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I was lying in the MRI machine, anxiously awaiting my fate. The dulcet tones of Norah Jones were attempting to soothe my rattled nerves. The MRI technician asked me to choose music most likely to distract me from the obnoxious buzz of the MRI. I was just as likely to blurt out “Panic! at the Disco," but luckily, that musical option didn’t enter my mind before Norah Jones popped in.
I didn’t know how this worked. It was my first MRI.
I should clarify — this MRI was not for anything serious. My appointment was to determine if I would need shoulder surgery or not. I had been fighting moderately debilitating shoulder pain for the past year. I first felt a sharp pain during an intense weight-lifting session (because that
sounds cooler than I was trying to carry all the groceries in one trip).
And while ignoring pain until it goes away is typically a successful strategy for me, this time, the method proved unsuccessful. Whenever I lifted my arm or shifted a certain way, I winced and whined through the pain. Occasionally, I released a dramatic yelp that far outweighed the demands of the activity.
Did someone step on the cat’s tail?
No, I think Dad was just trying to put on a sweater.
The MRI seemed like a formality. I was already convinced I had a torn rotator cuff. The Internet told me so. And the Internet is always right, occasionally.
Does your shoulder hurt when you do this? Yes.
Can you move your arm like that? No.
Bang — you have a torn rotator cuff! You’ll need surgery. Cancel all tee times for the next six months. Better make it a year. In fact, sell your golf clubs and take up birdwatching.
I assumed this reality was a foregone conclusion. I assumed it would be months before I could hang drywall or perform the “YMCA” during a timeout of a sporting event. I planned for the worst. And worse, I didn’t plan for much of anything at all. Why make plans when my future seemed so bleak?
But I was pleasantly blindsided at my follow-up appointment. No rotator cuff tear. No need for surgery. Apparently, I was “fine” (other than constant pain and limited mobility).
The doctor announced, “We can fix it TODAY with a cortisone injection to your shoulder.”
I asked, “TODAY?! Why didn’t we do this a year ago?”
The doctor replied, “I don’t know. This is your Vital story.”
The next day, the swelling had subsided. I wiggled my shoulder in various motions. I lifted my arms above my head. No pain. I changed lightbulbs. I opened a jar of pickles (even though we had a semi-full open jar in the fridge, but it was worth it). My future was abruptly reopened for business.
It was a much-needed shot in the arm.
