It's Good to Be Forty

This has been a weird week.

On Tuesday, my daughter claimed to be ill. She came downstairs, refused her favourite breakfast and said she didn't feel well. She looked pale and felt clammy to the touch. I suspected that a visit to the toilet might do her a world of good but she insisted that she'd already been there and done that. I explained to her that staying home from school meant she would have to stay in bed all day without TV, sidewalk chalk or her bicycle. She made the choice to go back upstairs to bed. Well, I thought, she MUST be sick. About an hour later, I heard her up in the bathroom and fearing she would vomit in the sink (her usual MO), I flew up the stairs but stopped abruptly at the top because I could hear music. In her special little girl voice punctuated with new kindergarten moxy, Olivia was softly singing:

"I didn't have to go to school to-day. I stayed home with Mummmmmmmy".

I turned around and went back downstairs to my bathroom so I would have the benefit of a mirror while removing the giant hook from my mouth. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the day in bed with nary a hint of sensory stimulation. That night, she dramatically wiped her brow with her hand and told me she was soooo happy that she felt sooo much better. Uh huh. Let me tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf.....

__________________________________

Wednesday, I went out for a run in my neighbourhood and noticed that the sidewalks were filled with toads. I guess when the sun goes down, these warty creatures come out and hug the cement for warmth. I was convinced that I was witnessing the Apocalypse in my subdivision since "plague" is only loosely defined in Revelations. They were gross. I tried to take a picture to show you how one toad's eyes defied the laws of physics but the iPhone doesn't have a flash. The worst part is that I don't see well in the dark. I am not a feline, bat or an owl so jumping off the sidewalk onto the road is always a crap shoot for me. One day it could be success, the next could mean knee surgery. Anyway, the queerest thing was that the toads WOULD NOT HOP AWAY. My feet were pounding down right beside them and they didn't move. I had visions of scraping squished amphibian out of my shoe treads and it was more than I could bear. I moved to the street where every leaf looked like a tarantula and every stick resembled a snake. When I got home, I was relieved to find the children still in their beds so the Rapture hadn't happened after all. I won't be running at night anymore.

__________________________________

Yesterday, I got to see my favourite Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and when I left his office, I was feeling positively sassy. He told me that I was a "stud" because I had healed so well and had such great use of my arm. He lavished me in superlatives and I basked in all of that good patient glory. On the way out he asked me to wait because he had something to show me. Then, he goes into this office and comes out with his brand new iPhone. He tells me that he got it because of me. Small talk and more basking ensued. I told him I was learning how to ride a hog this weekend and he lifted up my pant legs apparently to see what my shins looked like before I tore the skin off of them. Now, that is just not positive thinking but no matter. I still have a crush.

And speaking of my Rider's Edge course, I learned one major thing tonight. Motorcycles are a little bit like pregnancy. Everyone has a horror story about some friend of a friend. So far, the other eleven people in the class seem great. I met one guy who just turned forty in January and like me, his fascination with Harley Davidson has roots in a mid-life crisis although I don't think he would actually coin it that way.

And hey, I know that I appear to be the poster child for the whole crisis scenario but I am having the time of my life right now and I wouldn't change one thing. This isn't a crisis! It's EVERYTHING I would have done in my twenties if I'd had two nickels to rub together. In class tonight, I learned that one of the other instructors owns the most reputable tatoo parlour in town. Coincidence? I think not.

It's good to be forty.

Franken-elbow

I'm sorry to interrupt the NYC series with this completely narcissistic update on my elbow. Earlier in the week, after nearly knocking one of my children out with the blasted cast (NOT on purpose ), I called Dr. Sexy's office and talked to sardonic Jim.

I'm not sure what it is that Jim does but when I need an appointment, Jim's the man. He gets on the phone and I tell him that I have this event to attend on Saturday night and ugly white cast is not going to go well with my outfit. I beg him to fit me into Dr. Sexy's schedule somewhere this week. I also expressed to him that I knew that I was being a colossal pain and I extended my sincerest apologies. Then, I held my breath.

Jim (with delicious sarcasm): What is it? Your prom?

Me: (laughter)

Jim: Can't you just put a black nylon or sock over it and call it a day?

Me: (silence...brain scrambling for appropriate answer but alas...) Umm, no. I am NOT Scarlett O'Hara and I don't know how to sew the drapes into a formal gown.

Jim's turn to laugh. He tells me to hang on while he goes to consult with Dr. Sexy. After several minutes, he comes back chuckling and tells me that the doc will be happy to work me in this week at 2:45pm on Thursday.

Crap.

The children get out of school at 3:00pm and I am in a carpool. It is my duty to pick them up every day.

Me (in best subservient, I-know-I'm-an-idiot, church mouse voice): Do you have anything earlier or later?

Jim: Are you kidding me?

Me (panic): Well YES! Yes I am. See you Thursday. I'll be there with bells on.

GAH!

Yesterday morning was just one of those days. My son was sick and my daughter had chosen to play hide and seek with the tape I use to secure the garbage bag over the cast. As you know, it took me forever to have a bloody shower so, no time to waste, I tucked the garbage bag around the cast, pulled the handles and tied it off as best I could. When I got out of the shower, I removed the bag and water flowed out of the bottom of my cast. Uh oh.

So I cut it off.

And it felt goooood. Sooo gooood. And then I had a good look at my arm.



That black nylon is looking pretty good right about now.

I made it to my appointment very early and the receptionist was able to change my time with the 3:15pm slot since the other patient also arrived early. I raced to the school to get the kids and brought all of them (including carpoolers) back to the doctor's office. Oh don't even ask! The only time they were quiet was when my stitches were removed.

So the cast is gone, the stitches out and Dr. Sexy said I could play golf in two weeks. He warned that it would feel really weird and probably a bit painful but who cares? That nerve will never be compressed again.

Whine, whine, whine

***DISCLAIMER****
This post will contain much pissing and moaning.

Have I mentioned that being trapped in a 90 degree cast will turn a reasonable woman into a raving lunatic? Look, I know that I should be focusing on the silver lining of this whole surgery but I'm having trouble getting past the fact that I am unable to button my own pants.

My hair looks like crap. It is neither curly nor straight and as a two-handed person, I am usually able to manipulate it into a reasonable coif. Not anymore. Now every morning, I go to the office and I am forced to wait for a co worker to arrive to help me pull it into a pony. Today is French braid day.

My wardrobe presents numerous challenges because pajamas are not considered business casual. Buttons, snaps, zippers and, god forbid, strings that need to be tied, are instruments of the devil. My bra? Let's just say that the girls and I are in a death match with gravity and every day that we triumph is like winning the lottery.

My morning routine has been blown like a drunken sailor on shore leave. I used to enjoy a leisurely coffee, shower and breakfast before the kids got up. Now, everything takes longer. Grasp scrunchie with right hand. Reach for bottle of liquid soap with right hand. Brain registers conflict. Put scrunchie down. Get bottle. Pour on scrunchie. Put bottle down. Pick up scrunchie. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And just try to shave your right underarm with your right hand.

School lunches are their own unique nightmare. I buy organic peanut butter. It resides in the fridge. It has a screw on lid. I can hold the jar in my left hand but applying any pressure (say the act of unscrewing with my right hand) causes pain. The peanut butter is stiff and unyielding. Getting it out of the jar with one hand while using my hip to anchor it in the corner of the counter top is a lesson in freak ergonomics.

The final insult is laundry. I have become this crazy person, screeching at my kids to help me get the stuff out of the dryer while it is still hot because the thought of ironing with one hand is too much for me to contemplate. As it is, the mere act of folding clean clothes has me muttering profanities under my breath.

There is some good. I am predominately right handed, except for eating. I eat with my left. So now, I'm clumsy and many morsels do not make it to the promised land. Instead, they end up on my shirt, usually in the chest area because I am shaped like a letter "P". I am so pleased that I have managed to get the girls holstered that I choose to view the few dribbles as artful accessorizing. And then there is the fact that food on my shirt means that there is no way it made it to my hips. BONUS. So who says I'm not a glass half full kind of gal?

CAST REMOVAL COUNTDOWN

The Day After

It was pretty awful. There is just no way to sugarcoat it. I arrived at the hospital at about 8:30am and was shuffled into the finance office where they politely asked me to pay, sign a bunch of papers and answer some questions.

When did I last eat? Long enough ago that my stomache is participating in this conversation.

What do I weigh? Hmm. Tell the truth and receive the proper dosage of drugs or lie and run the risk of being under medicated. Lie. Definitely lie.

After the inquisition was over, I was led to the pre-op and there on the sterile gurney lay the dreaded hospital gown in all its open-backed glory. There is just nothing positive to be said about this garment. I undressed, put the damn thing on and like every other woman on the planet, hid my unmentionables between my street clothes. We all do it. Yes, we understand that our doctor has probably seen a bra before but it doesn't matter. Playing pig in the blanket with our panties is part of our DNA.

Nurse Sue started an IV and introduced me to Dr. Feelgood, who shook my hand and told me he'd be captain of the narcotic express. He started my journey with a sweet little drug to help me relax. I was so happy. And I loved everyone. Everyone. Dr. Sexy Metro Boy chose this time to visit with me before the surgery. I managed to contain myself but unabashedly checked him out as he walked away from me. Shameless, I know.

The next thing I remember is waking up in hot, fiery hell. The pain was horrible. Nerve pain is distinctly different than anything I've ever experienced before. The meds don't kill it. They merely take the edge off. I also do not tolerate anaesthesia well and true to form, I got friendly with a bucket for most of the evening.

Today has been better and it's times like this that remind me how fortunate I am. My fridge is full of meals prepared by other people, my kids are with L & M, two of the most genuine, loving people on the planet, I have three enormous bouquets from people who care about me and I've received dozens of well wishes from my friends and family in the blogosphere. Who knew?

So I'll be in this sucky cast for the next 12 days and I will be forced to accept the help of others because I cannot tie a ponytail with one hand and I'm not flexible enough to get my damn foot up there. As uncomfortable and unfamiliar as I am with this particular set of circumstances, I am also profoundly grateful to be on the receiving end of so much love.

Surgery Day

Today is the day I get my nerve back. I'd be so much more excited if this didn't involve general anaesthesia, surgery casts and staples but numbies like me can't be choosy.

When I last met with Dr.Sexy Metro Boy, he told me that he was going to go in and release the five known compression points because you can't tell visually which one is the trouble maker. Five for the price of one. Who knew I'd get a Wal-Mart deal in the OR? Lucky me.

Next, he will bend my elbow and if the ulnar nerve stays in the cubital tunnel, I'm golden. If not, he will move the nerve from the bony part of the elbow to the soft inside part. Do you have a visual? No? Oh let me help you.



Gross, eh?

I'm sure everything will go well and the fringe benefit is that I'll have a doctor's note to be lit up like a Christmas tree for the next couple of days.

Is it me or is your head on fire?

Yesterday, I met with Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and his perfectly manicured hands, which will be slicing my elbow open next Wednesday morning. I did a bit of research on him over the past couple of weeks and learned that he is the chief of surgery at one of our local hospitals, which makes me feel better because he's likely encountered a nutter or two in his career. My insane ramblings after surgery will probably go completely unnoticed.

We were discussing pain and I asked him how much to expect.

That depends on my tolerance...blah...blah..

Okay, for giggles, let's just say that on a scale of one to ten with active, cold sweat producing, toe curling, transitional labour being an eleven, where would this surgery rank?

Eight.

I see. Can we talk narcotics?

After the visit, I made the mistake of calling my ex husband to let him know the details. The following is an excerpt of the conversation which has been edited because I may have been liberal in my use of the "f" word.

"Hi. My surgery has been scheduled for Wednesday."

"So?"

"So, the kids will need to stay with you Wednesday night and likely Thursday." (slight raise in blood pressure because....)

"No. No way. Wednesday night is the night I spend with my little lady. You did this on purpose. You'll have to call your doctor back and reschedule for another day. I'm not going to take any heat from my woman over this." (and there we have it)

Notice that he used terms like, "my little lady" and "my woman" with a straight face. I think he fancies himself some sort of Clint Eastwood in an old western.
At this point, I removed the phone from my ear fully expecting it to sprout legs and give me a lap dance because something had to be more absurd than the conversation.

"Oh, yes. That should be no problem. I'll just call up the busy surgeon and tell him that the available operating room time is not going to work for YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!! Is your head on fire?"

"You deliberately scheduled it on a Wednesday to try to put a kink in my plans with her."

**sound of crickets**

With that comment, I gently turned off the phone because I felt myself running beside his shock treatment crazy train and wanting to jump on board. Choo! Choo!

Dr. J and his little shop of horrors

I'm sitting here trying to find something to blog about except my arm. I don't want to do the whiny, woe is me thing (although I have that perfected) because most everything else in my life is just this side of fabulous.

I went to my appointment last week and I am happy to report that the NCS test was "uncomfortable". However, the EMG test is its own brand of special. I should probably tell you that this doctor was another hottie. He was fifty with a martini dry sense of humor and when he planted himself directly between my legs, put my arm on his lap and proceeded to measure and mark the soft inside of my forearm with a black pen, I might have been able to pretend that it was a sensual experience. Unfortunately, he ruined the moment when he poked the needles into my muscles and cranked up the electricity. From that point on, he was Satan. One interesting note: the Lamaze technique while completely useless in labour, was remarkably effective in contolling the screams that bubbled their way up my throat.

After the test was over, he told me that I was not a conservative treatment case. When they stick the needles into your muscles, you are supposed to hear either nothing or a low hum which means that muscles are oxygenated, happy and fully functional. On the other hand, wasting muscles sound a bit like frying bacon. Mine sounded like Sunday brunch was being served.

I left the office feeling a bit sorry for myself because the prospect of surgery concerned me on so many levels, the least of which is my ability to control myself verbally in recovery.

I drove through KFC for a bucket of grease to throw at the kids since I wasn't in the dinner making mood. I had put my cast back on and while paying for the chicken, the guy in the drive through asked me what the heck was wrong with my arm. I waved it off and said it was nothing...just a little nerve issue.

He asked, "Wow, is it your very last one?"

Oh honey, you have no idea.

Update

It's official.

Surgery.

Shit.

Bad Nerves and Sharp Elbows

Today, I get to see a neurologist. I have always associated neurology with the brain and really horrid ailments like strokes and brain cancer. A neurologist diagnoses and treats disorders of the nervous system. Well, duh! And two numb fingers qualifies me to see Dr.J.

He is going to be doing a nerve conduction test or an electromyograph or both. It didn't sound too bad until I googled them. I think it would have been better if I had shown up blissfully uninformed. The idea of sticking small needles into my arm specifically to send jolts of electricity down an inflamed nerve, well, it kind of makes me want to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply into a paper bag.

The test has been described as "uncomfortable" which I just don't trust. Define uncomfortable. Uncomfortable is sand in the crack of your bum after a day at the beach. Uncomfortable is trying to choke down salty, ketchup-topped meatloaf surprise at your in-laws. Uncomfortable are any shoes except slippers between 2 and 3 pm. I'm hoping that the term "uncomfortable" is not doublespeak for agony. In any case, we will know definitively where the nerve is compressed and then Dr. Sexy Metro Boy will have a plan. Actually, I probably don't need the formality of the test because if you blow a kiss in the general direction of my elbow, little pinpricks of light burst in front of my eyes and I scream, "UNCLE!"

I fully understand that surgery may be in my future and besides the cold, clammy fear of being anaesthetized, I'm just the slightest bit concerned about post op. In 2000, I broke my wrist and had a few pins inserted. As I was coming out of the drug, I was quite vocal (some might say Turrets-like) and apparently, it was hilarious to witness. I didn't have a sensor switch and just belted out whatever thought crossed my mind. This worries me more than the anaesthesia because I've already established that I'm largely incoherent under normal circumstances with Dr.Mc Make My Heart Skip A Beat. Add drugs and the inability to censor one's thoughts...

There needs to be a plan B.

The doctor, nerves and a bit of drool

Today, I met with an orthopedic doctor about my numb left hand. It has been like this for 12 days, 4 hours and 13 minutes. After two massage appointments, two chiropractic appointments, 24,000 mgs of ibuprofen, cold compresses and an improvised sling made from a ratty old towel and a tensor bandage, I was ready for someone to tell me that everything was going to be fine and that my golf club and I would meet again.

My doctor came into the examining room and promptly turned me in to a woman who could not form complete sentences. I'm not sure what the deal is with me and certain men but sometimes, without warning, I am rendered beyond dumb blonde. The trouble is, I never know when it is going to strike.

For instance, we outsource our IT to a local company. One of the employees of this company tends to handle a lot of our business. He is pleasant, ordinary and just...normal. But, his voice is remarkable. It is the depths of the ocean deep with a slight gravely edge that melts my spine and makes me stutter like a schoolgirl. I have to write talking points out before calling him. He is also very, very happily married and still, I cannot control the goose pimples when I have to discuss FTP logons and password resets. Ridiculous, I know.

So today, in walks Dr. Mc Make My Heart Skip a Beat, and once again, it's the deer in the headlights show. I am not sure what specific quality it was. Maybe it was his hands. They were man hands, with nails of the proper length and get this...a golf tan! Or maybe, it was his outrageously expensive Italian black leather shoes. They looked custom made and soft enough to wear to bed. Maybe it was the perfectly trimmed stash and goatee and the good haircut or perhaps it was the stylish glasses. Who knows? Whatever it was, it made it much easier to hear the news that my numbness was likely caused by a ruptured disc at C8. That means surgery.

So, until I get the MRI to confirm the suspicion, we agreed to treat it like cubital tunnel syndrome, which resulted in this:


It is removable, thank god. My memories are still fresh concerning the last time I had to wear a cast and I vividly remember an incident with the cast, me and a bunch of Texas fire ants. I'll save that story for another day.

I think the reason Dr.Sexy Metro Boy had such an effect was nicely summed up in his parting comments to me. He reassured me that everything would be fine one way or the other very soon. Then he said,

"You know, it's no fun getting older, is it? The day after my fortieth birthday, I got my first set of bifocals. That same year, I suffered through compressed ulnar nerves in BOTH arms. It will get better. I promise."

I might be a little bit in love.

The nerve of it all..

I could not drive.
I could not chip.
I could not putt.

My left hand is still in a semi-comatose state and I am beginning to get seriously hacked off. The ring and pinkie fingers feel like your lips do after getting a cavity filled at the dentist. The sensation isn't painful but it's a nuisance and I am not able to get a firm grip on my golf club. I know that I am officially middle aged but just how long should it take for an inflamed muscle to relax enough to let go of the nerve?!!!

The glides were lovely yesterday and after one and a half hours, I was like a limp rag doll but my hand was still numb. I have consumed my weight in water over the last 24 hours but my fingertips feel nothing!

Today, I have resorted to Ben Gay. You would think that if we can put a man on the moon and a complete illiterate into office, the powers that be would be able to make an odorless muscle ointment.

I had my hair done this morning and it was perfect the way it only can be on the day that it is done. Afterward, I am feeling kind of sexy and I sashay into my local Home Depot looking for some new hardware for my bathroom. I meet a few gazes and politely smile. They smile back until they get within a foot of me and then suddenly, their noses wrinkle, they avert their eyes and the moment has gone horribly awry.

Years ago, there was this study done on the nose. As it turns out, when you are exposed to a scent for a sustained period of time (10 minutes or so), your nose will gradually adjust to the smell until it becomes mostly undetectable. From an evolutionary standpoint, you can see how this comes in handy...baby diapers, teenagers, Matthew "A man should smell like a man " McConaughey, chicken farms, Hong Kong sewers, boiled cabbage, etc. The study in question involved a bunch of goats and men (not to be confused with the Falkland war ) and how the scientists came to realize that not only did the odor of the animals become tolerable but it was transferrable (think smoky bar and hair). They came out of the barns smelling like old goats, themselves.

Soooooo, it occured to me (belatedly, of course), that as I was meandering through Home Depot with Eau du Ben Gay wafting from me in unchecked menthol plumes, I was smelling pretty old, too.