The Cold Shoulder

For the last few days I've been the recipient of a very cold shoulder.

From the cold therapy machine I've been using after my arthroscopic surgery, that is. I'm in between vicodin pills right now, so I thought I'd dash off a quick note while I'm still lucid. (Don't think codeine and Tylenol can seriously f*** you up? Think again.)

I had the same operation on my right shoulder a couple of years ago. Seems my genetics code for the production of bone spurs that interfere with the movement of my rotator cuff. In fact, the spurs impinge on the cuff, creating exquisite pain when the arm moves in certain ways.

The surgery's pretty simple. They make three incisions around the circumference of the shoulder, put three long metal instruments in, and whirl blades around until the bone spurs are gone. Then they pack up your shoulder with a huge bulky bandage, put a cold therapy blanket over that, and send you home to circulate ice water through the infernal contraption to keep your shoulder from bursting into flame.

And they give you lots of vicodin. Cool, clear vicodin. Ah, the hours I've dimly watched flow by, as I lay in my La-Z-Boy with the cold shoulder going full blast, blearily watching movie after movie. I vaguely recall getting myself into bed each night to lay motionless for several hours until I got up again. (I won't call it sleep. It wasn't restful enough to be called sleep. "Motionlessness" will do for a label.)

After the third day I could take the cold shoulder off, and boy, did I stink. Couldn't take a shower with the cold shoulder on! That first shower was bliss. And last night I actually slept again. To sleep! Perchance to dream! Sleep, that knits the ravell'd sleeve of care! Sleep! Ayup, that there's the rub.

OK, the next vicodin's kicking in and I'm starting to free associate. Back to the La-Z-Boy. I got ten episodes of "Carrier" to watch. (And then watch again some other time when I'm likely to actually be conscious.)