Friday, February 25, 2011

I'm moving

Yes, it's true.

No, not the move some of you are thinking about. At least not yet.

I've merged all my posts from The Pit Stops onto my main website, That Angela. Things will be different over there, with less emphasis on hockey and the Calgary Flames. And maybe I'll get around to explaining why some time this weekend.

Or next week. Or never.

In any case, please update your RSS feeds — all two of you —and follow along at That Angela. Just give me a few days to get things all updated for formatting pictures and stuff.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Rehab

Most of you already know.

I'm in rehab.

No, not the Hollywood kind.

The physiotherapy kind.

The MRI of which I last wrote came back clear of any labrum tears, despite the suspicions of me, my general physician and my chiropractor.

That's good news.

It's infraspinatus tendinosis,which means that muscle gets inflamed, sore and weak. Rotational movement hurts and my shoulder girdle fatigues early.



It means I don't have to go under the knife. It means I won't be in a sling and unable to use my right and dominant hand for two months. It means I won't be completely incapable of athletic activity for six months.

It means I have to strictly obey the orders of my physiotherapist.

Because maybe if I'd done that six years ago when I first tore my infraspinatus, I might not be here today.


Yes, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. Let's not lie, physiotherapy is expensive and in 2004, my benefits sucked. Fast forward to today and living the corporate life, my benefits take care of my rehab 100 per cent.

So, I'm going to adhere to the two sheets of paper which dictate my theraband exercises for the next little while.

I'm going to avoid the dumbbells at the gym and stick to working on legs and core.

I'm going to make those trips to the physio centre when they tell me to.

And if it all means I never have to another MRI in my lifetime, I'll be thrilled.

Because I never want to do that again.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Closed spaces

I'm scared.

Terrified.

If you're a regular reader, you know how smashed up my shoulder is.

If you're a friend in real life, you know how painful some of my day-to-day activities are.

There's only one way out of this situation, my chiropractor says.

Surgery.

Dr. H suspects I'll be going under the knife fairly quickly. Of course, he can't tell how bad it is on the inside but he knows how bad my range of motion has been and he's heard the very audible clicks, the sound of the torn cartilage catching between the ball and socket of the joint.

The only way we'll know how bad it is? Take a look inside.

So after a long four-month wait, it's time for my MRI on Tuesday.

And that's what has me petrified.

Not surgery.

Been there, done that ... a couple of times.

See, I made a huge mistake earlier this week. I did some reading on MRIs and the material left me shaking, horrified at what I was getting myself into.

It isn't even my first MRI. I had one on my knee a few years ago. But for knees, you get pushed into the chamber feet first and I went only hips deep.

This one will be a little different.

First, there's this needle thing. The doctor has to inject ink into my arm to create contrast in the image. Some people posted their own thoughts on the needle and said it was quite painful.

For up to 24 hours later!

I'm a wuss when it comes to needles.

But I'm a bigger wuss when it comes to closed spaces.

I have been since I was 17 and he put a pillow over my face to keep the partiers in the other room from hearing me say no.

I lose my breath. I get dizzy.

I panic.

The material I read told me I would be going into the chamber head first. OK, that makes sense.

But it said I'm in there for possibly up to 45 minutes.

I felt that familiar catch in my throat, the tears start to well up and the feeling of terror.

Fear of not being able to escape if I need to.

With luck, the Xanax my doctor prescribed for me this morning will allay my fears.

With my history with prescription drugs, it will likely knock me on my ass for eight hours and my friend Dana will have to carry me out of the hospital.

You can imagine what I think my best-case scenario is.

I just hope Dana is feeling strong on Tuesday.