Dark Days and a Break of Sun

Well, the good news is that the surgery is over and the recovery has begun. But the surgery went four hours instead of the scheduled two, and I had to stay a second night in the hospital. Afterwards, the doctor said I would feel like someone had really pounded on my chest and arm, and he was right. The whole hospital stay was pretty miserable, with a lot of time elapsing before we finally found the right meds to get the pain under control. And the battle of the meds has continued, with a lot of post-op pain this week but also trouble finding a cocktail of meds that doesn’t leave me dopey and/or nauseated. Suffice it to say that the past week has been pretty dark—literally so, since the sun has been obscured behind unrelenting rain and clouds since back before the surgery (which was last Thursday). This afternoon was the first time I was able to catch a glimpse of the Big Yellow since coming out of anesthesia—and boy was I ready for it! Luckily, I also felt good enough to go for a walk, so I strapped on the sling and ambled slowly down to the Point. The glint of sun on the Sound lifted my spirits immeasurably.

In other news, Nicholas is off on his first camping trip, with Dad and Doris, so I’m glad the sun came out for them as well…

Technology, Pills, and Optimism

Saw a magazine for the new VW bug today that featured a sort of aerial view of two convertibles, tops down, and encased in ovoid plastic-looking bubbles. The presentation is spare and the only text consists of the words “For Instant Relief of Cynicism.” The image—another example of Volkswagen’s “viral branding” or “buzz” strategy--at first made me think of those transparent computer mice one sometimes sees, and only gradually, with help from the text, did I realize that the layout was simulating one of those little bubble-paks for medication. This strikes me as a rather brilliant fusion of two kinds of technological optimism—the medical and the vehicular. The underlying logic draws on the insight that these two strains really aren’t that far apart. We have a deeply American conviction that zipping down the road in a smoothly functioning, hip-looking automobile is good for what ails body and soul; and we seem to be even more obviously convinced that pills (Prozac, etc.) can work the same way.

I wouldn’t want this analysis to suggest too much critical distance on my part. Right now, I’m able to summon both the physical wherewithal and the mental buoyancy required to sit at the computer and write this largely because of the pain medication (Tramadol) I’m taking for my pec injury. And my own optimism is significantly threatened both by the fact that my body isn’t working right and the fact that my car is currently producing a scraping sound every time I make a left turn. I’ve already taken it to the mechanic once for this problem, but the fix didn’t work. If I take it again, will the repair be successful, returning my vehicle to its proper state of humming vitality? And will the surgeon next week get it right and put my chest and arm back in working order? I guess I’ll just have to take another pill and hope for the best…

MRIs, PT, Movies, and Waiting

MRIs, PT, Movies, and Waiting

Woke up this morning to find that my empurpled chest and arm are now surrounded by a lovely yellow-green nimbus of further bruising. The effect is quite spectacular. When I went to my physical therapy appointment this morning and took off my shirt the therapist said, “Oh my God!” And after that she didn’t have much to add that was of any use, at least right now. Last night, I went for my MRI and discovered that I really don’t enjoy being slid head-first into a narrow metal tube that proceeds to emit lots of clicks and whirs and eventually a sound that is something like a very loud busy signal. I had to lie there for about forty minutes or so, and I really felt a bit panicky at first. Deep breathing calmed me down, and I gradually learned what to expect (mainly the various noises) and got used to the experience. Today I’m waiting to hear from the orthopedic surgeon, and may have to have surgery next week, depending on what he sees in the MRI image.

Over the weekend I kept myself distracted with some movies from the local video store:

The 40 Year Old Virgin—Quite funny, with some moments that qualify as pretty hilarious, including one where the virgin in question is faced with an inescapable barrage of sexual imagery, mostly in the form of advertising. Reminded me of Something About Mary in its mix of “offensive material” and sweetness, though it’s much raunchier at times than Mary ever is. There is an interesting arc whereby most of the raunch comes early and then the film works up to a silly, funny, but also—after a fashion--sincere “Age of Aquarius” ending.

Better Off Dead—I’m a John Cusack fan, and I was in my early twenties in the mid-eighties when this film was made, so how did I possibly miss it? Coming before the great Cameron Crowe-directed Say Anything, this one is working its way up to the Cusack formula of "smart outsider loser eventually making good," though I guess in this one his character is not really all that smart. The humor is way broad, and sometimes more goofy than actually funny, but it has its moments, and also gets credit for a strange, slightly surreal edge—a kind of proto—Repo Man feel of alienated suburbia. Also a few bursts of odd animation, as with the talking hamburger that pops up during the Cusack character’s inevitable humiliating stint as a grease jockey at the local burger joint. Definitely one for all you Cusack completists out there.

Jarhead—Excellent and disturbing, with the extremely watchable Jake Gyllenhaal (I haven’t seen Brokeback Mountain, but I really liked him in the cult fave Donnie Darko). Paradoxically, this is a war movie where very little actually happens, and it may be the most extreme version of the military “Hurry up and wait” mentality ever filmed. With props to Camus, it captures the estranging, deranging experience of hanging out in the desert waiting for a chance to shoot someone (when mostly those "someones" are getting blown up by devastating air power instead). Ultimately, it puts the viewer in the uncomfortable position of rooting for the Gyllenhaal character Swafford, a sniper by training, to “make a kill,” since that seems—at least in the “jarhead” perspective the movie carefully frames-- to be the only thing that would give meaning to the whole bizarre, frustrating, and boring ordeal. With a good deal of sympathy and understanding for the experience of the soldiers, the movie brilliantly renders the nearly sublime form of brainwashing that goes into “making a marine,” a.k.a. “jarhead” (note the term’s suggestion that the head in question is not only jar-shaped but also empty). Burning oil fields turn out to be oddly beautiful.

My Left Pec

I had been hoping to do a substantial post on the marvelous Jackson Pollock exhibit at the Guggenheim, but in keeping with the general indignity of being forty-two I blew out my pec on the bench press yesterday—meaning I severely tore the pectoral muscle and probably something in my shoulder too. Right now I have a massive, inflamed, Schwarzenegger-sized left pec, along with a huge purple bruise covering much of the left side of my chest and part of my arm (which I can only use to a very limited extent—tho I can type if get positioned just right). Actually I look like I’ve undergone a Pamela Anderson-style chestal implant but just on one side. So far, I’ve spent about five hours at Yale Urgent Care--three hours Thursday after the injury (it was two hours before I could get anything for the rather excruciating pain), and another two yesterday after I start getting numbness in my arm because the inflammation was putting pressure on the nerves. I’m on painkillers and anti-spasm meds, will be having an MRI scheduled sometime this weekend, and will see an orthopedic surgeon on Monday. Yep, it looks like I’m headed for surgery…not quite the way I was hoping to wind up the summer. Today I sat under a tree and read Coleridge's "This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison."