Under the Knife, Part 1

I remember the mask closing down over my face.  I asked, "How much longer?"  I needed to know when I would go unconscious.  I wanted to be present during those last few moments.  I wanted to remember to pray to God during those last few seconds.  Please let me wake up from this. Please let everything be all right.

before the Slush Cup with my friend Cheryl,
who encouraged me to enter

I had traveled to Portland, Oregon, by myself to get reconstructive surgery on my shoulder.  A month ago, I had been injured in a skiing accident. Snow skiing, you ask?  Water skiing?  No, well, both.  I had entered a Slush Cup competition at my local ski hill.  On the last day of the ski season, I was going to celebrate the end with a triumphant ski across a pond of freezing water on snow skis.  In a dress and a wig.  With pearls and a fancy hat (they say the peals really made the ensemble).

Last year, too many skiers had made it across the pond on their modern fat skis.  So this year, the staff at Eaglecrest Ski Area put a three foot jump in front of the pond.  I didn't know how to play it.  And how does one practices for such an event?  So I got maximum speed, thinking I needed all I could get to make it across the pond.   But my speed was too much, and my gravity shifted back in the air, my hands cartwheeling to bring my body forward.  I didn't exactly "stick" the landing, and heard (like you hear something downstairs by the vibrations in the walls) a ripping sound in my shoulder.  My hand had caught the top of the pond and the tensile strength of the water made my hand stationary while my chest and the rest of my body sailed forward.

my Slush Cup run in slow motion

Clearly something was wrong.  I had no strength in my left shoulder.  I couldn't lift myself out of the pool and the lifeguards had to hoist me from my underarms to pull me out.  The ski area manager asked if I wanted a ride down to the First Aid station on his snowmachine and I whispered, "Please."  Down in First Aid ,the pain came in waves.  A cold compress on my shoulder combined with my recent plunge in 32 degree water gave me hypothermia.  I couldn't get warm.  And as the pain crescendoed, I felt like I was going to vomit and pass out.  With some warm blankets and time, the cold went away and the pain came under control.  It was clear I needed to go to the emergency room, though.  I might have a broken or dislocated shoulder.

The xrays came back negative so I made an appointment to see a local orthopedic doctor. He checked me out and scheduled me for an MRI to see what was wrong.  I got a sling for my shoulder, came back for an MRI the next day, and then spent the weekend in Seattle at a research conference.  Over the next few days, the pain subsided even more and I got some of my upper arm strength back.  I was feeling good, and increasingly sure that I had torn my rotator cuff slightly and that it would heal without needing surgery.

my shoulder in an MRI image

I was scheduled to go back to the doctor on Tuesday and review my MRI results.  On Monday, I was driving with the kids to Costco when the phone rang.  It was the doctor.  He had bad news for me.  I had torn my pectoral muscle and I needed to have surgery.  He could get me in on Wednesday if I wanted to get it done soon.

I was crushed.  Surgery.  Just when I was feeling strong I was knocked back down. Surgery meant a long recovery, with rehab, physical therapy, and a restrictions from physical activity.  It was Spring, though.  And I had plans.  Hiking, biking, swimming, maybe even an odd ride in the kayak.  I like to stay active, especially in the summer.  Plus I wouldn't be much use around the house, creating more stressors on the home front.

Demoralized, I got home and figured I might as well do a little research.  It seemed there were different types of pectoral tears and maybe I could get a second opinion.  I was supposed to go to Nova Scotia in a week  - maybe I could see a specialist there and find a non-surgical alternative.  But the next day came and I went in to the doctor to review the MRI results.  He showed me where my pectoral tendon had detached from my humerus.  Tendon is slow to heal, he said, and if I wanted to return to normal function, I needed surgery.

I was slowly starting to resign myself to the necessity of surgical reconstruction.  When I posted my diagnosis on Facebook, my college friend Zeke (now a successful spine orthopedist) told me I needed surgery.  I asked him for a recommendation of a good surgeon.  He came back with a person in Seattle, who unfortunately wasn't on the insurance company's preferred provider list.  But I had found another doc on list of doctors who had done the procedure and come well recommended (www.pectear.com).  Turns out Zeke knew the fellow and said he was great.  Thankfully, after a few phone calls, I was able to get an appointment with Dr. Mirarchi at Oregon Health and Sciences University on May 14 in Portland.

To be continued.