When life hands you a bag of lemons, make lemonade! It helps to have a cute, energetic lemonade maker at your side, preferably one with just a smidgeon of drill sergeant coursing through her veins. These are precisely the circumstances I find myself in after punching my dance card awhile back with one of Tazzy’s dog blankets on a slick vinyl floor. Out of adversity comes opportunity, and I have used this down time to become acquainted with the nuances of a torn rotator cuff and the healing process. Dr. Tim Galbraith, my surgeon, said it would not be easy, elevating him to the master class of understatement. Please feel free to benefit from my experiences here and avoid, at all costs, falling on a otherwise perfectly good shoulder. If you do, see Dr. Galbraith and thank the Lord for his talents and pray for the commitment of a caregiver like Miss Sharon on this beautiful Mother’s Day.
Our conservative, middle class abode has been modified to approximate a physical therapy unit. We have a nice recirculating ice water machine that cools the shoulder down to about where you hold beef while it is aging at a local abattoir. The center piece is “the chair”, a nifty little electric chair that is engineered to provide a full range of motion for your arm with absolutely no effort on your part. The surgeon and I have have entered a pact whereby I won’t tear his engineering up in exchange for a precisely controlled recovery process. The first few days are in the books and I can attest to the desirability of avoiding this mechanical creation at all costs. It hurts as you sit in this chair, pretending to watch the latest Netflix series while you chew your lip in an effort to avoid peeing down one leg. The latest in designer narcotics are available, but as many of you know, you trade the usefulness of your alimentary canal for pain relief, not an entirely desirable swap under the best of circumstances. I should point out that Sharon is a veteran of THREE shoulder surgeries and, typical of the female persuasion, sailed through the recovery process with little if any complaint. I’ll say it and get it over with, men whine and complain, women grit their teeth and bear it. Once again, I doff my hat at the resilience inherent to she class of folks.
Yesterday, Miss Sharon saddled up the “Orange Crush” and drove us out to our local strawberry patch for a neighborhood run on these delectable little berries. The fresh air was wonderful, the berries just coming into season and her role as a chauffeur handled with grace and just a touch of road rage. It was a perfect Rx for me after spending the required 6 hours in the chair. This is to be my daily routine for a minimum of 6 days, three two hour sessions per day. I dare not show weakness in her presence lest I bring out the drill sergeant in her. Complaining is not in my best interest, rather a smiling commitment to the torture necessary if I am to slide a shotgun to my shoulder next spring to end the suffering of a forlorn Turkey venturing about looking for love.
It promises to be a warm week with plenty of sunshine. Get out and enjoy every minute of it but do so from a firm two point stance on terra firma.