The orange-hued early morning sunlight miraculously travels down the side of my house and illuminates the base of a mighty maple tree.
I woke up this morning with pain that I I am slowly becoming accustomed to. My shoulders are wearing out…literally. Nine weeks ago, I partially dislocated my left shoulder, or so I thought. It has been slow to heal, too slow. I have struggled through my life, causing the chronic pain in my other shoulder to increase. I had an MRI last week. I have significant tendon tears in both shoulders, among a host of other issues. In one tear, only strands of tendon remain.
The arc of my life is under revision. How I move, where I move, how much life I decide to chase…all my work helping others is being re-imagined. An orthopedic surgeon tells me that, although I rolled awkwardly on my left shoulder, the damage in both is not unexpected for a paraplegic of nearly thirty-five years. The toll of the repetitive weight-bearing – thousands of transfers, pushing up countless slopes, lifting my wheelchair in and out of my car, lifting myself on and off the floor to practice and teach yoga, and on and on. The toll of a broken neck in two places, of a fused upper thoracic spine, of two broken wrists that never healed properly, of traumatically acquired scoliosis, of pelvic obliquity, and on and on.
The surgeon thankfully tells me that surgery is not done to improve an MRI. In my case, it is a last option because it means no transfers for at least 6 months and 12-15 months for only the “hope” of a full recovery…and that’s just one shoulder. Our agreed upon plan: no surgery until I cannot handle the pain or I lose too much function.
I wake up this morning and I hurt. My mind is stuck from fear of the future, from uncertainty about how to proceed. But a friend is coming later to help guide my shoulders into more fluid movements. My mom buys me a new, more comfortable bed to improve my sleep. Another friend finds me a great acupuncturist. People help me take my wheelchair in and out of my car. And my son has been picking up his own socks.
I hear a wonderful piece of wisdom “God meets you at action.” I feel the help I am receiving and allow for the fact that I need more. I think about what it means to treat the subject kindly. I look at the miraculous early morning sunlight touching a solitary tree and I feel hopeful.
