Thursday, July 4, 2013
It's pretty hard to call myself a blogger given that I haven't blogged in about 3 weeks. But it's not without good -- but painful -- reason. Somehow, I've done something to my shoulder. Well, if you ask the physical therapist, I've done something to my neck, but it's my shoulder that's bearing the brunt of the pain.
Sitting at a desk all day, working on the computer has been killer on my wherever-it-is injury. So by the time I get home, the last thing I want to do is sit down at the computer longer -- hence my long absence from the blogosphere.
I wish I had talk-to-type software because I've written plenty of blog posts in my head. Maybe I'll get them written soon.
The whole pain in the whatever started in April. I went to the chiropractor and her massage therapist and got some decent relief. But when it came back just a few weeks later my boss, who is a physical therapist, suggested that if I wanted to get more permanent relief, I should see a physical therapist.
First I had to go to my doctor, who ordered an x-ray of my shoulder. When that came back fine, she write me the PT order. I've been seeing the PT for about 3 weeks. I'll admit that the physical therapy is making progress....S-L-O-O-O-O-W progress. I'm not in debilitating pain anymore, which is good. But discomfort and I becoming too comfortable with each other.
My arm feels heavy as it hangs at my side, like the rubber bands of muscle are stretching long out of the socket. The PT fixed me up with some tape that helps tremendously. You know, the kind the Olympic volleyball players wear. Except my tape is white and flesh-colored and the only Olympic event I'm worthy to compete in is Olympic whining. Anyway, it seems like I've just traded the crazy pain for another problem. Now instead of just my shoulder hurting, the inside of my whole right arm all the way down to the tip of my thumb just lapses into numbness without much coaxing.
I have been faithfully doing my PT exercises, often in the car because that's where I spend much of my time. So if you drive by and see a plump woman who looks like she has tortocollis driving a minivan, try not to stare. It's just me, working on the neck stretches. Or if you see me and I appear to be serving an imaginary tray of imaginary drinks, I've not lost my marbles. I'm just doing some casual cervical neck flossing.
Of course I've near convinced myself that somewhere in my neckish/shoulderish region there is some tumor crushing my nerves. But in all reality, what Mike says is probably true: You turn 42 and things start going out on you.