I'm broken

This time, it’s not the perpetual mess in my head, but I’m really broken. I tripped running up the stairs and dislocated my shoulder, then dislocated it twice again trying to figure what that weird stabbing pain was. A visit to two doctors has me headed to the operation theater to fix a torn labrum - the ring that forms the outline of the socket where the shoulder joint securely lies within.

My go-to air conditioner maintenance guy has been avoiding me, or maybe he is just too busy, so I succumbed to my wife’s comfortable, convenient recommended route - an urban fucking company. After all, by her wisdom and ideology, why do work, if you can pay people to do it for you? The team of two shows up, like a SWAT team, promptly ordering buckets, removal of the bedding, cleaning rags, moving of the pillows, the bed sheets, a plug point, the pots in the balcony, fresh water to drink, more buckets, the task OTP, and informing the society that there will be muddy water streaming down the sides of the apartment. I salute, acknowledge and follow the orders without question, even offer the brave men snacks to nibble on, while they wait. My wife is days away from an international work trip, giddy with excitement, chatting with her friends, busy checking Pinterest and Instagram for things to do, things to shop, places to eat at, and more. Her obesity isn’t holding her back. As an obedient customer and husband, I run around, ensuring my wife is comfortable, like the air conditioning maintenance team. I’m juggling these with some office work too.

I run downstairs, request the watchman and an apartment owner, to move any bikes that might lie alongside the air conditioner wall. They snobbishly agree, and as I’m running up the first flight of stairs, I fumble, trip, and nearly smash my face into the stairs, but I’m proud of myself that I still have my reflexes intact at 40. My arms hold my body up, anchored to the side rails. They have stopped me from smashing my head into the edgy stairs, stopped me from bleeding out of my face and skull. I’m happy. It’s only moments later I realize that my right arm is sticking out backwards in a never-seen-before angle, and it won’t move back to its place. Quickly follows a deep, sharp pain running up all the way to my shoulder and back, like a paralyzing cramp. I pant and breathe as heavily as I can, climbing three storeys, 6 sets of stairs, grind my teeth together, clenching my jaws, and try to move my arm forward (before anyone notices the graphic sight) but it won’t budge. It will rotate slightly downwards and I use my other hand to hold the right arm down and run upstairs. I can’t ring the door bell with my right hand, so I fumble and use my left hand. My wife opens the door, sees me grunting in pain, the arm held down the other, probably annoyed firstly by why I didn’t open the doors with the keys and have her open it. She promptly returns to her seat, scrolls Pinterest further. I’m in excruciating pain, as any shoulder-dislocated patient might be. Watch a few videos to know how that looks and feels.

I go to a different room continue panting, trying to move my shoulder in different directions, trying to feel what’s wrong and right, and after 5 to 10 minutes, I snap my shoulder back in its place. I tell myself, it was a muscle cramp and I continue helping the AC maintenance folk with their work. My wife is still plastered to pinterest.com. After a while, I decide to stretch my back, my arms, my body, to check if I’m OK. Hands straight forward, alright, sideways, some pain, slightly backwards and that same shooting pain is back, and I’m back to square one. I can’t move my arm again. I’m never doing that again! Something is terribly wrong. I haven’t felt this kind of pain ever before. Of course, if I fixed it once, I can do it again. I do similar maneuvers and I’m able to stop the pain and force my arm back in its place.

The AC guys are done, ask for their fees, it’s stupidly high. I have no patience now, I pay them and see them out. My wife is still on Pinterest. I pack my bag annoyed, and decide to head to my parent’s place. That’s after all, where some semblance of consciousness exists. My father is better than most to figuring out these things. After lunch, I tell them about the incident and try to show my father when the pain escalates. Only takes a few moments for that pain to return and for my right shoulder to be dislodged. This time around, my father is there to quickly spot whats happening, he shoots a quick video and some photos. There’s a empty space in the back where my shoulder bone should be. He knows I’m in pain and it takes him seconds to get ready and runs to the hospital next door to check if there’s an orthopedic doctor there. I don’t have to tell him anything. I can trust this 80 year old man. The guy is dependable AS FUCK. He just what to do.

Meanwhile, I try to do the things I tried earlier and my shoulder is back again. I call my father in a hurry, tell him not to worry, I’m OK. We can see the doctor when he comes. I wait till 6, and I see the doctor. He’s most interested in knowing if I have health insurance. I say yes, and he says, we can operate the day after. Take an MRI and see me tomorrow, he tells me. I return home, and my wife is lazying on the couch. She is now annoyed with why I would leave to my parents place in a hurry. She demands an answer. How dare I!?

I tell her I had a fall and that I’ve dislocated my shoulder. Pretty sure she doesn’t know what that means, but then, she has the high IQ. Now she’s annoyed why I didn’t tell her. She’s also upset that I should have told her to help me when I was running about. The following morning I start getting ready for the MRI, and I see my wife getting ready too. I feel slightly less annoyed and I ask her what she’s doing. She says she’s going to the beauty parlour. I probably need to tell her to tag along with me, but my father accompanies me to the scanning. He sits patiently for an hour, concerned but calm. I spend 45 minutes in the machine, in a space with all kinds of knocking metal sounds, a steady pump that’s feeding helium to the machine, a large MRI Quench button. It resembles dubstep, and I have since then been fascinated with MRI machines. I’m also told to do a CT scan.

My father and I decide to see a better doctor with the reports the following day. I tell my wife about this but she has a launch party and program at work for some project they recently worked on. It’s not part of her job anymore, but her friends are probably all going. So, it’s just me and my father at the doctor. My wife is meeting friends at work, celebrating. I probably need to tell her that she needs to come along.

The other doctor says I couldn’t have possibly dislocated my shoulder, definitely not thrice. People come in screaming in pain. I show him the video and photos and he has no more doubts. Apparently, I have some crazy pain tolerance (Thank for dead-inside). The tear is on the rim, called the labrum, that limits the rotation and movement of the shoulder joint. It’s torn and it’s unlikely to heal itself. It must be anchored back in its place, using some drills some supporting pillars, and surgerical thread. It shouldn’t be risky, but recovery can take a long time and I’m hoping that the success rate is as high as the doctors claim. I’m not confident enough of how secure and strong my right arm will be after surgery and how many months and years I need to be careful. I’m not sure I can safely ride down hills on my cycle, leaning in with my arms anymore.

My wife is further upset that I didn’t tell her to come along for the MRI scan, or to the doctors. My wife has enjoyed her trip, showing off cute poses on Instagram. She returns soon.

Since, I am categorically supposed to tell my wife when I’m in trouble and I need her to do things, I’ve told her if this operation is to happen, I’d rather have her stay with her folks and I’ll call her when I’ve recovered.

For now, I can’t raise my right arm beyond a point. If I as much, bring it to shoulder-level, it’ll pop out. If I wave out, it’ll pop out. I can’t scratch my back, carry anything heavier than a bottle. I hope no one ever pats me on my back. I sleep with a sling holding my shoulder pressed against my body. I can’t roll to the right. Amazing!