vituperation

I sat in the vinyl-covered chair and stared at the shoulder injury poster on the back of the door. Dr. F’s examination room is small, with a little desk for him, an exam table covered with butcher paper, a cabinet with all sorts of interesting instruments and vials, and a single chair. Harsh fluorescent lights cast everything in an unnatural light, especially the creepy translucent woman on the shoulder injury poster. I keep a wary eye on her when I’m waiting, because she looks like she might open her eyes at any moment, open them wide and peel back her lips in a snarl as she rips her way out of the paper, her plainly visible muscles and bones popping and straining as she struggles to free herself from the confines–

The door opened and Dr. F walked in, tailed as always by his young female assistant. He shook my hand and we all exchanged pleasantries.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

“Good. It hurts a little still, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

He nodded.

“How’s the range?”

“It’s better than it was,” I said.

He flung one arm straight up like an excited child who knew the answer to the teacher’s question.

“How high can you raise it?”

I demonstrated, and pointed out that it hurt a little at the very top. He nodded again.

“And what about behind you?” He folded his arm behind his back, as if he wanted to scratch an itchy shoulder blade.

I replicated his move. His eyes widened.

“You’re significantly farther along than I thought you’d be,” he said.

I flashed a smile. “So I guess I shouldn’t be complaining that it still hurts a little?”

“Not if you can move it like that without a lot of pain.” He shifted on his rolling stool. “I want to start you on a strengthening program next. Slowly. We’re looking at Halloween or Thanksgiving for strength, not next week.”

“As strong as I used to be by Thanksgiving?”

He leaned forward and fixed me with a serious look. “No, stronger than you are now. You might never be as strong as you were.”

Oh. Well, hell. A two-year-old is stronger than I am now.

“Will I be able to start lifting weights again soon? Riding the elliptical every morning is making me insane.”

“Gradually, but remember the moves you can’t do any more.”

He went over the weightroom no-nos, then pulled out his microcassette recorder and dictated another letter to Dr. Judy detailing my phenomenal progress. When he finished, he called for one of the nurses to bring in a pack of Therabands and some exercise sheets.

“You don’t need to come back unless you have problems,” he said, and stood.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?”

He looked expectantly at me. His young female assistant looked expectantly at me.

“My shoulder hurts a lot first thing in the morning,” I said. “It’s pretty stiff, but if I do a few stretches it loosens up and then it’s not so bad. Do you know if that’ll get better, or if it’s just something I’ll have to live with?”

“It’s going to be like that for a while, at least. It will probably get better with time, and a hot shower will help more than anything–”

I nodded a quick agreement. Showers do help.

“–but you’ll likely have times where it will lock up on you, and it will probably keep stiffening up somewhat while you sleep.”

I sighed.

“Oh, well,” I said. “It won’t be the only part of me that gets stiff overnight.”

We stood in silence for a bit, the three of us, until what I’d said penetrated the thick layer of my skull.

“My knee!” I screeched. “My knee stiffens up every night.”

Is it any wonder I don’t go out in public much?