Sometime between our April 2012 Seychelles trip and our May 2012 Laguna Beach trip, I injured my left elbow. I can narrow it down to those two events as I don’t remember it hurting while golfing in the Seychelles, but distinctly remember it bothering me at the Aliso Golf Resort.
After several months of the pain, I did some research online and was convinced I had what is commonly referred to as “golfer’s elbow.” My symptoms aligned exactly with what I was reading: pain in the tendons connecting my forearm to the elbow. The pain was centered on the bony bump on the inside of my elbow and sometimes radiated into my forearm.
Why? Well, that also made sense after my research. Golfer’s elbow is usually caused by overusing the muscles in the forearm that allow you to grip, rotate your arm, and flex your wrist. Repetitive flexing, gripping, or swinging can cause pulls or tiny tears in the tendons. Since moving to Ghana I have golfed more than ever as the local weather accommodates the sport nicely. In addition, I have probably spent a record number of hours in the gym trying to pass the time.
I also read up on cures – the number one being rest. As hard as it was to do, I didn’t golf for two months. It started feeling better, but as soon as I picked up a golf club, the pain returned. I also read an article that suggested I needed to strengthen my forearm muscles. Did that, but it only hurt. Mostly I just kept working through the pain.
The pain was sometimes so bad that I couldn’t lift a pan from the stove, or shut the car door with my left arm. In January I decided enough was enough and made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in Loveland, Colorado in February as Dave and I would be back in the states.
As I expected, after getting an x-ray, Dr. Chamberlin informed me that I had classic symptoms of medial epicondylitis, better known as golfer’s elbow. After hearing that I lived in Ghana he realized a more aggressive course of action (i.e., surgery) was not going to be my first option. He decided to go the conservative route and recommended placing a cast on my arm for 4-6 weeks so as to immobilize the joint. I cringed just thinking about it, but felt a bit better when he told me it would be a removable cast. He strongly suggested a round of physical therapy after 4-6 weeks, and I was frantically wondering how that would work in Ghana. We scheduled a second appointment for late May when I would be back in Colorado for my niece’s high school graduation.
Dr. Chamberlin’s nurse then took me to the “casting room.” There were two other people in the room that day (among several others) that made an impression. The first was a 14-15 year old kid who had a broken arm. He had been playing in a high school baseball game, was at the plate and got hit by a pitch. Brought back vivid memories of the day when Benjamin broke his arm playing football. I was hysterical; he was calm, asking me why I was hysterical.
The second patient was an older man who had evidently had his toes cut off. Seriously, the guy was lying on the table with his right leg straight out. I was looking straight at the bottom of his foot….there was not one toe left. When his doctor left, the nurse proceeded to take out the stitches, some 100 of them I heard her say.
Right about now I was feeling a bit like a baby. All I was getting was a removable cast as a result of having so much free time on my hands.
At any rate, the nurse started to cast my arm. This was a regular plaster cast, similar to the two I had gotten when I was a child (one on both arms). After the plaster dried, the nurse cut off the cast and then fashioned it in such a way that with a bit of effort I could remove the cast.
For the next week I faithfully wore the cast 24 hours a day, except when I showered. My friend Tanya would have been impressed as I even wore it while doing plyometric exercises. I continued to go to the gym and just did exercises that didn’t involve my arm. It was something I could live with for the next few weeks. I desperately wanted my elbow to feel good again.
On Monday, March 11th, I began my 20+ hour trip back to Ghana. People were kind and helped me with my bags often. So many people asked me what had happened, and I constantly found myself saying, “I wish I had a better story to tell….”
On the long overnight flight to Accra I finally relented and took off the cast after trying for two hours to get comfortable with it on. After an uneventful flight (something I always pray for) I arrived home and the first thing I did was crawl into my comfortable bed for a short nap.
At 2 p.m. I woke up, took my cast off and jumped into the shower, removing my cast. After getting ready I started to unpack the three bags I had hauled back. I was tired, but felt better after the rest and a shower.
While I was getting ready I heard a loud noise outside of the bedroom and had assumed it was Doris, our housekeeper. Well, when I opened the bedroom door I saw what had made all the racket. The door to the attic was wide open. Now…if this is the first blog of mine you have read, you can’t imagine my horror, and I recommend you go and read about Steve McQueen and his friends. For the rest of you, I'm sure you know what was going through my mind. Rats! Larvae! Cockroaches! Small children!
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| Now that I've taken a picture of the door, I can see how filthy it is, what with people opening and closing it. I can assure you I have no intentions of getting on a ladder and cleaning it! |
My reaction, of course, was to shut the door as quickly as possible to insure NO animals, insects, or other disgusting creatures ventured into my home. I went downstairs and got the ladder, set it up under the door, climbed onto it, and quickly shut the door. It flew right back open. After several attempts at jamming the door shut, I realized I was going to need some help. I have experience with the door as the pest guy has been to my house numerous times. I knew that the guards have an allen wrench which is used to open and close the door. So, down to the guard station I went. They could not find the wrench, after looking multiple places. He suggested I contact ATS (our maintenance provider).
It was late in the afternoon, and I knew that if I initiated a call to get ATS to my house, it likely wouldn’t happen. As I walked back to the house, I was devising a plan in my head. I would call Dave and have him (or someone who works for him) call ATS. I just couldn’t imagine the attic being wide open all night long, and was anxious to get it resolved.
I went back into the house, up the stairs, dialed Dave (never thinking he would answer) and climbed onto the ladder. Looking back at my cell phone log, I initiated the call at 3:27, a mere 4 hours after I had landed. Yes, I was on the ladder, phone in my right hand, flip flops on my feet, using my left arm to again attempt to close the door. Unexpectedly, Dave answered the phone and the door seemed to shut. As I began to tell Dave the problem, the door swung open, startling me. I slipped and fell backwards and to the left. When I hit the ground, I heard a crack in my left arm and then watched my left knee twist first to the left and then to the right. It was as if it all happened in slow motion.
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| As my sister calls it, "the scene of the crime." The door is just above the table and the cross. |
The cell phone had fallen out of my hand, and for a second I was just stunned. I picked up the phone, which was lying to the right of me and heard Dave said, “What are you doing?” I told him I had fallen off the ladder while trying to shut the attic door. I was lying flat on my back staring up into Steve McQueen’s world. I looked at my arm and knew immediately that it was broken and started to cry. Dave said something like, “Maybe you just twisted it,” but I assured him it was broken. It had an obvious deformity to it, and was not the first broken arm I’d had or seen. I was blubbering about how a rat was going to fall on me. Dave told me to forget about the attic and to focus on the important thing….me!
If I didn’t know it before, I certainly do now. Dave epitomizes the phrase “grace under pressure.” While I lay on the ground crying uncontrollably, he was already formulating a plan of action. He hung up and by 3:34 p.m. he had arranged Michael to come pick me up and transport me to the Newmont Clinic, had our friend Julie calling the clinic to let the doctor know I was on my way, and was searching for a ride so he could meet me.
As I gingerly stood up and carefully held my left arm to my chest, I moved towards the stairs. I contemplated walking down them, but with not knowing what was wrong with my knee I chose to move down the stairs on my butt, ensuring I wouldn’t fall and further hurt myself.
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| I had visions of falling down the stairs and breaking my other arm! |
As I sat in the living room waiting for Michael, I thought about the fact that I hadn’t eaten a bite of food since I had eaten at Burger King in the JFK airport the previous night. I was desperate for something to take away the excruciating pain, and knew that soon after I got to the clinic I would be receiving pain medication. Evidence exists that I was thinking clearly at some level, as I then hobbled into the kitchen and got myself a soda and a granola bar. After all, you are never supposed to take narcotics on an empty stomach.
I sat back down and decided it would probably take Michael 30 minutes to get to the house. I needed something to distract me, so I called my sister. She answered tentatively and I just started bawling. It’s a wonder she could figure out what the hell I was saying! I felt like we only talked for about 2 minutes, but in looking at my cell phone log, she successfully kept me distracted for more than 17 minutes. It would have been longer but then it occurred to me that I don’t have call waiting (Ghana, people, Ghana) and that Dave was probably trying to call. Just minutes later Michael pulled up and I made my way to the car. Dave called just as I got into car, worried that I hadn’t answered my phone.
Ghana traffic is terrible, so I almost always plan my excursions around the pattern. I rarely ever go towards Dave’s office after 3 p.m. otherwise it will take me an hour to arrive, rather than 20 minutes. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the option. We would be going with the afternoon traffic, and it wasn’t good. I was sure it would take me an hour to get to the clinic.
Looking back, I have to laugh. Michael was so quiet the whole way. I told him I had broken my arm and he would just stare at me and then at my arm with his eyes huge. He didn’t say two words to me the whole way to the clinic. Fortunately, the traffic thinned out after a bit and I arrived at the clinic in about 30 minutes.
I had not seen Dave since March 1st….12 days. I walked in, saw him, and just started crying (again). He gathered me into his arms and assured me everything was going to be ok.
I was about to embark on more than a week long health care journey. Be careful what you wish for!
