Middle-Age Shoulder Babies and Kitchen Fires

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Although I am pretty certain that I am not pregnant, I was dispatched recently to have an ultrasound done … on my gimpy shoulder.

And since ultrasounds are always used to scan babies, a smart-alecky friend in the States diagnosed me with a ‘shoulder baby’.

The good news is that my ‘shoulder baby’ is not terminal.

The bad news is that it’s killing me.

Ow.

As it turns out, this shoulder baby is actually a partially torn ligament and a labrum that is, technically speaking, pretty much stuffed.

This explains why I cannot a) drink coffee without spilling it on the keyboard; b) reach for anything higher than eye-level without having a white-hot 10-penny nail hammered directly into my shoulder socket; c) get out of bed in the morning unless I sort of slide out like a snake.

In addition to finding the shoulder baby, the ultrasound lady also found a big fat elbow baby (calcium deposit) that probably dates back decades to Norman High football. Seems the coaches were not exactly right when they said your elbow was harder than a helmet.

With the “twins” now inhabiting my shoulder and elbow, of the good arm, at least I have stopped craving TexMex.

I now long for Advil, because they do not sell it New Zealand.

They do sell Voltaren, which is the greatest anti-inflammatory in the universe, except that new research apparently shows that it leads to massive exploding liver babies. So there’s that.

Killer Shoulder Baby

It wasn’t actually the shoulder baby that almost killed me.

It was the wheat bag that has been basically attached to my shoulder for the last two weeks.

Turns out that if you get tired of the wheat bag getting cold after only a few minutes, and you crank up the microwave to HIGH for five minutes, said wheat bag sort of spontaneously combusts.

It also makes the kitchen smell as if someone burned 10,000 bags of popcorn and tried to extinguish the fire with buckets of burnt popcorn and napalm.

Thankfully, you can slice up a lemon, put it into a dish, cover them water, and then nuke them until the water is boiling, so that your microwave smells like lemon-flavored burnt popcorn.

Which makes the Missus walk up and punch you right in the shoulder baby, and hit your elbow baby with the cast iron frying pan.

Well, at least she had that look in her eye.

So we now await word from the physiotherapist or doctor or joint specialist or the president of Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn on what treatment program we should follow.

I’m not a medical professional, but at this point I would hope it includes beer, Advil burritos, and a jacuzzi.

And because the shoulder and elbow babies make typing an absolute pleasure, we will now sign off and go heat up the new and improved wheat bags that are guaranteed to smell of lavender until they explode into flames.

As they say, I definitely would have taken better care of my body if I’d known I would live this long.

Ow.

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Update: We had a steroid jab in the shoulder baby. We’re totally healed and now look exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or not. Ow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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