Way back at the end of March, I managed to acquire a full-thickness rotator cuff tear, along with bicipital tenosynovitis and some funky non-calcific loose bodies floating around in places they weren’t supposed to be.  I was supposed to get a PRP shot to finally restart the halted healing process at the beginning of July, but that didn’t happen, because they couldn’t get enough blood out of me at the time.  I was supposed to get the more expensive Amniofix in mid-July, but the doc’s wife went into labor and had a baby the night beforehand, so that didn’t happen.

Tuesday, I finally got the shot.  It hurt.  A lot.  Which meant that I felt lightheaded and nauseous, and got to lie down in a dark room.  Being the statistically lucky kind of person I am, I then proceeded after a couple minutes lag time to look like I was having a seizure for a good 10 minutes or so.  It’s not a seizure.  It’s merely the convulsive type of vasovagal response that I get in certain very specific circumstances.  Fortunately, this doc is on top of his game, and didn’t freak out (unlike those other medical professionals at those other times).  Or maybe he did freak out and is an expert at not showing it?  Well, that’s good too, because emotions such as anxiety are contagious.

Since I’ve had the dramatic shakes before, I know roughly how long they’ll take, and am calm the whole time.  I’m not interested in hyperventilating with diaphragm tremors.  That’s not my idea of a good time.  You know what also isn’t my idea of a good time?  Driving home with the residual tremors because childcare has a hard stop.  Been there, done that, and was grateful I didn’t have to do that this time.  Once I’m upright and walking around, it’s hang out in the waiting room for at least 20 minutes time.

Hello pain, my old friend.  I’ve come to walk with you again.  I’m once again appreciative of my regular meditation practice.  It doesn’t stop white coat syndrome, which is what can happen when you almost die in a hospital in the past, but it can make it more comfortable, and stop feedback loops from making things worse than they could be.  Sometimes, I can be calm, even when surrounded by chaos.  Sometimes, I can hang out with my pain, and become best buddies with it instead of resisting it.

Ah, but that’s physical pain!  What about existential pain?  The pain that is lurking there in the background, whispering “you’ll never be able to swim again!”  Or “you’ll never be able to do a pushup or pullup ever again!”  Well, I can hang out with my existential pain as well.  I’m still me, even if I am not currently an athlete and can’t dress or undress myself completely.  I still have things to laugh and smile at.  It works on NTHE pain too, you know.  I’m not dead yet.  Let’s go be irreverent, as only somebody who has known intense pain can do.