Those of you who have been reading my stuff for awhile now, should be totally down with my whole right arm situation. You should also be totally effed up in the head, cuz if you’ve been reading my blabberings since way back then, consider yourself lucky if you have even 20% of the brain cells that you had before you found me.
Just for funzies, let’s try a little something real quick:
Q: Patti has a troupe of finger monkeys that perform Broadway musicals for her pleasure. Three of the finger monkeys sing lead roles. Seven of the finger monkeys are lighting technicians. Twenty-three of the finger monkeys are in the chorus. Nine of the finger monkeys play instruments. One of the finger monkeys does nothing because he is a dick. How many legs do all of Patti’s finger monkeys have?
A: None. That is the only reason she could afford them. They were all on a bus to Anchorage to perform a revival of Hair! when, due to a surprise blizzard and a drunk bus driver, they went off a bridge and landed on a boat full of sharp metal that was on it’s way to the Sharp Metal Recycling Plant up in Wasilla, and they were all leg-capitated. Everyone knows that legless finger monkeys are usually on clearance.
If you got the answer right, you’ve been here awhile.
If you actually did the math, then you are new. Anyone who’s been here awhile knows Patti don’t do no maths, and also, Patti don’t have no “normal” answers.
Once you start answering things like me, you’re at a maximum of 20% brain cellage. The saving grace is that it’s 20% of awesome instead of 20% of nerd.
Anyways, back to my arm.
In September of 2011 I had surgery on my right shoulder due to the fact that I had totally, somehow, effed it up and ended up with a tear in my rotator cuff. As is usually the case for me, I have no idea how it happened. One day it was fine, and my Girl Scout Fight Club and Handies for Hobos organizations were going off without a hitch. My arm was easily whooping 8-year-old girl butt, and pleasuring the train traveling homeless population, without issue. Then one day, outta nowhere, I lifted my arm and almost died from the pain. At first I thought that perhaps I was being sporked by one of my house ghosts. A few of those mofos can get a little bitchy sometimes. Probably due to being walked through all the time and from having to watch me drink beer and have sexy time and morning constitutionals and all the other awesome things that dead people can’t do. It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out that all that jealousy combined with the fact that the dead love irony, could cause me to receive a ghostly sporking in my #1 favorite appendage.
So I had the freakishly painful surgery, but my arm never did get better. The motions that were originally causing it to hurt like balls, aren’t hurting so much anymore, but pretty much every other motion is. Plus, it now hurts all the way from the shoulder to the elbow when I am doing absolutely nothing but sitting around being a lazy ass. Which is a lot. Every time I go to the Doctor he’s like, “Hmmm….that doesn’t make any sense” and I explain that nothing in this world makes sense. I mean, look at the success of entire Kardashian family, those Honey Boo Boo people, and Anne Coulter. Look at the prevalence of Crocs, fanny packs, and Ed Hardy shirts. Not everything in this world makes sense.
So Mr. Doctor had this idea to put me under anesthesia and go all psycho crazy on my arm and yank it every which way but loose, in the hopes that it loosens up some scar tissue or frozenosity that may have possibly set in. That sounded like a terrible idea for two reasons:
1) I’m about 117% sure that he’s tired of me and afraid that I will ruin his career with my blogging and will see to it that I’m “accidentally” given too much anesthesia so I never wake up.
2) He never did a post-surgical MRI or x-ray on me to be sure what the what is going on in there. For all I know his Rolex could be ticking away in my arm at this very moment. Or maybe a loose fingernail fell in there. Or perhaps a piece of his morning donut was stuck on his face and chose the perfect moment to drop into my arm hole. I’m just a tad bit hesitant to let them go all bat shit cray cray on my arm unless I have more information first.
So basically, I’ve done what I always do now when any of my doctors say they want to do anything anywhere near surgical to me. I ignore it and do nothing.
But the pain is getting bad. Some days it’s so bad that I forget about my carpal tunnel and my back pain or my fallopian tube and uterine pain, all of which my doctors are bitching at me to take care of. But I’ve been ignoring it anyways.
Then, The Hub and I went to see the new James Bond movie. At the beginning of the movie, Bond was fighting some dude on top of a train. At one point the dude pushed him off, and the only reason Bond didn’t totally fall to his death was because he hung onto the train with one arm. I told The Hub that I was now worried that if I get into a scuffle with a villain on a train, or any other scary, high, place, and my Karate Kid Crane Kicks fail me, I might get pushed off and not be able to hang on. I mean, I can barely lift that arm over my head at all, let alone hold my full body weight onto a moving train with it. And my left arm is totally useless to me. Seriously. It’s useless. The other day I tried to wave at someone with my left hand and ended up hitting myself in the face. After my last shoulder surgery, when my righty was in that Robocop sling, I stabbed myself in the eye with my toothbrush while trying to brush my teeth with my left hand. Twice. In one brushing.
The only way I can even get to sleep nowadays is if I smoke a crapload of crack, or lay face down on my bed and dangle my right arm off the side. For some reason the dangling makes the pain go away. But, when I dangle it, I open myself up to the very real and not at all imaginary possibility that one of those Poltergeist bed clowns is gonna drag me under and kill me, or that a spider is gonna jump onto my fingertips and climb all the way up my arm to lay it’s bazillion baby eggs in my ear or behind my eyeball. I’ll probably start wearing goggles and ear muffs, and pray for the sweet sweet murderyness of the clown.
Basically, James Bond made me realize that I need to get myself fixed up. Some people might say “What are the chances that you’re gonna get in a fight on top of a train, or need to dangle yourself under an elevator while it goes to the top floor of a building so that you can kill some hit man?” and I admit that the chances are slim, you guys. I realize that. But if you ask me what are the chances that I’m gonna need a strong right arm to take care of a bunch of leg-capitated finger monkeys, or possibly beat the crap out of a few moms in the middle school carpool line, the answer to those is about 100%
And just in case you ARE new here, I came across this photo of Man Nurse Jeffery Jefferson. He was my post-shoulder-surgery home nurse. He supplied cold water through a tube to a cuff on my arm to keep the swelling down. I’ve missed him so. I suppose if I let Mr. Doctor try to rip off my arm while I’m in a drug-induced coma, I might get to use Man Nurse Jeffery Jefferson again. I guess that’s a plus.