Ouch.

Aaack!  My upper arm still hurts, 5 months after that damn fall that broke my patella. When I fell last September, the med team asked if I hurt anything more than my knee. I was on drugs. I felt no pain. I said no.

It wasn't until I was off the strong meds, weeks later, that I realized I'd damaged my upper right arm when I used my arm to block my fall.

I have ignored the soreness for five months because healing the kneecap kind of made everything else pale in comparison. I didn't want to get off the couch. I didn't want to leave the house. I didn't want to see more doctors. Wheelchairs, walkers, ill-fitting braces, keeping my right leg stick-straight, watching The Great British Baking Show - there were SO many good reasons to ignore a sore arm.

My knee is mostly healed, but my arm still hurts every day. I could live with it. I could! Advil takes the pain away in 4 - 5 hour time slots. But pain wakes me up at night, and it hurts when I try to brush the back of my hair, or put on a sweater.  Enough!

I start physical therapy on my arm on Monday. 

Bitch, bitch, moan.  What a pain!

I guess I still have work to do.  

Hero Nurse to the rescue

I remember a nurse who made a difference in my life. She went that extra mile because she cared, she loved her work, and she was intellectually curious about it.

Once upon a time, I was in hospital for a surgical procedure. At first I was sick from the morphine; however, the nausea and headache didn't stop when the morphine did. I could not get up to shuffle down the hall with my I.V. bag hooked to a walker like the other patients on my floor. I could not keep anything down. I had an excruciating headache. I saw stars. I was not thriving. The nurses were distraught, and I got the distinct feeling they were annoyed that I wasn't getting better.

Because I was in the hospital so long with nothing to do, I eavesdropped on the nurse conversations in the hallway. They gossiped, bitched, moaned and laughed. They didn't realize patients could hear them and I sure wasn't going to tell them! It was better than a soap opera.

They made fun of one nurse for being over-the-hill and old fashioned. I had not yet met her when she walked into my room on day three and introduced herself. She looked old enough to be my mother, and I NEEDED a mother! She placed her hand on my shoulder, bent down to me and said quietly but firmly, "You've been real sick, honey. Now we're going to get you well." 

I'm not sure if it was the non-invasive touch, or her words of hope that moved me so completely. Or maybe it was the reassuring gray hair and the deep laugh lines? Anyway, I cried like a baby. I knew the worst was over and, like Mighty Mouse, Hero Nurse had come to save the day.

She went out and brought my anesthesiologist back with her. Like Hero Nurse, he had a passion for helping people. Also like Hero Nurse, he thought outside of that stupid, damn box. He asked if I was a heavy coffee drinker? I replied I was, but was unable to drink it since the surgery. He diagnosed me with caffeine withdrawal. He hooked my I.V. up to a liter of caffeinated fluid and had me drink cans of Coke. Within a few hours, I was well. 

Ostensibly, the reason for this story was Hero Nurse. However, I DO want credit for having mainlined caffeine. Many fantasize, but few actually do it.

Health caring, at least

I'm reasonably good about taking care of myself.  I exercise, eat well, and go to all the required doctors (and dentist) for all the annual exams. I do this in spite of the fact that, like many others, I absolutely hate going to the doctor.

I have this "not very well thought out" belief that if I go to a doctor, they WILL find something wrong that needs to be fixed. It's their job, for crying out loud. I know this is ridiculous. But since it is a belief (i.e., emotion based) I don't feel inclined to defend it as an idea (i.e., logic based).

Consequently, I was not surprised when my dermatologist found a basal cell carcinoma on my face. It has been there for a few years. My previous dermatologist pooh pooh'd it. I tried someone new this time. She biopsied and sent it off to the lab. A week later, she cut it out. Then I had the indignity of spending another week with 4 stitches between my nose and my lip on the right side. The swelling pushed my nose up on one side, and my top lip hung down over the bottom in the opposite direction. She also froze off 4 actinic keratosis on other areas of my face. I looked lovely.

Now I'm in the market for a big floppy hat. Perhaps one like Sally Rayburn wore on Bloodlines? That might be big enough to hide me from my enemy, the relentless *^$@! sun.

The only problem is that, unlike Sissy, I am not a skinny little person. I am a chubby little person. Consequently, a hat like this will likely make me look like my totem animal, the turtle. As one gets older, life seems to become a series of indignities. I'm getting used to it.

Sissy Spacek as Sally Rayburn in Bloodlines on Netflix