stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2022-05-31 12:31 pm
stevenpiziks) wrote2022-05-31 12:31 pm
Entry tags:
Shoulder Surgery 20 (Peaks and Valleys)
I've avoided this topic for a while, partly because it's difficult to handle and partly because I've been dratted busy. But I need to catch up.
Last time I wrote, I'd been searching for a pain specialist to see if anything else could be done. I finally found one and went in to consult with him. The doctor, who was startlingly good-looking in an Abercrombie & Fitch kind of way, basically told me there wasn't much he could do. When I told him the meds I had didn't take the pain away; they only made me high enough that I didn't care, he laughed a little and said that's basically how all painkillers work. He did prescribe a topical agent, a hyped-up version of Aspercreme. I tried it as directed, but it didn't seem to help.
By now, my shoulder ached or actively hurt a lot, nearly continuously. I was supposed to have a regular follow-up appointment with the surgeon in several weeks, but I moved it up so I could talk to him about it.
When I arrived at the doctor's office for that meeting, a numb lassitude came over me. I sat in the waiting room with my head hanging. I didn't have the energy even to look at my phone. I recognized it as a heavier version of the shutdown that always came over me when I went in for physical therapy and a reaction to the shitty treatment that the anesthesiologist and the nurses gave me.
The nurse called me in, and I trudged into the examination room. I tried to shake off the lassitude so I could concentrate, but ... not so easy. I muttered one-word answers to her questions and waited for the doctor to show up. He breezed into the room as he always does and I managed to rouse myself enough to explain to him that I was still in enough pain to keep me awake at night, and that I had to take heavy-duty painkillers two or three times a week.
He ran an examination (push this way, pull that way, move this other way), and said I shouldn't be in pain, so he wanted an MRI. It was either that, or make an incision for a camera to look around. Naturally, I opted for the MRI. The doctor told me not to do further physical therapy and to avoid using my arm at home for at least a week, then resume "gentle" exercise.
I scheduled the MRI. Their next appointment was almost two weeks away, and afterward, it would be another four days before an appointment with the doctor to evaluate it. That was a long time to wait to find out if I would need more surgery. There was no way I'd let anyone at that clinic touch me again. If the doctor recommended more surgery, I would quickly find someone else. I was only staying at this place because I was moving soon and I didn't want to transfer my care twice in a short time. But more surgery from this place? Not in a hundred thousand years.
Later at home, I realized I had no idea what the doctor meant by "gentle exercise." Easy, no-strain lifting? A little strain? Stretching? Could I run? I had no idea. What one person sees as "gentle," another sees as "heavy." To me, a "gentle" run would be 40 minutes at level four on my treadmill, but to someone who doesn't jog, that would be "heavy." I finally elected to do just stretching exercises, nothing more.
The MRI appointment finally arrived, and the four days afterward dragged. I became more and more afraid I was going to need more surgery. I was even trying to figure out when would be the best time--before school started or after? Where would I find a surgeon? How would I handle the pain?
At last, the next doctor's appointment arrived. The same lassitude settled on me as I walked through the door. It was like walking through mud. Once again, the doctor breezed into the exam room and said he'd seen the MRI. "It's hard to tell for absolute certain from an MRI," he said, "but there's nothing in there that makes me say you need more surgery."
Relief washed away some of the lassitude, and this let me wake up enough to ask more pointed questions:
"Why does it still hurt so much?" It's just that way for some people. Did I need a scrip for more meds? I did not.
"When will the pain stop?" It can take up to a year to fully recover from the surgery.
"What do I do from here?" Continue gentle exercise only.
"What does 'gentle exercise' mean?" (This was the key one, and I wrote it down so I'd remember to ask it. That's depression for you.) Lifting no more than 10 pounds in front and aside. No restrictions on bicep lifting. Absolutely no overhead lifting whatsoever. Stretching is good.
"How long will it take to restore my full range of motion? I can move my arm up behind my back a lot farther than most people, but I'm hyper-flexive, and I'm nowhere near where I was pre-surgery." It can take up to a year to recover.
Okay, then.
The abusive anesthesiologist and unprofessional, foul-mouthed nurses aside, I still feel like I wasn't fully informed going into this. You hear "non-invasive" and "arthroscopic" and you think "recovery in a few weeks," not "probable agony for weeks that may or may not die down" and "physical therapy for months on end." Knowing this wouldn't have changed the results of the surgery, but it would have changed my mindset. I would have been able to prepare myself mentally for this, change my schedule, ready myself. I never got that chance because the surgeon wasn't very communicative from the outset. He does this all the time, so he knows all this stuff, and why don't I, right? This contributes to me feeling the need to shut down when I go in to the office, and I'm glad I won't be going back soon.
Last time I wrote, I'd been searching for a pain specialist to see if anything else could be done. I finally found one and went in to consult with him. The doctor, who was startlingly good-looking in an Abercrombie & Fitch kind of way, basically told me there wasn't much he could do. When I told him the meds I had didn't take the pain away; they only made me high enough that I didn't care, he laughed a little and said that's basically how all painkillers work. He did prescribe a topical agent, a hyped-up version of Aspercreme. I tried it as directed, but it didn't seem to help.
By now, my shoulder ached or actively hurt a lot, nearly continuously. I was supposed to have a regular follow-up appointment with the surgeon in several weeks, but I moved it up so I could talk to him about it.
When I arrived at the doctor's office for that meeting, a numb lassitude came over me. I sat in the waiting room with my head hanging. I didn't have the energy even to look at my phone. I recognized it as a heavier version of the shutdown that always came over me when I went in for physical therapy and a reaction to the shitty treatment that the anesthesiologist and the nurses gave me.
The nurse called me in, and I trudged into the examination room. I tried to shake off the lassitude so I could concentrate, but ... not so easy. I muttered one-word answers to her questions and waited for the doctor to show up. He breezed into the room as he always does and I managed to rouse myself enough to explain to him that I was still in enough pain to keep me awake at night, and that I had to take heavy-duty painkillers two or three times a week.
He ran an examination (push this way, pull that way, move this other way), and said I shouldn't be in pain, so he wanted an MRI. It was either that, or make an incision for a camera to look around. Naturally, I opted for the MRI. The doctor told me not to do further physical therapy and to avoid using my arm at home for at least a week, then resume "gentle" exercise.
I scheduled the MRI. Their next appointment was almost two weeks away, and afterward, it would be another four days before an appointment with the doctor to evaluate it. That was a long time to wait to find out if I would need more surgery. There was no way I'd let anyone at that clinic touch me again. If the doctor recommended more surgery, I would quickly find someone else. I was only staying at this place because I was moving soon and I didn't want to transfer my care twice in a short time. But more surgery from this place? Not in a hundred thousand years.
Later at home, I realized I had no idea what the doctor meant by "gentle exercise." Easy, no-strain lifting? A little strain? Stretching? Could I run? I had no idea. What one person sees as "gentle," another sees as "heavy." To me, a "gentle" run would be 40 minutes at level four on my treadmill, but to someone who doesn't jog, that would be "heavy." I finally elected to do just stretching exercises, nothing more.
The MRI appointment finally arrived, and the four days afterward dragged. I became more and more afraid I was going to need more surgery. I was even trying to figure out when would be the best time--before school started or after? Where would I find a surgeon? How would I handle the pain?
At last, the next doctor's appointment arrived. The same lassitude settled on me as I walked through the door. It was like walking through mud. Once again, the doctor breezed into the exam room and said he'd seen the MRI. "It's hard to tell for absolute certain from an MRI," he said, "but there's nothing in there that makes me say you need more surgery."
Relief washed away some of the lassitude, and this let me wake up enough to ask more pointed questions:
"Why does it still hurt so much?" It's just that way for some people. Did I need a scrip for more meds? I did not.
"When will the pain stop?" It can take up to a year to fully recover from the surgery.
"What do I do from here?" Continue gentle exercise only.
"What does 'gentle exercise' mean?" (This was the key one, and I wrote it down so I'd remember to ask it. That's depression for you.) Lifting no more than 10 pounds in front and aside. No restrictions on bicep lifting. Absolutely no overhead lifting whatsoever. Stretching is good.
"How long will it take to restore my full range of motion? I can move my arm up behind my back a lot farther than most people, but I'm hyper-flexive, and I'm nowhere near where I was pre-surgery." It can take up to a year to recover.
Okay, then.
The abusive anesthesiologist and unprofessional, foul-mouthed nurses aside, I still feel like I wasn't fully informed going into this. You hear "non-invasive" and "arthroscopic" and you think "recovery in a few weeks," not "probable agony for weeks that may or may not die down" and "physical therapy for months on end." Knowing this wouldn't have changed the results of the surgery, but it would have changed my mindset. I would have been able to prepare myself mentally for this, change my schedule, ready myself. I never got that chance because the surgeon wasn't very communicative from the outset. He does this all the time, so he knows all this stuff, and why don't I, right? This contributes to me feeling the need to shut down when I go in to the office, and I'm glad I won't be going back soon.