Beethoven by Thanksgiving

After seventy-one years of using my right arm, it was hard to suddenly be impaired. The doctor called it a torn rotator cuff, this ripping of a tendon from my arm bone. All I knew was that I felt a lot of pain which I tried to limit by not using my arm. That would be my dominant arm, the one bearing the brunt of every pound I lift, the one I depend on to write a note, drive a car, and lift a hot casserole from the oven. 

            So, I had the surgery, the surgeon sewing that tendon back in place. (Who knew you could use needle and thread on a bone?) I’m thankful for the nerve block that lasted the first one and a half days because even with it, the pain was fierce. The ice machine helped, though not significantly. The oxycodone they gave me helped as well, though I limited myself to half a pill twice a day and stopped it altogether after three days. No way was I getting hooked on that.

            I lived in my recliner the first two weeks, eating, sleeping, reading, hurting. I got up to use the bathroom and take an occasional shower, but those movements were brief. I learned to wipe with my left hand, let my husband soap and rinse my hair, and wrote with my left hand (legible, though not pretty). My arm was in a sling 24/7, except for the few minutes I ventured into the shower and the three times per day that I did the recommended exercises: swinging my arm like a pendulum, lifting it up and down. Painful, so very painful.

            After a couple weeks, I transitioned to the bed at night, supported by a wedge cushion and extra pillows under the damaged arm. It was rough, sleeping flat on my back without the ability to roll to one side or the other. But I survived, doing little every day but reading and dozing.

            An inkling of freedom came after six weeks when I was allowed to ditch the sling and proceed to physical therapy. And wow, did that ever help! Sure, it hurt to extend my arm more in different directions, but the therapist’s massaging of my shoulder and arm helped tremendously. After my first session, I even dared to drive the car. 

            I resumed my walking routine, enjoying it more than ever before. I don’t know why it’s taken me until age 71 to realize that Fall is my favorite time of year. The beautiful colors have buoyed my spirits each day, reminding me to thank God for His wonderful gifts: trees, rocks, leaves floating through the air, the roaming deer, mountains peeking through clouds, the ability to walk outside and see it all.

            My therapist measured my range of motion, comparing my uninjured arm to the one requiring surgery. She talked with me about how I typically used my arm and quickly gathered that playing the piano was important to me. She asked my favorite kind of music to play. Classical, of course. Beethoven, whose powerful music allows me to pound away my stress. Though I suggested it would be a while before my arm was strong enough to play Sonate Pathetique with the intensity it required.

            As soon as I got rid of the sling, I was at the piano, stretching my arm to reach high notes. And did it hurt my shoulder? You bet. But I was determined to reach those ending notes of Clair de lune, so I kept at it. Doable, as I played with a light touch, but still painful.

            Have I tried Beethoven yet? No. But I chuckled when I learned that my therapist wrote in my chart that the goal was “Beethoven by Thanksgiving.”

            That’s worth working for.