et la seine? elle est toujours belle, elle. malgré moi, elle l'est.
Ce Temps -- Majuscule.
Unfortunately, my left shoulder prosthesis is not back with me. Heart/San Francisco. Shoulder/Tête de Hergé. You can't always get what you want...
Surgery on Monday went well, in the sense that the orthopedic surgeon got me through it in great shape and did what he had to do, with panache and one arm tied behind his back.
He's very talented, and somehow "more" than a specialized surgeon -- meaning no disrespect to any other surgeons out there. Most of the orthopedic surgeons I have met are intensely disinterested in the "medical" side of my care, to the extent of neglecting it. Not so with ShoulderMan. He is on top of things and looks a bit askance when I bring up medical concerns. Still, given that *he* is the anomaly, the practice of doublechecking will not fade away any time soon.
Je reviens... Monday, late afternoon, in the hush of the surgical theatre: The prosthesis looked pretty good to him, as did the surrounding area -- not great but not nearly bad enough to explain such pain and dysfunction. He was about to wash it out and close me up when he decided to further check out the sturdiness of the prosthesis. It came loose too easily, so he proceeded to "ream" the shaft of the humerus -- as any talented ShoulderMan would do.
I am incredibly grateful to Dr. ShoulderMan, his PA, and his SuperDyke nurse. This does NOT go without saying. So be sure to say it.
The hospital staff? Not so great -- but as the PA said, the solution to that is quite simple: "stay out of the hospital." Wiser words were never said.
When did I begin to hate myself?
A great big thank you to Dr. ShoulderMan and staff, the ID people, and All the Intrepid Nurses.
And Fred never laughs at my bedhead.
Which makes feeling suicidal a despicably selfish and amoral impetus.