Tuesday, April 3, 2007


After the first shoulder incident, I went through physical therapy and got better. Much better, in fact.

Once I started lifting weights and exercising, my left arm was stronger than before. By my senior year in high school, I was 175 pounds of super-fast muscle on a six foot frame.

The summer after I graduated (and mere weeks before I was to attend my first college) I went to the beach with my family and ex-girlfriend.

Up until the end, it was a good week. I had fun with the family, ate some amazing food, fooled around with the (ex) girlfriend; all was right with the world.

On the second to last day, though, something horrible happened. I dove into a wave, like I did hundreds of times since the first shoulder incident.

This time, however, when I hit the wave, my shoulder dislocated.

I popped up from the water screaming, like something out of a fucking horror movie.

With the (ex) girlfriend and the rest of the family taking in the rays, I had to stumble up the beach and exclaim, "We need to go to a hospital, right now."

The only problem was that the nearest hospital was about half an hour to forty-five minutes away. The only thing close was a "Prime Care" type facility.

In the Prime Care (generic title), I was given a shot of Demerol in one leg and a shot of Valium in the other.

I laid on a gurney, on my stomach. My dislocated arm, pointed towards the floor, held a three gallon jug of saline solution. The drugs were supposed to make this make this process bearable; it didn't work.

About five minutes into the ordeal, my (ex) girlfriend had to be removed from the room because I was in so much pain that she was crying. Ten minutes into the ordeal, my parents finally left because they couldn't stand seeing me in such a state.

Over half an hour later, it was apparent that the drugs hadn't even remotely kicked in. Nor had the jug of saline come close to putting my arm into place.

Finally, the lady in charge got on the floor, grabbed me in an armbar, put her foot on the bottom of the gurney, and pulled my shoulder into place.

Instead of unbelievable pain, this action brought instant relief. I immediately went from the mindset of "Please, somebody, kill me" to a veritable orgasm of non-pain.

After having my shoulder swaddled in a sling that strapped the arm to the body, I went back to the condo.

My father had planned on being a stand-up guy and offering me (being underaged) an open season on his liquor supply. The doctor strongly advised him against this, considering the drugs I had been given.

Her words were, approximately, "Unfortunately, the drugs didn't work as fast as I wanted them to. But they will work."

And work they did...

Once I got back to the condo, I sat down in a swivel chair and watched TV. I couldn't tell how loopy I was getting until I decided I wanted to go outside and smoke a cigarette.

After asking my (ex) girlfriend to get my smokes, I walked towards the balcony.

I walked directly into the glass door and fell right on my ass.

Everyone laughed raucously after they helped me up. I laughed harder than anyone (being, for all intents and purposes, stoned off my ass), got up, smoked my cigarette, came inside, and promptly passed out.

The shoulder has never been the same. Even after surgery, it still hurts like all Hell and can't be used normally.

I can't even swim; any full rotation of the left shoulder could potentially throw it out of joint and, given what's happened before, I'd rather not test it.

As Metallica said, "it's sad but true." I live at the beach but can't swim. *Disgusted scoff*

1 comment:

Malodious Glitterbottom said...

Do you remember that time I punched you really hard in your bad shoulder? I thought it was funny at the time, but you got all pissed off. I think that's the only time I've truly made you mad at me. I believe you wanted to crack open my skull & drink my brain fluids.