I have reached the part of middle age when I’m 43 going on 90. Every night I lie in bed, head resting on my orthopedic neck pillow, and remain corpselike until what my husband terms “my unwinding phase” is over. Then, around 3 a.m., I wake up moaning in pain because I’ve had the audacity to sleep on my right side. “Roll over,” my husband will say, still half asleep. “You’re on your bad shoulder.”
I never asked to have a bad shoulder, but middle age thrust it upon me like an unwanted tax bill. It came suddenly at the beginning of 2022, from a combination of 1) hauling firewood when the furnace broke, 2) carrying my poodle when he threw out his back, and 3) an uncomfortable mammogram where my tendons stretched too far. Now I’m stuck going to physical therapy once a week and embracing my new love, the foam roller.
When I look back at pictures of me in my 20s and 30s, I’m amazed to see myself hauling toddlers in uncomfortable positions as if I was an Olympic powerlifter. There’s me with a wiggly baby strapped to my back, climbing up the path to Mount Rainier. Who was that woman and did she not understand the need to protect her spinal mobility? Now I’m the person who stops at a red light, sits up straight and hears her back crack.
The worst part of my shoulder injury was that it caused my Complex Regional Pain Syndrome to flare up. My right shoulder was the initial problem but the CRPS in my left wrist came out of remission so that it could join the angry-nerve party. (I wrote about CRPS in a 2017 article called “Therapy helped ease debilitation pain after injury.”) The CRPS got so bad that I couldn’t wear my smartwatch which I had bought to keep me grounded after last year’s bout with amnesia. Long sleeves hurt and I bundled up in a shawl to stay warm. I’m not kidding about becoming ninety years old.
There were parts of this past January and February where I felt really low, mired down by chronic pain that, while not excruciating, was ever-present. I put all my focus towards hope and movement. Telling myself again and again: “This is only temporary. I will get through this if I keep moving,” was important. I followed my physical therapist’s instructions. I went for walks with friends. I bought an orthopedic pillow. I trained myself to do 100 micro-corrections a day whenever I found my posture exacerbating the injuries.
Now it’s the end of March and I’m happy to report that I’m in long sleeves, wearing my watch, and able to go long stretches of the day pain-free. Yay for progress! I’m not ready to strap a toddler onto my back any time soon, but I’m back to exercising with light weights.
I’m keeping the shawl, though. I might not be a 90-year-old granny yet, but it goes with my artsy-writer aesthetic.
Jennifer Bardsley publishes books under her own name and the pseudonym Louise Cypress. Find her online on Instagram @jenniferbardsleyauthor, on Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as Jennifer Bardsley Author. Email her at teachingmybabytoread@gmail.com.
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