Carnes: Just want to feel normal again
We’ve all been feeling it.
Each of us knows how difficult it can be, especially when surrounded by overwhelming thoughts of helplessness as if there is nothing we can do on our own to solve the problem.
Sure, peeling a banana with one hand is a conundrum experienced not by all, but by enough to make it a real issue, at least for me.
It took me six long decades to realize the futility of attempting such an act, but only .6 seconds of a horrible golf swing to experience the reality.
Stay with me here — it’s not like we have anything else to do today.
During my downswing with a 5-wood, a minor earthquake triggered the ground to jump up in front of the ball, causing my right shoulder to zig while the clubhead zagged, resulting in my bicep snapping and recoiling south like a wet sack of sand tossed on the floor.
Pretty, it was not.
Painful, it was.
I can feel those that know me laughing (which is normal), because while my practice swing has the rhythmic beauty of Justin Thomas, when whitey gets in the way I have all the swing grace of Charles Barkley.
It’s turrible, I tell you, just turrible.
Enter Dr. Thomas Hackett, orthopedics Surgeon extraordinaire over at the Steadman Clinic and swimmer of the English Channel (not relevant, but a cool bit of trivia).
My subpectoral biceps tenodesis (“My shoulder done come dee-tached” for my redneck friends) had to be reattached using a cortical button, which is basically the head of a boltless molly bolt (I promise it made sense when he drew it on a piece of paper, or maybe it was just the drugs kicking in early) constructed of some space-age alloy in the shape of an anorexic kernel of rice and threaded with Kevlar string through bone.
Piece o’ cake.
Rehab started the very next afternoon, and that hurt too, but not nearly as much as I thought it would, except perhaps my ego as I found myself shuffling around like Ozzy Osbourne, mumbling incoherently though my brain knew exactly what I was trying to say. And why would I find myself limping when it was my shoulder that was hurt? That can’t be normal.
Anyway, post-procedure pain meds? Nope, evidently not for me. Tried the all-evil Oxycodone on day one, and not only did it do jack for the pain, but was like downing a half dozen high-octane cups of coffee, and believe me when I say that was no bueno the first night around 3 a.m.
I spent late last week and Halloween weekend in front of the boob tube, yearning for a return to normalcy while watching cheesy horror flicks and ignoring the news in an attempt to prepare for whatever the hell this week was going to bring and how large the hospital bills are going to be.
Only notable revelation I concluded was that “General Hospital” is still a thing on TV, which would have helped me feel a wee bit normal, but only if I were still a teenager in the late 70s.
As for the whole peeling a banana with one hand dilemma, that is solved easily, as long as one has a wonderful wife to take care of it for you (I’m told a girlfriend will suffice as well).
And they, of course, are the real key to ever feeling normal again, regardless of election results.