Thursday - Cortisone
Jan. 26th, 2006 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on the drive into work, I was thinking about the 3-inch-long needle on the syringe that my orthopedic surgeon put into my shoulder yesterday, and how I would have been happier if I had not looked at it.
Cortisone is wonderful stuff, I will not lie. My previously semi-frozen shoulder works better than it has in months; I can lift my arm above my head today and reach behind me without gasping in pain.
The nurse drew the shot and lay the capped syringe next to me for the doctor to administer and then left the room. I've never been good at not looking and not touching. I picked the syringe up and thought to myself, "8 milliliters is a lot of fluid to inject into one little tendon." The syringe was about as big around as my thumb and about twice as long. Then I peered through the semi-transparent plastic cap over the needle. Three inches. If I have ever seen a longer needle, I had never seen a longer one waiting to inject me with anything.
"Just a little pinch," I though, but I felt a bit dizzy.
The good news is that they mix the cortisone with a wonderful painkiller these days, which they didn't used to do. The first shot of cortisone I had put in my hand years ago was excruciating. These days, the experience is just uncomfortable by comparison. Thank heaven for medical progress.
The doctor came in and had me face away while he marked with with a Sharpie.
"Cold to numb the skin," he said and sprayed the back of my shoulder with something cold.
"Alcohol to sterilize it," he continued, swabbing the injection site down.
"Ready?" he asked.
For a 3-inch needle to be stuck through my shoulder? Who's ever ready for something like that?
"Sure," I told him. You are expected to lie on these occasion.
I felt a pinch when the needle pierced me, then a weird sensation of pressure as he pushed the cortisone in, like something in my shoulder was going to explode. It lasted about a minute, perhaps less. I inhaled and exhaled rapidly while he did this, more to preoccupy myself than for any relief that breathing this way offered.
"There," the surgeon said, "All done. That wasn't so bad."
He said it as a statement, not a question to me. Maybe he was talking about the experience from his end. A patient who doesn't yell or cry or try to move away while he works must be a relief. I've seen people in doctor's offices react a lot worse to procedures that hurt a lot less than this did.
"We're done, you can go home," he said, "That wasn't bad at all."
I took it as a compliment.
Cortisone is wonderful stuff, I will not lie. My previously semi-frozen shoulder works better than it has in months; I can lift my arm above my head today and reach behind me without gasping in pain.
The nurse drew the shot and lay the capped syringe next to me for the doctor to administer and then left the room. I've never been good at not looking and not touching. I picked the syringe up and thought to myself, "8 milliliters is a lot of fluid to inject into one little tendon." The syringe was about as big around as my thumb and about twice as long. Then I peered through the semi-transparent plastic cap over the needle. Three inches. If I have ever seen a longer needle, I had never seen a longer one waiting to inject me with anything.
"Just a little pinch," I though, but I felt a bit dizzy.
The good news is that they mix the cortisone with a wonderful painkiller these days, which they didn't used to do. The first shot of cortisone I had put in my hand years ago was excruciating. These days, the experience is just uncomfortable by comparison. Thank heaven for medical progress.
The doctor came in and had me face away while he marked with with a Sharpie.
"Cold to numb the skin," he said and sprayed the back of my shoulder with something cold.
"Alcohol to sterilize it," he continued, swabbing the injection site down.
"Ready?" he asked.
For a 3-inch needle to be stuck through my shoulder? Who's ever ready for something like that?
"Sure," I told him. You are expected to lie on these occasion.
I felt a pinch when the needle pierced me, then a weird sensation of pressure as he pushed the cortisone in, like something in my shoulder was going to explode. It lasted about a minute, perhaps less. I inhaled and exhaled rapidly while he did this, more to preoccupy myself than for any relief that breathing this way offered.
"There," the surgeon said, "All done. That wasn't so bad."
He said it as a statement, not a question to me. Maybe he was talking about the experience from his end. A patient who doesn't yell or cry or try to move away while he works must be a relief. I've seen people in doctor's offices react a lot worse to procedures that hurt a lot less than this did.
"We're done, you can go home," he said, "That wasn't bad at all."
I took it as a compliment.
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 04:28 pm (UTC)And the time before last time I gave a blood sample, I made the mistake of opening my eyes and looking at my poor arm while she was pulling out the needle. Ew! I don't usually look until the Band-Aid is on safe.
I didn't freak out though, like I did one time in the past. My poor blood tech. She never knows what to expect from me.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 04:35 pm (UTC)No one hates blood work and needles more than I do. I may even hate it more than those people who scream and thrash about, I'm just more quiet about it.
I'm just glad it's over. :)