The Cold Shoulder

In which The Author retraces his steps

Last Friday, as I told you previously, I visited the Minor Injuries unit at my local hospital. I was concerned that my shoulder, which I'd injured during a brief dizzy spell at home, wasn't responding to painkillers. The nurse asked me how I'd come to fall in the first place, examined me, asked me to move my arm in a few different planes, and then sent me for an X-ray.

In fact, they took two X-rays – one from the front and one from above. When the images came back, it was clear that I hadn't broken anything. The nurse advised me to go to my GP for some heavy-duty painkillers if things didn't improve over the weekend.

On Friday evening I went to the Cambrian for a pint, half-wondering whether to bother with the karaoke there. I'd left the Lighthouse the previous evening without even making my excuses, so it was some three weeks since I'd last braved the stage. Keistan was sitting at the bar when I walked in, so we had a chat before he set off for Cardiff. Philip came in while we were talking, so I sat with him while Jocelyn was setting her gear up.

I know last weekend was a busy weekend for a lot of people, with the Green Man festival near Brecon pulling a lot of our friends in. Even so, the Cambrian was quieter than usual. I had a few pints in the hope that they would ease the pain a bit. They didn't. Jocelyn asked me a couple of times if I was going to sing, but I felt far too uncomfortable (physically) for that. (It made a change from a few weeks before, when I'd felt emotionally uncomfortable around a gang of steroid boys.)

On Saturday it pissed down all day, so I only ventured as far as the chippy at teatime. I'd been popping OTC co-codamol all day, and taking OTC ibuprofen in between, but nothing seemed to have any effect. I'd pretty much maxed out on painkillers by the time I went to bed, and spent a horrific night simply trying to put my left arm into a position where it wasn't hurting. It was a waste of time. I literally counted down the minutes until I could take another two co-codamol, and threw another two ibuprofen down for good measure.

They had little discernible effect, and by early on Sunday morning I was literally crying because of the pain. I had enough co-codamol to last the weekend, but I was out of everything else. As soon as the shops opened, I headed into town to buy some more ibuprofen, together with some pain relief gel and a tube of Deep Heat. Even after throwing those reinforcements into the fray, there was little respite from the agony.

By now I was having flashbacks to the situation I'd endured between my initial shoulder injury, early in 2001, and my operation at Llandough Hospital in April 2008. I couldn't lie down comfortably; my left hand felt numb and flabby, as though pins and needles were about to kick in but never actually did; the combined forces of oral and topical pain relief were fighting a losing battle. On Sunday night I didn't even bother going to bed. I took a sleeping bag downstairs and dozed fitfully in the armchair in between reading The Whispering Swarm. As soon as the surgery opened on Monday morning I rang and asked if could see a doctor as soon as possible.

Dr Jordan rang me back when he got the message, and arranged a morning appointment for me. He prescribed full strength co-codamol, full strength ibuprofen, and recommended continuing with the Deep Heat for the time being. He told me to wait a few days, and if it hadn't improved by the weekend, I should go back down after the bank holiday.

Anyway, yesterday morning I was at home when the phone rang. It turned out to be Cheryl, one of the nursing sisters from the Minor Injuries unit. She'd had the full X-ray report, and she wasn't happy with what it showed.

'Have you heard of the acromion?' she asked, and I just laughed.

'I had a feeling you were going to say that,' I replied. I told her I'd had a sub-acromial decompression on my right shoulder in 2008. I gave her a brief summary of seven years of investigations, Goddess knows how many visits to the surgery, a fair number of X-rays, an MRI scan, three orthopaedic consultations, and a shitload of time off work. 'This is all feeling terribly familiar,' I added.

Anyway, Cheryl has booked me an appointment at the fracture clinic at Prince Charles Hospital on Tuesday. She also said that I could call to the hospital and pick up a sling to keep my arm supported in the meantime. I thanked her, but I didn't really see that it would make a lot of difference. I can (sort of) use my arm for the time being, as it's no more or less painful whatever position it's in; a sling would just inconvenience me.

I don't know what the outcome of the fracture clinic will be. By the time they get to look at my shoulder, it'll be over a fortnight since I fell and injured it. I suspect that the immediate outcome will involve yet more painkillers and anti-inflammatories. If they have as much effect as the ones I've been taking for the last week or so, they'll be next to useless. If I end up being referred to an orthopaedic consultant, I'll be playing the waiting game again. I've got a horrible feeling that this one could run and run.

It's funny how history has a knack of repeating itself, isn't it? In my case, I really do mean history, in the 'medical history' sense of the word. Watch this space …