Shoulder surgery

Me and My Wooden Hand

B. O'Malley News 0 Comments

shoulderEver got stabbed in the shoulder by a doctor?

I did. April 30.

But I asked him to do it.  To repair two tears in cartilage where the arm joint fits into the shoulder socket, called — wait for it …

…the labrum.

And yes, I also had them throw in a new vagina.

It can all be traced back to December 2011.  We had Genghis Khan style winds here in the Eagle Rock. Those winds knocked down the top of a huge pine tree behind my house.

That pine tree?  Got cut into huge piles of firewood by Mexican gentlemen.

Those Mexican gentlemen?  Left a cinder block up near the tree, for them to sit on and enjoy their lunch.  Sardines, menudo, and Pepsi.  How do I know?  They left their food wrappings, in a gesture of friendship between our two nations.

That cinder block?  Sometime in Feb 2012, whilst organizing the hitherto unorganized fallen and cut pine tree fragments, I threw it down the hill, trying to clean up after said Mexican gentlemen.

That throw?  Caused a spark of pain and electricity in my shoulder.  Of the likes I hadn’t experienced since Michael Douglas sat next to me in a Taco Bell and started combing his hair with a banana.

bloob-ticketSo that injured-shoulder me?  I was dating a girl named Blueberry, who’ve I’ve since married, (see our wedding invite ticket, left) and was all about healing whatever the fuck was wrong with me with a lil’ natural healing magic. Rest, time, water, avoiding masturbation, etc.

But that organic healing route?  Didn’t work.  (Big fucking surprise, right?) so I went to a chiropractor for 4 months.

And that chiropractor?  Cracked the shit out of my back until I was plump and tasty, but couldn’t really fix the shoulder pain.

So I went to a physical therapist for 3 months. For those not familiar with physical therapy, it’s when you lay back on a couch and a guy with a notepad says “Tell me about your mother,” while ultrasounding your legs.

And that physical therapy?  Didn’t fix it either.  But it helped me figure out what the hell on Earth was wrong.

So on a hunchback, I Yelp’d “best orthopaedic surgeon los angeles” and found a doctor in Burbank, who carries a .357 on his belt while in his office, and wears rattlesnake boots.

Rode over on my llama. Got in to see the doc.  Dr. Jango didn’t fuck around. “MRI with contrast. Go.”  So I went.  On my llama.

I came back with the results.  He further didn’t fuck around. He pounded a whisky, raked in his poker winnings, stood up in his spurs and said: “You’ve got a tear here and here, amigo.”  Then he spit into a nearby spittoon.  Or maybe it was the floor. Or maybe there was no spit. Maybe he was just done with his gum.

I said “How much to fix?” He turned his back and the barkeep slung him another whisky.  He pounded it and licked his his dirty teeth.

“I don’t do that anymore,” he growled.  “I’m out of the shoulder-fixin’ business, pardner.”

I showed him my ATM card.  It gave him an instant erection, clearly visible through his chaps.  “No insurance, amigo?”

I shook my head and twirled my parasol.

He tightened his gun belt, tipped his hat forward, and clenched the rotting cigarillo in his teeth, then said, barely above a whisper:  “Then I reckon we better get to work.”

Two weeks later and a pre-op exam to make sure I wouldn’t die under the knife, I was sucking in anesthesia, counting back from 10.  In Spanish.  Somewhere outside a town called Calle de Rio Verde de Jesus de Amore Del Taco.

I waked up, and felt super small. Probably because my arm was all novocained.  Or maybe I was just Carl Sagan.

In any case,  I was loopy as all fuck, and thinking in Spanish / Morse Code.

Then in walks my wife. That day, I called her “Waffles.”  And sometimes, yes, I call her “Blueberry.”

Now, sometimes, I blow her mind and call her “Blueberry Waffles.”

She drives me home.  No pain because I’m still numb from the nerve block shot the Coolie anesthesiologist gave me. Some sort of ancient Chinese opiate.  Ancient Chinese Secret:  Bruce Lee’s Balls Ticklish.

Turns out, Dr. Jango stitched my cartilage back to the bone, and scraped the hell out of the rough bone stuff in there to make sure it would heal right. Then went on a train robbing spree across three states, with his gang, “The Oak Ridge Boys.”

As I write this with one gamy hand, I’m not 30 days into healing yet, but that outlaw doctor’s cockamamie plan of stitching my cartilage back on to the bone?  I think it worked.

The only thing that don’t work?

Intelligent internet discourse on the state of health care in modern America.

But hell, I can’t complain too much.  I signed up for this. Sure, sometimes torn labrums (“labria?”) heal, apparently.  But mine was torn in two places (my backyard, and inside an unmopped Trader Joes)

And those two tears?  Woulda been a long ass time to heal, if ever. So yeah, amigo, I decided to go into debt to fix my goddamn arm. And yeah, amigo, I had no health insurance.

Merica. God bless that salty hooker.

Next week I meet with a physical therapist.  Name’s “Freud” something.  He better not ask about my mother.

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