A Humerus Setback
There’s an indelible moment of my childhood that I can’t shake. It’s of the Abominable Snowman reaching up to put the star on the Christmas tree at the end of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I don’t know why that scene has stuck in my head all these years, though I think it’s because I hate doing chores, or that I’ve been asked to do the same for the past thirty Christmases. That streak might come to an end.
I have a running injury. Not your normal, below the waist running injury. No, mine is in the shoulder, and I can’t raise my arm over my head. I’ve considered embellishing on how it happened. Running from a burning building with puppies in hand. Falling from a tree while saving a cat. MMA fighting. But the truth is that I was trail running and tripped over a rock—not even an impressive rock—just one that looked like a knuckle sandwich. It packed a punch so hard that it fractured the head of my humerus bone. That’s the fat part that fits into your shoulder socket; the club that the apes used in 2001: A Space Odyssey to beat each other senseless.
After six weeks on the couch, I’m sure my wife would like to take said bone and do the same to me. The humerus bone can be quite funny in the right context. The problem is that it’s still attached. I’m not dead yet, but I see her scheming often.
When we met thirty years ago, she told me she didn’t do sick. I assume that also includes injuries. And here she is taking care of me again on the heels of a COVID19 infection I had earlier this year. Then, she’d quarantined me in our family room for seven days, where I’d moan in private. She’d knock on the door. I’d open it to find a plate of food set on the floor, with her nowhere in sight. But with this injury I’m invited to the dinner table where I’m able to moan in her presence. Sometimes, she grabs a butter knife a little too fast, prepping.
In many ways, this injury is far worse than my COVID infection. Then, I was mobile and functional. I had two capable arms. Now I’ve only got one, and sadly it’s the non-dominant appendage. I never realized just how useless this appendage is until now. I’ve had a lifetime to train it…and nothing. I’ve failed. It’s like that younger sibling, a new employee, or a vice president. It looks nice in compliment, hanging around quietly, a perfect match, actually. But when asked to do something, it fails every time, embarrassingly so.
One day soon, I hope to brush my teeth again without ramming the toothbrush into my gum wall. I’ll be able to pull a shirt over my head and open a jar of mayonnaise. I’ll be able to wipe write.
It will happen. I’m certain. The recovery is coming along. The first week, I couldn’t move at all. I lived in a recliner and wailed like a ghost. But I saw some improvement in the second week. My dogs took me out for walks. I barely barked at all. And now I go for walks unleashed.
There’s a beautiful, placid lake not too far from my house. This time of year, it’s framed by yellow and orange-leafed Cottonwoods. I tell my wife I’m going out for some exercise, but mostly I just amble from one bench to another, sit for a long while—a scene right out of On Golden Pond—and consider the placards on the benches where I sit. Marty: loved nature. Sarah: bird watcher. Lives reduced to a few choice words, dedicated to dead people who loved this view as well. I wonder, how can I get my name on this bench? Jeff: funny bone.
I also consider a comeback…or not.
I’ve gone from racing marathons and Ironman to walking my fingers up a wall in physical therapy, thrilled by my progress. On big PT days, I even carbo load. It’s a habit.
Of course, a comeback would also include resuming chores around the house; things that my wife is managing right now. Mowing the lawn, doing the dishes. Folding my own laundry. Soon, shoveling snow. I can’t wait to moan about those things. For now, my moans have been repurposed.
Ultimately, a successful comeback will include adorning the top of our Christmas tree with a star this year. That indelible childhood moment. Somehow, I was seeing the future all along. Just wish I’d seen that rock.
I have a running injury. Not your normal, below the waist running injury. No, mine is in the shoulder, and I can’t raise my arm over my head. I’ve considered embellishing on how it happened. Running from a burning building with puppies in hand. Falling from a tree while saving a cat. MMA fighting. But the truth is that I was trail running and tripped over a rock—not even an impressive rock—just one that looked like a knuckle sandwich. It packed a punch so hard that it fractured the head of my humerus bone. That’s the fat part that fits into your shoulder socket; the club that the apes used in 2001: A Space Odyssey to beat each other senseless.
After six weeks on the couch, I’m sure my wife would like to take said bone and do the same to me. The humerus bone can be quite funny in the right context. The problem is that it’s still attached. I’m not dead yet, but I see her scheming often.
When we met thirty years ago, she told me she didn’t do sick. I assume that also includes injuries. And here she is taking care of me again on the heels of a COVID19 infection I had earlier this year. Then, she’d quarantined me in our family room for seven days, where I’d moan in private. She’d knock on the door. I’d open it to find a plate of food set on the floor, with her nowhere in sight. But with this injury I’m invited to the dinner table where I’m able to moan in her presence. Sometimes, she grabs a butter knife a little too fast, prepping.
In many ways, this injury is far worse than my COVID infection. Then, I was mobile and functional. I had two capable arms. Now I’ve only got one, and sadly it’s the non-dominant appendage. I never realized just how useless this appendage is until now. I’ve had a lifetime to train it…and nothing. I’ve failed. It’s like that younger sibling, a new employee, or a vice president. It looks nice in compliment, hanging around quietly, a perfect match, actually. But when asked to do something, it fails every time, embarrassingly so.
One day soon, I hope to brush my teeth again without ramming the toothbrush into my gum wall. I’ll be able to pull a shirt over my head and open a jar of mayonnaise. I’ll be able to wipe write.
It will happen. I’m certain. The recovery is coming along. The first week, I couldn’t move at all. I lived in a recliner and wailed like a ghost. But I saw some improvement in the second week. My dogs took me out for walks. I barely barked at all. And now I go for walks unleashed.
There’s a beautiful, placid lake not too far from my house. This time of year, it’s framed by yellow and orange-leafed Cottonwoods. I tell my wife I’m going out for some exercise, but mostly I just amble from one bench to another, sit for a long while—a scene right out of On Golden Pond—and consider the placards on the benches where I sit. Marty: loved nature. Sarah: bird watcher. Lives reduced to a few choice words, dedicated to dead people who loved this view as well. I wonder, how can I get my name on this bench? Jeff: funny bone.
I also consider a comeback…or not.
I’ve gone from racing marathons and Ironman to walking my fingers up a wall in physical therapy, thrilled by my progress. On big PT days, I even carbo load. It’s a habit.
Of course, a comeback would also include resuming chores around the house; things that my wife is managing right now. Mowing the lawn, doing the dishes. Folding my own laundry. Soon, shoveling snow. I can’t wait to moan about those things. For now, my moans have been repurposed.
Ultimately, a successful comeback will include adorning the top of our Christmas tree with a star this year. That indelible childhood moment. Somehow, I was seeing the future all along. Just wish I’d seen that rock.
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