Recovering From Shoulder Surgery

It’s been 14 days since I underwent shoulder surgery. The mere fact that I’m typing this with both sets of fingers is a testament to my recovery, as I’m no longer relying on the Dragon dictation app or that incompetent wench Siri to help me with status updates and post content.

So, I thought the three of you that read this blog might like to know how I’m holding up post-op.

From what I hear, the shoulder surgery itself went well. I woke up in recovery feeling like I’d been shot in the armpit, with four layers of blankets draped on my body and one strewn atop my head to combat the seizure-like shivers from the cold.

I couldn’t feel the right half of my torso. My hand hung limply from the end of the sling that corseted my chest, looking and feeling like it belonged to someone else. Getting dressed was an ordeal that required the assistance of my husband and a team of nurses.

After I was discharged, I came home and slept. For about three days. Not really, but it certainly felt like it. Finally, after 72 hours, I got to take off the dressing on my shoulder and (THANK GOD) take my first shower.

My husband peeled back the thick layer of surgical gauze to reveal not one, not two, or even three but FOUR scope holes orbiting my shoulder. And to top it off, one giant incision on my bicep, that quite frankly, looks…vulgar.

It looks like a fucking VULVA.

On. My. Arm.

A limbgina, if you will. I’m half expecting to deliver a baby through that thing at any moment.

(I won’t gross you out with photos, but if you’re just DYING to see what an arm twat looks like, send me an email.)

Apparently, it wasn’t just my rotator cuff that was torn. I had torn my labrum in two places and ruptured my bicep tendon. Add to that punch list a bone spur and some arthritis.

My shoulder was severely jacked up.

While the pain and inability to ever get comfortable gives me moments of regretting having gone through surgery, I’m glad that the damage was vast and real. That I wasn’t making it out to be worse than it was. Because in reality, if I didn’t get this done now electively, there would have come a time when it would have been a necessity.

Life in a sling is fine, but I’m ready to shed this contraption. I’m tired of not being able to use my right arm, of feeling constricted and immobile. The first day I was allowed to straighten my arm was the best feeling in the world. I could virtually hear my elbow singing praises.

Two weeks post-op, and I’m able to shower on my own, get dressed, read to the kids and help them get ready for school and bedtime, and, to my husband’s relief, am able to pitch in in the kitchen again.

The biggest thumbs down to the whole thing? I can’t freakin’ wear deodorant under my operated arm.

That pit is stinky, yo. No, worse.

STANKY.

And hairy. I’m dreading the moment I’m able to lift my arm high enough to see what kind of sasquatch pit I’m sporting under there.

Life left-handed isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and for the most part I’m adapting quickly.

However, there are some things I wish I’d practiced more with my left arm or with one hand.

Like eating food. More specifically, the kind that likes to roll around the plate, like rice. And don’t get me started about how humbling it is to have my husband cut my food for me. Thank God he’s not wiping my ass, too.

Putting in contacts is a whole other beast entirely. I’m cursing the day I chose cheap and fugly frames because I thought “I’ll never be seen in these in the light of day.”

And buttoning clothing? Forget about it. It’s like I’m a toddler all over again, grunting and pulling and fighting with that stupid skinny hole. Coupled with my left-handed coloring abilities, I really should do preschool all over again.

Thankfully, my one-handed journey is brief, and in just one more week, I’ll be sling-less and trying to resume some sense of normalcy.

The experience has given me a newfound appreciation for those who don’t have the option of getting back the use of both arms. Empathy for those who have lost a limb and have been forced to adapt to a world made for people with two hands.

I can see how you’d develop strength and ability on that other side, that the learning curve is steep but swift. In just two short weeks I’ve learned how to dry my hair (albeit pretty awful looking), make a bed, and get back to my skill level at Candy Crush Saga (which was and still is pretty bad) with one hand.

Still, I’ll relish in the day I can utilize both hands again.

Because I’m going to need two arms to cradle that baby that comes out of my limbgina any day now.