Well. Friday was an interesting morning. Joe and I finished our coffee. Bryn needed a walk. No problem. As he wasn’t completely dressed, I volunteered.
I shrugged on my thick coat, two scarves and two hats, snapped on her long, retractable lead, stepped outside, turned to pull the front door closed- and felt the 15-foot leash playing out in a blur of speed! Bryn had seen a fairly large, shaggy dog walking by with its owner, an older gentleman.
Alas, in that instant my fate was sealed. Nearly fifty pounds of muscled athlete rocketed down the stairs and clawed down the snowy front walk to greet the strange dog- sprinting from zero to thirty m.p.h. in one second. I barely had time to turn toward the street when I felt a giant jerk. Still hanging on to the leash (in doggie protection mode) I took flight, soaring over five 17-inch wide stair treads all the way out to nearly the middle of our faux brick front walk. It was a long way. I finally landed hard on my right shoulder. Crack!! Something snapped. Stunned, I lay curled up on the icy, snowy path. There was no pain. For a while the world was scrambled; then I heard a man’s voice: “Are you all right?” I couldn’t answer.
The poor fellow busied himself untangling leashes, too distressed himself to think coherently. Dimly I saw lots of paws moving around close to my face as the two dogs inspected each other and me, before I finally managed to croak, “Please ring the doorbell…”
He did, happy to be helpful. Joe answered, saw the situation, exclaimed once, then was all business. (He’s a doctor.)
“Right shoulder’s done; don’t touch me yet,” I gasped. I needed time to assess what else might be broken. The increasing pain there was a warning. One wrong move and it would evolve into agony.
My thickly padded head- fine.
Swathed neck- fine.
Legs and hips (the old ladies’ curse)- just fine.
Lucky in the big things: no broken neck. Only my shoulder was damaged. Oh Lord, it had begun to hurt fiercely. Joe waited while I did the review. Then, quickly securing Bryn in the front yard he half-carried me into the house without stressing my shoulder, and guided me to the couch. My legs had turned to jelly. I found myself shivering and panting. This was shock. Breathing more slowly wasn’t possible. My body wouldn’t comply. But trying to regulate it gave me something to focus on.
Joe brought Bryn inside and settled her, fetched the car, and we drove to Munson Community Health Center, reasoning (correctly) that its Urgent Care would be less busy. I was wheeled into the building, and thirty minutes later x-rays revealed the damage: an impacted fracture of the neck of the right humerus, just below the ball, with minimal displacement. The socket itself was fine. “If you have to have a fractured shoulder, this sort is best,” intoned the doctor.
Six weeks in a special sling to keep the arm immobile, was the only treatment necessary. I stared at the awful x-ray picture, grateful that I’d escaped worse.
The area was really swollen; cold compresses helped. And the pharmacy’s potent pain meds were so welcome- at first. I’ve decided, though, that careful movements keep the pain down to manageable levels. Sharp shocks serve as reminders that certain motions are to be avoided. And I’m a lot more alert, and steadier on my feet, undrugged. Extra strength Tylenol at bedtime truly helps, though.
It’s taken an age to type these words left-handed, but at least I’ve gotten something off to you, faithful readers. Bottom line: six weeks = fully operational. Meanwhile, I’ll learn to cope with one appendage.
Family will take over doggie duty, so all is well.
Except that I must wear the same top for a good while, and sleep almost sitting up, and not move… Well--I can do all that.
Lesson: When healed, keep Bryn on a regular leash and be much more situationally aware.
Yup, I can do that, too.
(Once broken, twice cautious…)
I shrugged on my thick coat, two scarves and two hats, snapped on her long, retractable lead, stepped outside, turned to pull the front door closed- and felt the 15-foot leash playing out in a blur of speed! Bryn had seen a fairly large, shaggy dog walking by with its owner, an older gentleman.
Alas, in that instant my fate was sealed. Nearly fifty pounds of muscled athlete rocketed down the stairs and clawed down the snowy front walk to greet the strange dog- sprinting from zero to thirty m.p.h. in one second. I barely had time to turn toward the street when I felt a giant jerk. Still hanging on to the leash (in doggie protection mode) I took flight, soaring over five 17-inch wide stair treads all the way out to nearly the middle of our faux brick front walk. It was a long way. I finally landed hard on my right shoulder. Crack!! Something snapped. Stunned, I lay curled up on the icy, snowy path. There was no pain. For a while the world was scrambled; then I heard a man’s voice: “Are you all right?” I couldn’t answer.
The poor fellow busied himself untangling leashes, too distressed himself to think coherently. Dimly I saw lots of paws moving around close to my face as the two dogs inspected each other and me, before I finally managed to croak, “Please ring the doorbell…”
He did, happy to be helpful. Joe answered, saw the situation, exclaimed once, then was all business. (He’s a doctor.)
“Right shoulder’s done; don’t touch me yet,” I gasped. I needed time to assess what else might be broken. The increasing pain there was a warning. One wrong move and it would evolve into agony.
My thickly padded head- fine.
Swathed neck- fine.
Legs and hips (the old ladies’ curse)- just fine.
Lucky in the big things: no broken neck. Only my shoulder was damaged. Oh Lord, it had begun to hurt fiercely. Joe waited while I did the review. Then, quickly securing Bryn in the front yard he half-carried me into the house without stressing my shoulder, and guided me to the couch. My legs had turned to jelly. I found myself shivering and panting. This was shock. Breathing more slowly wasn’t possible. My body wouldn’t comply. But trying to regulate it gave me something to focus on.
Joe brought Bryn inside and settled her, fetched the car, and we drove to Munson Community Health Center, reasoning (correctly) that its Urgent Care would be less busy. I was wheeled into the building, and thirty minutes later x-rays revealed the damage: an impacted fracture of the neck of the right humerus, just below the ball, with minimal displacement. The socket itself was fine. “If you have to have a fractured shoulder, this sort is best,” intoned the doctor.
Six weeks in a special sling to keep the arm immobile, was the only treatment necessary. I stared at the awful x-ray picture, grateful that I’d escaped worse.
The area was really swollen; cold compresses helped. And the pharmacy’s potent pain meds were so welcome- at first. I’ve decided, though, that careful movements keep the pain down to manageable levels. Sharp shocks serve as reminders that certain motions are to be avoided. And I’m a lot more alert, and steadier on my feet, undrugged. Extra strength Tylenol at bedtime truly helps, though.
It’s taken an age to type these words left-handed, but at least I’ve gotten something off to you, faithful readers. Bottom line: six weeks = fully operational. Meanwhile, I’ll learn to cope with one appendage.
Family will take over doggie duty, so all is well.
Except that I must wear the same top for a good while, and sleep almost sitting up, and not move… Well--I can do all that.
Lesson: When healed, keep Bryn on a regular leash and be much more situationally aware.
Yup, I can do that, too.
(Once broken, twice cautious…)