HULA HOOPS AND BOWLING

 Good Morning World !  It's 7:00 AM and I have already gone bowling, played hula hoop, waved to the queen, wiped off the counters, grabbed the money and dropped it, and swung my pendulum. In other words . . .   I have done all my morning exercises for my shoulder. 

Let me first tell you what a GREAT nights sleep I had last night, thanks to the miraculous power of medicinal assistance.  I know from previous surgeries that sleep is the biggest issue once the pain from the surgery is gone.  I haven't quite figured out what the problem is and why sleep becomes such a challenge but it is like playing the Florida Lottery. You just never know when you are going to get that big win of sleeping through the night but more likely than not you are not going to see a full night's sleep for years to come.  I would think that with all my body has been through it would want to shut down for a good sleep at the drop of a hat but it seems to be just the opposite.  I CAN fall asleep just about anywhere, anytime but the sleep is short and restless. I'm averaging four hours a night and that just won't cut it for this old body so last night when I went to bed I resorted to a pill that the doctor had given me when I left the hospital almost four weeks ago. (Can't believe it's been almost a month since the surgery!) I fell asleep almost immediately and slept straight through the night, without moving, for seven and a half hours !!!!  This is cause for celebration !!  After waking up and realizing how rested I FINALLY felt I thanked God profusely and slid quietly out of the bed hoping The Man will continue to sleep for a couple more hours so I can sit in silence and write.  

Waking up at 7:00 AM has so many perks when I am feeling this good.  A thousand things run through my brain and I want to tackle everything. You will be pleased to know that after a pee stop and ten minutes of shoulder exercises you are my top priority !  

As for these exercises, each one has been given a name by the physical therapists so that the patient can remember each of the different movements.  Clever idea and one that I would have done on my own had the therapist not beat me to the punch.  I constantly do "word associations" to help me remember things.  Example . . . one of my neighbors names is Robin. I remember that because she is always out walking her dog first thing in the morning. What is the first bird out in the morning ? The Robin of course !  Thus this woman's name will never be forgotten. (Until my brain goes to mush and I can't remember my own name never mind that of my dog walking neighbor.) 

Back to the exercises.  Because my arm has been in a sling 24/7 for almost 4 weeks now, (except for when I shower) it is necessary to keep it loose and strengthen muscles. Every day, 2-3 times a day, I get to slip out of the sling and dangle my arm like a slab of dead meat hanging from a tree branch, ( Me being the tree. At the rate I am going I have gone from a once slender Birch to a mighty Sequoia. I have got to stop eating!!!! Not that I was ever a "slender Birch, more like a solid Oak, but you get the drift.)  I have to stand near a counter or table, hold on with my good arm and bend at the waist so my left arm dangles down in front of me. Then I get to SWING !  (Just think, at 75 I'm FINALLY a swinger!) Gravity plays a large role here, not only on my arm but any other dangling body part that happens to be hanging around un impeded by undergarments. (Refer to my last blog if you are unsure just what I'm referring to.) 

I must tell you that these "arm" exercises are done in the privacy of my bathroom with the door closed. It is not pretty and I would not want anyone, not even The Man, to witness this sight.  Butt out, body dangling and then I start to move !  Sway those hip, rotate that waist, get that arm swinging back and forth, round in circles, side to side.  Holy Crap I need to take a shower after all those loose appendages finish slapping and flapping around for ten minutes. I won't even try to describe the sound effects that accompany this. I leave that totally to your imagination. 

Once the dangling exercises are done I get to move on to Isometrics which is a fancy name for punching the wall. Normally I am banging my head against the wall but these days I get to press my fist, elbow and forearm against the wall for ten minutes in order to strengthen those lazy lazy muscles that really really want to go to sleep and stay asleep for the rest of their lives.  I have never been a fan of "workouts" so even this minimal amount of exercise is a total bore to me. But I know it's necessary because if I don't strengthen my muscles I won't be able to type and THAT would really make me sad. 

THE GIRLS

 I love Bette Midler.  I think I would have been friends with her if we had ever met and she hadn't been such a dynamic entertainer.  We are kindred spirits and I LOVE her sense of humor.  Bette, The Devine Ms. M, was the first person I ever heard talk about "The Girls"  We are not talking about her "Tribe" we are talking about her "Girls". Or rather, in this case, My Girls.   

Do you know some women actually give names to their boobs ? That has always cracked me up but I have never gotten that excited about these fixtures that God saw fit to plaster on my chest.  I personally find boobs to be a pain in the back and nothing more. Why men are fixated on them is beyond me, especially as a woman ages.  It's just not pretty !

A little history is in order for you gals out there. And if you are a man reading this I suggest you stop now or your "sexy illusions" of the female body will be destroyed forever. 

I was a LATE LATE "bloomer" if you get my drift.  When I was in eighth grade I was still wearing undershirts, much to my embarrassment in Home Ec class. In eighth grade we made our graduation dresses. (A total disaster in my case. Talk about Janet Jackson and wardrobe malfunctions . . . )  All the girls had to purchase the exact same pattern for a dress. We could choose the fabric and color but the styles were all the same.  We went from opening the package containing the pattern to cutting, assembling  and sewing our dresses. Of course it was necessary to try the dresses on several times in order to get the proper fit. It was at this point that I realized I was a bit different from most/all of the other girls in my class.  They ALL had boobs !!!!  I had nothing !  They were wearing bras, (something that I really had never seen before, thanks mom) and I was wearing little white sleeveless undershirts.  I remember coming home quite upset and begging my mother to buy me "one of those things" so I could be like the other girls. it would be a couple of years until I needed to wear a bra but at this point it was a matter of "fitting" in.

Fast forward to nursing three children and the wicked joke of gravity and here I am left with two large, heavy, blobs of flesh dangling from my chest.  Funny joke God !!!!  If only those girls in home economics class could see me now . . .   they would be laughing all over again but for different reasons.  

Something I can not understand is why a woman would have breast augmentation surgery. I get it when a woman has to have a mastectomy and wants to return to feeling like a woman but to have boobs and want them to be bigger is just plain dumb.  I mean, seriously, WHY would you want watermelons hanging off your chest?  Why not just tie two twenty pound sacks of potatoes around your neck and be done with it?  Big boobs are not pretty and they get in the way of everything. Dresses never fit right because if it fits on your hips its too tight on your boobs and if it fits over your boobs it hangs like a sack over your butt and hips. (Personally I have never had this problem because my ass is as big as my boobs. Nice that I am fat in all the right places but even if I loose weight now it's too late because the fat deposits have been placed in these strategic spots so no matter what I do I've got excess "baggage" hanging on my body.)

All of this became painfully, (literally) evident with my latest surgery.  When one has shoulder surgery you are required to spend several weeks with your arm in a sling. This sling is an instrument of torture not only because of the killer velcro, (as noted in my last blog), but because the design of the sling includes a "Pillow" or "Bumper" that goes between your body and your arm.  This keeps the shoulder at just the proper angle in order for it to heal perfectly. This "bumper" is the size of a Mac truck. Well maybe not quite that big, but it isn't small. It's about 12 inches long and 5 inches wide and high. It is curved so it fits snugly next to your side and wraps around just under your boobs, if you're lucky.

HOWEVER, if your boobs are not "perky" as in my case where gravity has causes the "ice cream" to melt and ooze down my chest, you have a problem.  In my case I have these globs of floppy, fatty tissue squished between me and my sling. The Girls won't stay up long enough to get the sling wedged under them and if I do get them to stay on top of the bumper on the sling they add twenty pounds of weight hanging off my good shoulder which is trying to hold up my surgery arm and my boob!  

Add to that the fact that I now have to go out in public wearing no "Over the shoulder bolder holder". (AKA Bra) because I can't get my arm through the strap of a bra.  I bought various "strapless" bras but that's like holding back Niagara Falls with a tooth pick. The "spillage" is astounding.  So then I tried "bandolier" type bra that I can pull up over my feet, yank up my legs, over my hips and stomach and squish the girls behind the band of stretchy fabric to semi contain them so I don't beat myself to death while walking. The sling does hide much of the swing and sway but it sure isn't pretty!

And so I remain home as much as possible wearing bathing suit tops with a shirt over them so I at least give some illusion of being dressed. Good thing I still can't drive so I'm not tempted to go out in public looking like I do.  

I really think that a pre requisite of shoulder surgery for women like me is a breast reduction so that everything can fit in place during the shoulder recovery.  What would be wonderful is if we could do breast transplants or donors. I'd gladly give up my girls to twenty young women who want more out of life. If I can donate my eyes and other organs why not BOOBS ???

 

INDEPENDENT OR STUBBORN ????

 Thanks to my mom I am a VERY "independent" woman.  The word "independent" is my mother's word not mine. I always remember my mom telling me I needed to be Independent and that if she taught me nothing else in life I would be able to get things done on my own.  

To tell you she failed miserably in this mission is an understatement. I went away to college not knowing the first thing about surviving on my own in the real world. I didn't know the first thing about money, how to write a check or how to live within my means. I didn't even HAVE "means".  I never really worked while in high school and any babysitting money I made disappeared mysteriously into bank accounts that my mom set up for me. Hell, I didn't know what a bank account was or how much money was in it or what I was supposed to do with it.  I have no recollection of learning about bank accounts or savings. I vaguely remember getting an allowance which I'm sure I spent on candy.  College was a HUGE shock when it came to living independently. (I lived my first 2 years in a dorm following the girls around me to class and to the cafeteria. I was a sheep.)

I really didn't wake up to the real world until I got a job and got married.  Up to that point life was a party that mom and dad funded, God Love them ! They meant well but it really did nothing to prepare me for life. 

Enter Husband and I SLOWLY began to see there were certain responsibilities that came with job, relationships and life.  Actually, marriage was the dawning of "The Beast' within and my independent spirit flared up into what it is today.   Good old mom did plant some seeds in me and all it took was some maturity to see the seeds grow.  

Today those seeds have grown into a freaking forest !  I am so damn independent I drive every one around me nuts because my mantra is, "No thanks, I've got it!".  I NEED/WANT to do everything BY MY SELF !  When I am presented with a challenge my first instinct is to try everything before ever asking for help. As I explained to The Man as I was dragging a full laundry basket across the floor using the hook on the end of my Ikea shoe horn, "Necessity is the mother of invention".  God love him, The Man did not get angry at me because I wasn't asking him for help. He "gets it" and finds great amusement in my creativity. Because he has such sever COPD he can't be lifting and carrying so between us we manage quite well.  

So is that being independent OR stubborn ?  Are the two things the same ? Husband would tell you I was a pain in the ass and couldn't/wouldn't ever ask for help with anything. The Man is well aware of this but handles it much differently than Husband ever did so hopefully I am more aware of his need to be needed and to help than I ever was with Husband. (All I can tell you is that The Man never uses sarcasm with me and it seems to work.)

If ever there were a time to test the limits of stubbornness and stupidity it is when I am "under the weather". From the moment I wake up in a recovery room after any sort of hospital stay I immediately sense that I am on my own. (This is probably a learned instinct after living with Husband for many years. That man couldn't boil water. AND since we are discussing stubborn Husband HATED to be "told" what to do, as in "The milk is in the fridge which is in the kitchen and the glasses are in the top right cabinet, could you please bring me a glass of milk ?"  To simply ask for a glass of milk would have gotten me nowhere. It REALLY was that bad!)

So now we are dealing with this self made "independent" woman who just does not know how to ask for help. But I am learning ! Even at 75 I can still learn something. Between Velcro and only having one functioning arm I have HAD to ask for help during the past two weeks. The Man has helped me dress, he has cut up food on my plate for me, not to mention that he has cooked for me.  All very novel and difficult experiences for this independent/stubborn woman.  

We are managing rather well as we enter into week number three and I am hoping I don't scare off The Man before we get through this adventure,  I figure if we could both survive Velcro we have it made. Now if only I could get my boobs to cooperate I would be in fantastic shape.  But that is a whole another story entirely !

VEXING VELCRO

 VELCRO IS EVIL !!  It has been sent to humankind to weed out the faint of heart and test your degree of patience.  (And all these years I thought  that was why God created Man.)  Who the hell ever came up with this brilliant idea?  I really must research that and then send the inventor a nasty note stuck together with Velcro! We have come a long way from wrapping furs around us and tying them with a vine but I do think we were doing just fine with the invention of zippers, snaps and buttons. We really did NOT need to go the extra step into the vividly, vexing world of Velcro. 

There are apparently different degrees of this evil material. I DO love the nice soft sticky stuff that holds a baby's diaper together. Or the velcro on my purse that gives me the opportunity to keep things from falling out when I drop it out of the car in the parking lot. But when the company who mades slings for people with arm and shoulder injuries decided they needed Velcro to hold everything in place they must have contracted the Lunar Landing Module company to manufacture a fabric that will adhere to ANYTHING and NEVER, EVER let go. 

As I mentioned in my previous blogs this whole living with one arm thing is getting mighty old mighty fast. (I just keep reminding myself of all those people in the world who don't HAVE two arms and that helps me cope with this temporary challenge.) The joke is that you wake up in the hospital with your arm already in a sling. During the 24 hours that you are "recovering" in the hospital a perky little young thing bounces into your room with a large black thing that is fitted with straps and clips and belts and lots and lots of Velcro. (Fifty Shades of Grey should have included one of these things in their "play room".)   Little Miss Perky informs you of the fact that you will now take off the temporary sling and replace it with The THING she is carrying.  O.K.  so this is how it works, I can deal with a little change.  Thankfully I still have an active block on the nerves in my arm so removing and replacing slings is not painful. What it IS is . . .  COMPLICATED !!  Step # 1  slide arm into "cradle" part of sling.  Step # 2 place the first large black belt that is hanging from the bottom of the cradle around your waist, but not really at your waist, more up by your ribs.   Step # 3 Insert clip dangling from the end of the large black belt in the clasp on the base of the cradle.  Step # 4 position the "Bumper" that sits between your side and the sling so that it is in just the right spot to keep your arm in the proper position.  Step # 5  Grab the large black strap that is already attached to the sling at both ends, pull it up and over your head so your "good" shoulder is now supporting the weight of your "bad" arm.  (I believe this is all a ploy for the doctor to create a problem in your "good" shoulder so that he will stay in business by having repeat customers.)   And FINALLY      Step #6   place the two small straps strategically on the front and top of the sling to keep your arm from sliding up or forward out of the cradle.

With the exception of thee two buckles holding the straps on the one end of the sling ALL the other adjustments in length and comfort are made by yanking off the velcro and readjusting the strap. And when I say YANK I am not kidding.  This velcro sticks SO tight you need a hammer, chisel and twenty elephants to pull it apart.  I am standing there yanking and pulling until it lets go with a rrrrriiiiiiiippppp and swings out of my hand only to attach itself to the nearest available object.  Thank God we don't have a cat !!!!!  I have pulled the damn velcro off only to have it whip around and reconnect to one of the other straps. When I pull that one off the two straps go flying and attach to my shirt.  

It truly is a comedy act fit for Abbot and Costello !

The Man is so used to the sound of Rrrrriiiiiiipppppp forty seven times an hour that he thinks he has a hearing condition. The best is at night when we first go to bed and I am trying to get comfortable.  I think I have everything adjusted until I lay down and find I am being choked to death.  Rrrrriiiiiiippppp . .  .   After about the fifth time of that The Man cautiously asks, "Can I help you?"  Which he really can't because it is a matter of comfort and I am the only one who can decide what is comfortable.  

As if all this isn't enough I have to tell you that the ends of all the straps where the velcro is are made of a very hard plastic material that could probably be used to cut cement. So not only do I have to adjust the length of the strap just right I have to align the ends of the velcro perfectly so they are not hanging off either side and scratching me all night.  

It's an adventure !!!!

HOSPITAL HIJINKS

 Over the past 25 years i have had the dubious pleasure of spending a lot of time in various hospitals for various reasons.  (The late 90's were not kind to me.) Two of these stays were in small hospitals on Long Island and the remainder have been spread across three different hospitals here in West Palm Beach and Palm Beach Gardens.  

Each hospital is unique for its personal types of torture.

Let me start by saying that Nurses are the true Angels on Earth and why anyone would ever consider subjecting themselves to this job is beyond me.  They are over worked and under paid and their hands are tied by administrative nonsense. These poor people have to put up with human kind at its worst and still remain professional and kind.  

But they do get some satisfaction from the idiotic practices of many of the hospitals. Revenge is sweet !

The first inhuman hospital  joke is the whole idea of inserting an IV as soon as you enter the front door.  (You don't even have to be a prospective patient, they just like sticking people with needles.)  My last two visits to the hospital were filled with Nurse Ratchets and their minions.  My Thanksgiving stay at Gardens Memorial Hospital afforded me the opportunity to be punctured no less than six times over a three day stay.  Two of these punctures were just to "Draw Blood" which apparently can not be done from the hose that has already been inserted in your arm/ wrist/ hand. This procedure must be done in the crook of your arm even if you have three other fire hose size tubes protruding from your body.  

Right from the start of an IV there is usually a problem of finding a "GOOD" vein.  In spite of having had to drink enough Gatorade to fill half of Lake Michigan in order to prep for my most recent surgery at Jupiter Medical Center the Pre-Op nurse still had trouble finding a place to drill into my body for the IV.  Usually my "Best Veins" are in my left arm but since that was the arm the surgery was being performed on Countess Dracula had to find a spot in my right arm.  She started by tying a rubber hose around the top of my arm and tightening it to the point of imminent gangrene. THEN she started slapping me !  She slapped my arm, she slapped my hand, she slapped my wrist . . .  Thankfully she found a spot before I started slapping her. Unlike the nurse at Gardens hospital, the Jupiter nurse DID find a vein on the first try. Unfortunately the only vein she could find was on the back of my right hand which was my ONLY hand I had to use for any and all other bodily functions.  It was a challenge to say the least.  

So now you are placed in your hospital room, tied to a tube that extends from your arm to a pole on wheels. Every time you need or want to move around your room you  have to drag the pole with you. But to up the adventure the pole holding the bags of IV fluids has a little box attached to it that the IV lines must pass through. This "pump" regulates the flow of the fluid. (It seems that even Gravity needs assistance.)  The Pump has a charming little beeper that alerts the nurses when ever the IV is clogged or empty or too warm or too cold or just wanting to make noise just for the hell of it.  This warning beeper likes to wait until you have just fallen asleep to start its screaming ! The sound is so loud that planes landing at the near by airport think they are in danger of crashing.  BUT . . .  Although the sound can be heard for a twenty mile radius the nurse down the hall can NOT hear it so they must be summoned by intercom. That is only done IF you can find the intercom button that has mysteriously disappeared somewhere in your bed or chair. 

So now in order to get up you have to     #1.  Unplug the IV machine.   #2. Wrap the three miles of tubing around the pole to keep from getting caught like a Dolphin in a fishing net.  #3. Spin the IV pole around on its five swivel wheels to get it to roll next to you and lastly,   #4. Manage to maneuver around furniture without tripping over everything.  It is at this point of just about making it into the bathroom when the door to your room bursts open and the nurse asks you to get back in your chair so they can take your blood pressure.  And they wonder why my blood pressure was so high !!!

As if this isn't enough torture Gardens Hospital had me hooked to a heart monitor that weighed three tons and hung from a pocket in my hospital gown. (If you have ever had the pleasure of wearing a hospital gown you know what a challenge it is to keep the damn things on without it being weighed down by a heavy box pulling it down in the front.) Coming from the monitor were at least six wires that attached to EKG sensors glued to my body so they could make sure my heart was still beating.  I wasn't in the hospital for my heart but that made no difference.  Hospital Policy said that EVERYONE on that particular floor HAD to wear a heart monitor.  

I was delighted to be in Jupiter Hospital for my most recent surgery because they didn't require the heart torture machine.  Unfortunately this hospital had devised an even better type of torture.  In addition to the IV pole and pump Jupiter Hospital places a "secret" pad under you when you're in bed or sitting in the chair. It blasts you with an alarm as soon as you stand up !  For what ever reason anyone and EVERYONE staying on the surgical floor MUST have the "fall risk" alarm turned on to warn the nurses of your imminent escape.  

As I have mentioned I am not a novice to hospitals and I always try to be as independent and self sufficient as possible to spare the poor nurses from being summoned to my room every time I sneeze.  They have enough to do to take care of the SICK people on the floor.  I am FINE and don't need them standing in my room while I walk  to the bathroom and back.  (I understand that immediately after surgery you are still loopy and weak but once they see that you can manage on your own they can lighten up a bit. But  HOSPITAL POLICY says . . .    

It also seems that when a nurse looks at my chart and sees that I am 75 years old I am automatically placed in the senile, little old lady category.  It isn't until I meet them a couple of times that they realize I REALLY CAN take care of myself and don't need to be monitored every second.  God Bless them that they DO usually figure this out very quickly and free me from the hospital constraints.  To do my part I am SUPER careful when moving about so I don't end up tied to the bed with restraints. 

I have no desire to make any more visits to hospitals for a very long time. I can only imagine what new means of torture they will devise over the next twenty years.                        

BLOG BRAIN

 I have so much to write about but I am having technical difficulties.  My computer is working fine but my fingers aren't.  Well, to be more specific I am having a great deal of trouble typing with one hand.  ( That and the fact that I left my glasses in the bedroom and I don't want to go back stumbling around at 5:00 AM waking up The Man.)

Let's just back up a bit and bring you up to date. Eleven days ago I FINALLY had my shoulder replacement surgery. It went fantastic and apparently The Gods were happy! I was at the hospital at 5:30AM on February second . . .  Groundhog Day !  (My favorite "Holiday")  By 9:15 AM I was awake in the recovery room ant by 10:30 AM I was sitting in my hospital room having a late breakfast. I had a nerve block so had absolutely NO pain what so ever !  I had a private room, food and a TV. LIFE WAS GOOD ! (More stories about the hospital later,)  

I slept like a baby that night, even with the twenty million visits from Count Dracula and staff.  After a delish breakfast the next morning I got the OK to go home and by 2:00 in the afternoon, (after lunch), I was back home and settled in.  The nerve block was still working so I called everyone, (or so I am told. Apparently I was also doped up on pain meds in anticipation of the block wearing off so I honestly am not sure who I talked to. )  This is about when things started to get very interesting. 

I knew I was going to be spending the next 4-6 weeks with my left arm in a sling. In anticipation of this unique challenge I had been practicing living with only one functioning arm.  Or so I thought. When reality hit I was DONE with that fun game in a matter of seconds.  Being in the hospital, wearing nothing but one of those charming gowns and doing nothing but lounging around without pain gave me no warning of what was in store for me. Even getting dressed to go home was a piece of cake so smug little me thought I was going to blow through the next couple of weeks EASY PEASTY LEMON SQUEZY !

N O T !!!!   

I guess it is a good thing that I am so stupid and/or naive because if I had an ounce of sense I would never do half the things I find myself doing.  

More to follow . . .