A Side of Frozen Shoulder, Please

On the blessedly rare morning when I find myself feeling creaky and old, I usually try to remind myself of how fortunate I really am - compared to most of my friends, I'm in remarkable shape.  I still have most if not all of my original parts, have no persistent or even mildly annoying aches or pains as might be expected, no chronic conditions except a little routine bronchitis and until recently wasn't taking so much as a single medication. To be sure, it's not as easy as it used to be to untangle myself from sitting Indian style (but I can still do it) and sometimes I need a hand to help me up if I'm been kneeling to take a picture, but on the whole, I rarely feel my age although I suspect I look every year of it.  So when my right shoulder and arm began acting up this past summer, I ignored it - I believe in always trying denial first - and as it worsened, I learned to compensate.  I paid attention to which movements hurt and which didn't and practiced being careful, favoring my right side when necessary, mostly learning to adapt and telling myself it wasn't so bad.  And then one morning I reached behind my back to fasten the clasp on my bra and my arm and shoulder imploded with a fierce burning pain that lasted long after I let go.  Not long after that, putting on and taking off my scrub top began to make my shoulder twinge, one careless reach sideways would bring on a disabling spasm, one stretch of my right arm toward anything meant a bright burning sensation that took its sweet time fading away and it became more and more difficult to find a sleep position that didn't ache.  Finally convinced it was likely a rotater cuff injury and would have to be looked at, I reluctantly made an appointment with the orthopaedist, and spent one entire miserable week fretting about worst case scenarios involving casts, disability paperwork, loss of income, a bill I wouldn't live long enough to pay and pain.  Lots of pain.  By the day of the appointment, I was perilously close to changing my mind, then as I stepped into my bra and pulled it over my ankles, my knees, and my hips until I got to my shoulders, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror.

Jesus wept, I told the mirror image, You're too damn old to be playing at acrobatics.  Go get this done.

The doctor - khakis and a button down shirt, gold rimmed glasses, fluffy silver hair and kind eyes - was immediately reassuring.  He peered at xrays and then manipulated my arm into a variety of positions, tested for weakness and strength, noted each wince, and then pronounced it to be "frozen shoulder" - nowheres near as dramatic as a torn rotater cuff - but far less serious, easily treatable with stretching exercises, and transitory.  The technical name for it was "adhesive capsulitis", common in folks between 40 and 60.

You're outside the range, he admitted with a quick glance at the chart, but not by much, and gave me a smile to take the sting out of this remark.

I smiled back, foolishly grateful and a tad indignant at the same time.  

Between a bout of tennis elbow (I could lift 50 pounds without half trying but couldn't staple two pieces of paper together) and a case of trigger thumb ( almost hated to have that fixed, I got a little transfixed by the clicking noise it made when it released) and now frozen shoulder, I'm beginning to feel a little like a side of beef.

So I think I'll tell people I've had adhesive capsulitis, lateral epicondylitis, and digial tenovaginitis stenosans.
It sounds so much more sophisticated and just a tiny bit romantic.