I have learned to do many of life's tasks with one arm. Some things are easier than others. Pulling up pants? Manageable after some practice. Shaving? Too dangerous to do with the opposite hand. Washing hair? With some contortion, doable. Tying shoes? Totally impossible.
My PT asks me what my immediate goals are. I tell him that I would like to sleep better, wash my hair with two hands and get on my bike as soon as possible. Our sessions start out slowly. Heat first. PT-assisted stretching next (this is the really painful part). Then, self-directed stretches exercises. Finally, the glorious ice packs.
Today's stretches were painful. Topical conversation is not distracting me from the discomfort. My pain equals sweat connection is in full force but I've finally stopped apologizing for it. This is what progress feels like and I'm eager to do more. All the enthusiasm is reduced to a grumble when the 1 lb dumbbell is almost too much weight for me to accomplish the current instruction.
After going through an accident, an ambulance ride and hours in a Level 1 trauma center, it seems weird that I'm just sitting in the passenger seat of my wife's car, 11:30 at night, driving home. I'm still wearing what's left of my cycling team uniform. I can almost relate it to the times where she's had to rescue me from breakdowns or that one torrential rain and sleet storm south of town. It feels too normal.
My wife is the queen of research. She can nearly accomplish any amount of information gathering with the use of her phone, an iPad or her laptop. We dispatch post-haste to find the preeminent shoulder expert within driving distance of our home. It doesn't take us long to narrow the possibilities. Reaching out to friends, we then look for personal recommendations.
The following day, a Friday, I had to come to work to gather some things so I can work from home. I have a swollen left eye-socket, a cut under my eye and an arm in a sling. Everyone thought I had been in a fight.
After discussing my current condition with some friends in the medical field, we decide to put my care in the hands of Emory Sports Medicine. I had experience with them in the past. They treated my ankle injury. They don't just let you see THE guy. You have to get through a first evaluation with the non-surgical guy.
Meet Dr. Falcons. Dr. Falcons gave us the final diagnosis - 5th degree AC Separation. Being quite the confident advocate for one particular type of repair, he went through some options and let us know about some studies he had published or was about to publish on the procedure he recommended for me. Not having been too familiar with it, we opt to leave without making a decision to give us time to do our own research.
It didn't take long to make the decision. The following day, I called back and scheduled my surgery for the next available opportunity. I was told that Dr. Falcons normally doesn't do surgery on Mondays but, in my case, time was of the essence so they set me up for the next Monday afternoon. I was scheduled to get a clavicular hook plate to repair my busted-up AC joint.
I'm told not to eat or drink anything after midnight. My surgery scheduled for early afternoon, I'm not very pleased by this advice. Other than that, I was very eager to get things going.
We arrive at the surgery center by 11am as instructed. Everything rolls smoothly and I'm escorted through two solid doors to the pre-surgery area. I have to get the nurse to help me remove my shirt. I've let go a little of the embarrassment from having to ask for help to do some of these small everyday things.
Once in the gown, little booties and hair net, I'm relaxing on the bed while being visited by several different residents. First is the RN who does my IV. Her skill and experience is evident. Since I haven't had any fluids in over 12 hours, the veins in my hand aren't exactly standing proud. She easily inserts the IV needle without any fuss.
Next I'm seen by the anesthesia resident and his boss. We discuss the virtues and practical risks of not only the general anesthesia but also the nerve block I'm about to receive. I'm on track to get two nerve blocks, each contributing to my entire arm and shoulder area being numb for 12 hours or longer.
Without much pause, these guys leave and then return with an ultrasound cart and a HANDFUL of needles! Not that I'm nervous about needles but these are going to be inserted into my neck. Shaky a little, the resident is instructed to source the nerve with the ultrasound wand. We're all watching the monitor while he moves the wand left to right, a little up and then down. The DR tells him then to INJECT! I feel just a little pressure but nothing near what I was afraid of. Next, the trainee hits a button on the display and then moves the want to seek out his next target. With a little more direction from the DR, he spots the location and then, without much pause, inserts the larger needle into my neck. This one feels a bit more uncomfortable due to the volume injected, but, it also wasn't something I'd call painful. When a doctor tells you that you're about to get two injections into the nerves in your neck, naturally, you'd be a little worried. Not a piece of cake... but nothing to be afraid of in the future.
My wife's escorted in and we have a little laugh about the booties and the hair net. I can already feel my shoulder going numb as well as some tingling in my fingers.
Our next visitor was one of Dr Falcons' fellows. He's a relatively familiar face and puts a mark on my left shoulder. It doesn't take long for Dr Falcons himself to pop in. He gives us the same spiel he recited in his office. We nod in agreement and we're all set to get this thing going!
A kiss to my wife and off I go through another set of doors and into the operating room. Once again, I have to transfer myself onto another table. This time, I'm wearing a gown with an open back. It's all a challenge.
Peeking over my head is a new white coat who says she's about to give me a little sedative. Then she says she's going for the same propofol from Michael Jackson fame. I think the reference is a bit weird considering the setting. My hand stings a bit from the drug. Another white coat from my other side lays a mask over my face and says to breathe deeply. Several deep breaths later, someone asks if I'm getting drowsy, I give a bit of a shrug and then another hit is administered into my hand. This one stings less but is obviously more effective. It's the last thing I remember before waking up in the recovery room.
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This is what the fluoroscopy shot looks like immediately after the install.
Waking up, I see my wife on one side and the recovery nurse on the other. They're asking me questions about feeling nauseous. I'm alert enough to give them a nod and motion for a sip of water. I really don't feel anything other than really having to pee. My arm "feels" heavy. I say that in quotes because I couldn't feel a thing. I could feel the weight of my arm but that is about it. I get permission to head over to the restroom but they won't just let me walk over there without pants. So, between my wife, the nurse and the one-armed bandit, we wrestle my pants on and head over for some relief.
Back to the bed for some last bit of instructions and we're ready to leave for the next chapter of my recovery.
The wheelchair ride to the car is uneventful along with the ride home. I'm glad we opt not to stop along the way. There's no pain but having my completely numb arm strapped into my body, slightly swinging about because I can't control any movement is an odd sensation, to say the least.
In the last entry, I will finally describe what it means to get ahead of the pain, the sweats and how to say thank you when your wife has to put your socks on for you.
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