Hello there, old friend. I never tire of this view. Simple. Beautiful. Home.
Let's not discuss whether or not this picture was snapped from a moving vehicle while crossing the Poplar Street Bridge. We all know that construction plus rush hour means nobody was really moving anywhere very quickly anyway.
And it's not like my T-Rex arm was doing me much good on the steering wheel. It might as well be put to good use elsewhere, right?
I thought so.
There's another view that is becoming all too familiar to me. This one, however, does grow old.
Hello there, neurologists of Wash U. Nice to see you again. Please, feel free to poke me with needles, prod my arm and shoulder, manipulate my body to move in ways that it doesn't want to, and zap me with electricity. It's always a pleasure to spend an entire day with you.
If you missed the original post and want to read how this dino-riffic journey began with a nerve sheath tumor you can do so here. For those who already know or just want to get on with it, here we go.
After a full day with the super special specialist neurosurgeon and her team, shuffling between offices and doctors and therapists and technicians, it was decided that things with my nerves were looking good. Both the supra scapular and axillary nerves (the two we were concerned about) appear to be connected and slowly re-enervating. If I were having this problem 5 years ago, I am told, they would have said "Hooray! Congratulations! No nerve surgery needed!" However, it being 2017, there is one surgery that might "open up space" in my deltoid for faster healing.
This visit uncovered another problem, though, that will have to be dealt with before we can make any decisions on this new surgery.
Apparently I am now suffering from adhesive capsulitis of the shoulder.
Big words, I learned, for "frozen shoulder."
So off to another specialist it was. And I couldn't just see any specialist. It needed to be an orthopedic specialist who does shoulders and only shoulders. I get to do that in my beloved Lou, too, since the current city doesn't have the right kind of special specialists.
I was re-diagnosed with a frozen shoulder and told that I am going to get two steroid injections followed by 6 weeks of intense physical therapy and stretching, stretching, stretching.
Of course, these special people are hard to get appointments with, so I can't get the injections for another 2 weeks. Instead of dinner and roses for Valentine's Day, I get to have a needle stuck deep into my shoulder socket. Twice.💝 Then back to the Sunflower State for therapy and back to the Lou again to see if I can move enough to talk about whether the surgery is needed or not.
Back and Forth. Back and Forth. Why has no one invented a teleporter yet?
Recovery can take anywhere from months to years.
In the meantime I'll just keep rocking my side pony...
So lately I've been thinking a lot about the plight of our friend the Tyrannosaurus rex. He seems like such a grumpy guy most of the time, but can you really blame him?
I mean, with arms like that, he isn't exactly the life of the party, and even mundane every-day tasks would be so difficult for him. Let's face it, our arms are pretty useful. And we just sit back and take them for granted, not giving a thought to how frustrating our lives would be if we suffered from the condition of the T-rex.
Well, over the past month and a half, I have made it my goal to study and understand the difficulties of living life with T-rex arms. And I tell you the truth. The Struggle is Real.
I did not embark upon this journey of my own free will, so let me take you back to where it all began.
Around a year ago I noticed a small lump on the left side of my neck. My doctor said it could be any number of things, and I should keep my eye on it. Fast forward to this past spring, when it became clear that it was not going away and might, in fact, be ever so slowly getting larger. Meetings with more doctors led us to the conclusion that it ought to be removed before it got any bigger. Then we would have it checked to see what it actually was.
For reasons that seemed clear to me then, but have since grown fuzzy, I did not tell anyone about any of this. Only a few people even knew that I was going in for some quick "minor surgery" in the middle of the summer. I don't like to worry people with words like "tumor" or "cancer." Especially when it's all speculation. I don't like to ask for help. I can do it myself thankyouverymuch. My mama raised me to be a strong, independent woman, by golly. I don't like to give up control or admit weakness or impose myself upon other people.
So. I went into surgery.
They removed what turned out to be a benign schwannoma.
"Benign" was a good word to hear. I liked that word. That's one I could roll with all day.
"Schwannoma" threw me for a bit of a loop. I'm such a grammar dork that my mind immediately went to that ridiculous "uh" sound that any English vowel can make in an unstressed syllable. You know what I'm talking about: the unglamorous /ə/ -- the schwa. What in the world it was doing in my neck was quite beyond me. As it turns out, a schwannoma has nothing to do with phonics, nor is it related in any way to the Schwan's truck which sometimes drives through my neighborhood (my second guess). It is apparently a nerve sheath tumor.
Go figure.
Immediately after the surgery, I noticed my left arm wasn't quite working right. I couldn't seem to lift it laterally or to the front. My shoulder just didn't work, and my whole arm was weak. I waited long enough to know that I wasn't just still loopy with anesthesia, and then started following up with the doctors.
After I successfully demonstrated to them that I was, in fact, half Tyrannosaurus rex, and reasurring them that I hadn't been so before the surgery, they set me up with some physical therapy and gave the order for more tests. They did all this while muttering words like "strange," "fascinating," and "mystery." Not things that you really like to hear from medical professionals.
This round of tests, I got zapped with all kinds of electricity for an hour to try to find out where my nerves were or were not working. A week and a half later, I got the results. It said simply that what was happening in my shoulder and arm was "consistent with a brachial plexus injury."
Super informative.
Meanwhile, I wait. Wait to find out exactly which nerves were damaged. Wait to find out just how those nerves were damaged (stretched? compressed? torn?) and what, if anything, can be done to fix them.
Meanwhile, I find ways to cope with the things I cannot do. Some more frustrating than others.
Meanwhile, I rock a side pony nearly every day because I can't reach a top knot. Or a regular ponytail. Or a clip. I can't curl my hair or straighten it. And, let's be honest, shampooing has become a bit of an ordeal...so that doesn't happen as often as maybe it should. Don't judge. Side ponies are amazing and there is one for nearly every occasion.
Meanwhile, we laugh about my relation to the T-rex. We laugh because T-rex Mommy has a hard time swimming, so please don't climb on her in the deep end. We laugh because T-rex Mommy can't take the trash bags to the dumpster, so trash duty and kitty litter have to be someone else's job. And Mommy doesn't mind that one so much. We laugh because T-rex Mommy sometimes accidentally smacks herself in the face when she loses control during a PT exercise. We laugh because T-rex Mommy can't reach the handlebars to ride a bike, so is really quite wobbly and may need training wheels.
Meanwhile, I find that I am being stretched. My character. My faith. My muscles. My pain tolerance.
But mostly my character. It's funny how little ugly bits rise to the surface during these periods of difficulty. Nasty little parts of me that get overlooked in the middle of the ordinary.
Like that weed. That little issue of pride. That one that makes me feel like I must be some sort of failure if I ask for help. That ugly flip side to the Strong Independent Woman badge that I carry around in my pocket. It's still there. Down deep the roots are still alive, waiting to take over again. But being a Tyrannosaurus for a while has helped trim it back, at least. It has forced me to admit that I can't do it all...
Because, well, I physically CAN'T.
And I am learning, slowly, that it is okay to accept -- or even ask for -- help.
In the meantime, I'm going to be rocking my side pony.
(or Lessons learned from letting go...just a little bit)
A little while back I came across a blog post which detailed the adventures of a mommy who let her toddler son dress her for a week. I thought it was hilarious and adorable all at the same time, so I challenged my lovely sister-in-law to allow her little man to dress her for a day. She accepted the challenge and sent me a picture of herself looking perfectly beautiful in mismatched clothes and with her hair styled like Elsa (who happens to be my nephew's girlfriend).
She then aimed the challenge back at me.
It was not something I had really planned to do.
You see, my guys are not toddlers anymore. While that might be an advantage in some ways (they aren't going to forget to pick pants for me), they are each very opinionated about fashion. And their styles are quite...unique...at times.
I don't always let them branch out on their own with their clothing choices. I like to have a little influence...er...control...over what they put on. I don't force them into a dozen layers of "coolness," but I do like to make sure they match.
Perhaps they wouldn't even be interested, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, bigger boys have no desire to dress their mommy. Pleeeeaase don't let them want to dress their mommy.
They wanted to dress their mommy.
I could feel the butterflies in my stomach as I knew I had no control over what I had just set into motion.
Mr. W got to go first. This boy is a fan of the graphic tee. If available, he likes pants with patterns, and he always likes his socks to show...even over the top of his high tops. He has also been known to attempt to style his hair with some gel to look more like Superman.
He knew exactly what shirt he wanted me in. I don't have a lot of graphic t-shirts, and he particularly likes the one with circus elephants. He paired it with a floral skirt, tall mismatched socks and my chucks. He insisted that my hair be down and straightened and added a scarf and the watch his daddy gave me for our engagement. He weighed his options before choosing a colorful messenger bag and glasses, not contacts.
This outfit was fun and super comfy. I kind of felt like a quirky high school student as I was out and about. He was really proud of what he selected, and it was nice to see him smile at me when I wore it.
The next day was Mr. L's turn. Little Mr. L has a unique style. He doesn't follow anybody's rules but his own.
He sorted through every piece in my closet, declaring each of them "pretty" or "bleh." I noticed pretty quickly that he gravitated toward color and pattern. When he paired up a huge multi-colored sweater with a bright, busy skirt he was so excited that it made it easy not to cringe at the choices. He wanted my brightest shoes and socks with tiny kitties had to be visible. My hair, he wanted me to just brush and then leave the way it turned out. A fan of accessorizing, he wanted glasses, my "special" watch, and he chose my sparkliest bracelet as well as a bracelet he had created for me with ribbon and fake flowers. I think he would have chosen a necklace or two, too, but I managed to distract him with bags before he settled on one. It should come as no surprise that he chose the messenger bag to compliment this ensemble.
I have to admit, I felt a bit silly wearing all of this at the same time. I was even tempted to specifically NOT leave the house. However, I had promised that I would take them to a pizzeria for dinner. I felt better about myself when I glanced at the table next to us and saw a lady confidently wearing head to toe sequins, faux fur, and animal prints. She clearly felt fabulous. I did, too, when I saw the proud look on Shorty's face.
Last, but certainly not least was Mr. N. He likes to wear items which are his favorite color or which have a favorite animal on them. He would wear the same shirt every day if I let him. He also loves to "look handsome" and to add bling. He doesn't just put on one button, he wears all of the ones he can find, plus his watch, and also a necklace.
At first, he was a bit insecure choosing my clothes, but once he found my orange tunic he was full of ideas. Leggings, leg warmers, and high heeled boots, as well as my big yellow handbag. My hair should be curled and I needed glasses. He put a watch and a bangle on each wrist and two necklaces around my neck (one was also a watch).
He was so proud. He said it was the best I had every looked. This was definitely the most high-maintenance outfit of the 3, but it was also the one closest to something I would have chosen for myself. I felt pretty "normal" as we ran errands.
Things I learned from this little experiment:
My boys crave control, and it is healthy for me to relinquish some of mine so they can have a bit more.
No matter how strange you think you look, people are not going to ask you about your outfit. They just aren't. They may snicker once you have walked away, but who cares?
If you act confident, you will feel confident.
If you feel fabulous in a floral skirt and fuchsia sneakers (or sequins and fur), you are fabulous. There is power in holding your head up high.
There is nothing wrong with planning an entire outfit around a favorite piece. Or two.
Mixing and matching is liberating.
Color is your friend. Don't hide from it.
Sparkles and bangles and bling make you feel pretty. Remember going overboard in the play jewelry as a kid? Yeah, that.
Fashion truly can communicate who you are, how you feel, and what you value.
There is nothing, NOTHING, that I wouldn't do to see my little men beam like they did when they looked with pride on their mama out on the town wearing what THEY had picked out. We will likely be doing this again next month.
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