How to be Bionic in Three Easy Steps

"How are you bionic?"
I get asked this question a lot. As if my flowing locks of hair and the cool noises I make when jumping really high isn't enough of an explanation. (If you're confused by that, go here, but don't tell me because you'll just make me feel old.)

Step 1: Get a tumor. But not just any tumor. It's gotta be a rare kind, one that eats all the cartilage and most of the bone in a major joint, like, say your right shoulder, but only if you're right handed.

Step 2: Find a doctor that is on the cutting edge of orthopedics, one with highly specialized skills that you wouldn't be able to find anywhere else, except at the exact moment you need them.

Step 3: Regain the use of the damaged joint through the implantation of manufactured pieces.

Side effects may include forever setting off metal detectors, feeling the change in barometric pressure before the weatherman reports it, and the tendency to clang like a bell when someone jokingly smacks you in the shoulder. Or other major joint.

Bad Bionics

As most of you know, I recently had a pretty serious surgery to replace my shoulder. Sounds weird, right? I mean, really, who gets their shoulder "replaced" like that? Well, if you're bionic, you kinda expect a systems failure at some point. And boy, did it fail!

I should probably tell you that I was a third less humorous than the average person. I had false humor. It's my dorky way of saying a third of my bone, known as the humerus, was replaced with a metal doppelganger. 'Cuz the original was eaten by a really hungry tumor. This new part was held in socket by re-routing a couple muscles. Unfortunately, these muscles were not properly informed of their new role and didn't do a very good job at it. This implant lasted eight years. And by the end of that time, my shoulder looked like this:

My scar is totally sexy, I know, but please try to stay focused.

See how the silhouette is kinda wiggly? That's because a muscle decided it didn't like it's new position working with the metal implant, detached itself, and spent a couple years living off unemployment checks and playing video games in it's mother's basement. Because there was no longer a muscle to keep it in place, the metal head of the implant slowly worked itself out of socket.

Have you ever had a shoulder dislocated? Hurts, right? Well, imagine having a perpetually dislocated shoulder. Not fun. So I went to a specialist to see about fixing the constant holy-crap-I'm-gonna-swear-because-the-pain-is-so-bad-but-I-can't-because-I-have-small-kids feeling. But this guy said there was nothing they could do. Medical science needed to catch up. It went something like this:

Doc: Come back in five years and we'll see what we can do then.
Me: But how do I cope in the meantime? My arm doesn't work.
Doc: Just use your arm less.
Me: (Looking from the doctor to my then-toddler son, who, at that moment was trying with all his chubby-armed might to pull himself up into a chair) Seriously?

So I waited five years. And took lots of pain killers. But Then the constant agony got to the point where I couldn't function. Enough was enough and it was time to find a doctor who would help me, no matter where I had to go.


Stay tuned for more…you know…whenever I get to it...

Being a Bionic Babe

Okay, so I'm not really a babe...but sometimes I cry like a baby, so that totally counts, right?

Things I've learned since becoming Bionic:

• Magnets do not stick to surgical steel body parts. It would have made the church Talent Show a lot more interesting, though.
• Currently, I have roughly enough metal in my arm to make my own table setting of flatware.
• If your friends have a tendency to smack you playfully in the shoulder and you have a tendency to clang like a bell when smacked, be sure to sit with one side against the wall as a form of protection.
• Getting to know the TSA staff at the airport is not nearly as cool as one might think. And no, they don't accept a note from your doctor.
• Did you ever have an crotchety old relative that used to moan about their knee paining just before a storm moved in? Yeah, that wasn't an exaggeration. I can feel it. And it turns me into a crotchety old relative, too.
• Having a man call you "complex" is not exactly a compliment. Especially when that man is a medical professional at the top of his field. It also sucks when this happens twice in one week - with two separate doctors.
• My cursing gets really creative when I'm hurting but I don't want my kids repeating what I mutter. The current favorite is "scum mudge-gery." I have no idea what it means but I sure feel better after spitting it out.
• When I talk about getting my new implants, the people listening do not immediately think of shoulders, but of items more in the silicone genre, which can cause some interesting looks.

Everybody Hurts

One of the problem with being bionic is that I look like everyone else. And since there doesn't appear to be anything wrong with me, I am treated just like everyone else. I get hugged (I am very huggable; can't help it). I get smacked in jest when I make snarky comments (which is a lot). I get tapped on the shoulder to get my attention. I get hurt. Because there is something wrong with me, even if you can't see it.


I attempted to alter this by wearing a sling when around a lot of people who don't really know me. You'd be surprised by how many people will touch an arm when it's in a sling. But not nearly as surprised as they were when I'd punch them for grabbing me.

I am due to have an upgrade on my shoulder. What I've got now is metal. And out of socket. And loose. So…it hurts. A lot. Seriously. I have chronic pain that goes up and down the scale depending on how I slept, the weather, and how funky I got in Zumba that morning. But it's always there. Always.

Since I am in pain, the logical thing to do would be to take a pill, fill an ice bag, and then collapse on a comfortable surface. However, the heavy-duty meds put me under or make me see light trails. That's not exactly an ideal situation when I've still got Baby running around, looking for different things to mark on with her crayons. Instead, I take an over-the-counter pill that takes the pain levels down a notch or two but still allows me to stay conscious (and aware of where Baby is trying to leave her mark). Ice bags are nice, but they don't always stay in place. When you're minding your own business, enjoying the cold numbness, only to have the ice bag slip down behind you to the exposed skin of your lower back…not so nice. Also? Whenever I am not actively moving, my dog is actively trying to get on my lap. And if I'm laying down, she's perfectly content to perch on me (sometimes on my head).

Each day, I take my safe meds and attempt to contain Baby, while letting the dog sit on me. And I make it through. It's not a perfect situation but I've survived this long.

Except now.

Now, the doctor said I have to stop my pills. For an entire week.

So if I'm a little grumpy next time we meet, please forgive me.

And maybe give me some chocolate.



* Images from Google Images.

My Jagged Little Pills

I'm not good with prescription medication. Seems like I never have the expected results or side-effects. When I had a transplant, the doctor gave me an anti-rejection pill that would let my body accept the new addition. There weren't supposed to be any side-effects to speak of. So of course I developed boils. I still get them. And it pretty much sucks as bad as you think it would.

On this blog, I've frequently discussed my experiences with happy pills and how they don't always work like they should. My doctor was rather boggled by recent reactions, insisting that she'd never seen anything like this before. Well, my mother always told me I was special.

And painkillers are rarely as annihilating as their name would suggest, although I do see some pretty freaky light trails...while still writhing in pain. Unfortunately, while I was admiring the whitish beams my fingers were making, Boo picked that moment to come and talk to me. Just like her mother, Boo talks with her hands. Finally, I had to ask her to stop moving her hands so much because the light trails were getting too blurry. As any non-medicated person would be, she was perplexed. I attempted to show the difference by having her watch the light emitted from her little fingertips, then try to find the same reaction in the oscillating fan on the other side of the room.

Me: See? No light trails.
Boo: Uh, Mom? Are you feeling okay?
Me: I think it's because the fan isn't alive.
Boo: …
Me: Would you go catch me a spider? I want to see if it has a light trail.

Boo left the room but she didn't go hunt down a spider. I muttered at her lack of faith.
Instead, she brought me her hamster, Peanut.

(And yes, he had light trails.)




* Make sure you come back to see me on Monday. I'm interviewing a fabulous YA author and offering her books in a giveaway!

Friday Confessional: No Surprises Here

I confess…

I hate doing laundry.
Yeah, well, join the club!
I would love to join the club and get matching jackets (that would never requiring cleaning) and swap names for our piles of clothes (my current favorite is Mount Washmore) and empathize over the stray crayon that somehow made it into the dryer with the girls' nice dresses.

I confess…

It wasn't just the act of doing the laundry but the hopeless, never-ending onslaught of clothes. The laundry is never "done." It's just not possible, especially since I've been potty training Baby this week (don't ask - it ain't pretty). So I avoided laundry like I avoid green beans.

I confess…

I felt like a failure because, for me, it hurts to do the laundry. Well, if you're bionic, it hurts. To understand better, next time you put in a load, switch it to the dryer, etc., try not using your right arm. You can't even use it to balance the load. So go about the laundry with one arm and see how much harder it becomes. And you can all thank me later for the greater appreciation you will have for the use of both arms to move wet clothes.

I confess…

I don't do the laundry anymore and that has made all the difference.

I confess…

The Man is the one hauling loads and sorting socks. My husband is the best, sexiest, sweetest, strongest, did I mention sexiest?, and most wonderful man. He was in awe of the fact that we produce loads of whites, darks, lights, and pinks.

I confess…

Seeing him add the fabric softener sheets to yet another load of clothes makes me fall in love with him all over again.