the machine through its paces today. No sling to notify my competitors of my injury. I look like I really want to be there. My training partner is a middle-aged obese woman who's cranking out the watts on level 1, at what looks like 50 rpm.
You have to be sneaky to get more than a 30 minute workout. If other competitors are waiting, its almost impossible. On this day, though, with two sweat puddles already on each side of me, I dial up another 30 minute block to do some additional cadence work.
You have to be sneaky to get more than a 30 minute workout. If other competitors are waiting, its almost impossible. On this day, though, with two sweat puddles already on each side of me, I dial up another 30 minute block to do some additional cadence work.
I start my spin-ups at 95 rpm and go to 120, each one lasting 30 seconds. Landing back at 95, I wait for my heart-rate to stabilize for 30 seconds before hitting it again.
This is what my workouts have become. No barking dogs. No potholes.... and definitely no cars!
I'm happy to be home. It's around 4:30 in the afternoon.
My wife has to run out to fill my narcotic prescriptions and pick up some additional supplies for the next phase of my convalescence. I don't think I'll need the strong pain medication but she heads out just in case. My arm is strapped to my body with a sling but when I move, it flops around like a broken wing on a bird because the nerve block has silenced my brain-to-arm control signals.
To keep things simple, I find my resting place in a sturdy, upright leather chair in the living room. I'm able to position myself so there's no pressure on my arm or shoulder. As the evening wears on, I start to feel a little tingling in my fingers. It's around midnight. As instructed, I take 1 pain pill.
2:00 AM: My world has been reduced to feeling like I'm at the edge of a cliff, looking over with the expectation that I'm going to jump, while hopping up and down on a bed of loose broken glass.
The block has completely worn off. I'm sweating, nauseous and don't know if I should scream, cry or throw up! Looking at the pain bottle, it says "1 pill every 6 hours". I'm already nervous about taking these stupid things because of the addictive qualities but I consider taking more. It doesn't take long before I relent and take another.
8:00 AM: By now, my pain is relatively managed. With a call in to the doctor to confirm the adjustment of the dosage, I drift off to sleep a while.
Two magic pills are required to take the sharpest edge off of the pain. They don't work immediately so I have to make sure that I take them before the effect of the previous dose wanes. They call this, "getting ahead of the pain". While at the height of its assistance, the pain drug turns me into a babbling, drooling half-wit. On the back-slope, I'm slightly more lucid, but I become impatient and restless, pacing back and forth from room to room. My wife-turned-nurse notices my behavioral changes and prompts me to get ahead of the pain.
Aside from pain management, I can do less with my arm than before the surgery. I can't even pull my socks up over my feet. I guess I'm a typical guy and don't like asking for help. Especially in this case, where I can't really dress myself, I resist asking, for fear that I may seem even more helpless than I feel.
My wife offers her assistance. Occasionally, she demands it. I'm grateful that she doesn't stand down when I fire off one of my many declarations of independence...
"I can do it myself!"
Sitting on the bed, struggling to get the first sock on my foot with one arm, she walks around the bed and pushes my hand away to relieve me of the task. Bowing my head in defeat, I have no choice but to allow it.
The following few days feel like weeks. Each day, we reduce the amount of pain drug by a fraction, until it's the lowest possible, a half of one pill, right before I want to try and sleep. Sleeping isn't really possible without timing it exactly right with the apex of the opiate's tentacle.... that and my nurse's discovery that there's a relaxation trigger by rubbing the bottom of my feet. Once again, she proves indispensable. I've moved from sleeping in the chair to sleeping on the couch, pillows stacked behind me to keep me mostly upright.
With the weekly follow-up with Dr. Falcons out of the way, I'm back to work and even sleeping in my own bed, next to my now-part time nurse wife, surviving on over the counter pain meds and that one glorious half that I can relish right before I drift off to a place where its the reality and this is just the bad dream.
2:00 AM: My world has been reduced to feeling like I'm at the edge of a cliff, looking over with the expectation that I'm going to jump, while hopping up and down on a bed of loose broken glass.
Omg that nerve shit just wore off.Holy mf monkey balls!
— jeffblau (@jeffblau) October 9, 2012
The block has completely worn off. I'm sweating, nauseous and don't know if I should scream, cry or throw up! Looking at the pain bottle, it says "1 pill every 6 hours". I'm already nervous about taking these stupid things because of the addictive qualities but I consider taking more. It doesn't take long before I relent and take another.
8:00 AM: By now, my pain is relatively managed. With a call in to the doctor to confirm the adjustment of the dosage, I drift off to sleep a while.
Two magic pills are required to take the sharpest edge off of the pain. They don't work immediately so I have to make sure that I take them before the effect of the previous dose wanes. They call this, "getting ahead of the pain". While at the height of its assistance, the pain drug turns me into a babbling, drooling half-wit. On the back-slope, I'm slightly more lucid, but I become impatient and restless, pacing back and forth from room to room. My wife-turned-nurse notices my behavioral changes and prompts me to get ahead of the pain.
Aside from pain management, I can do less with my arm than before the surgery. I can't even pull my socks up over my feet. I guess I'm a typical guy and don't like asking for help. Especially in this case, where I can't really dress myself, I resist asking, for fear that I may seem even more helpless than I feel.
My wife offers her assistance. Occasionally, she demands it. I'm grateful that she doesn't stand down when I fire off one of my many declarations of independence...
"I can do it myself!"
Sitting on the bed, struggling to get the first sock on my foot with one arm, she walks around the bed and pushes my hand away to relieve me of the task. Bowing my head in defeat, I have no choice but to allow it.
The following few days feel like weeks. Each day, we reduce the amount of pain drug by a fraction, until it's the lowest possible, a half of one pill, right before I want to try and sleep. Sleeping isn't really possible without timing it exactly right with the apex of the opiate's tentacle.... that and my nurse's discovery that there's a relaxation trigger by rubbing the bottom of my feet. Once again, she proves indispensable. I've moved from sleeping in the chair to sleeping on the couch, pillows stacked behind me to keep me mostly upright.
With the weekly follow-up with Dr. Falcons out of the way, I'm back to work and even sleeping in my own bed, next to my now-part time nurse wife, surviving on over the counter pain meds and that one glorious half that I can relish right before I drift off to a place where its the reality and this is just the bad dream.
I am happy to hear you are ok. Incredible writing-I am impressed. Speedy recovery to you-Chris
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