This photo was taken in late August, at the end of a workday organized by Wildlands Restoration Volunteers.
I had signed up as a way to give back to the landscape I love, to help it recover and heal from the trauma of wildfire – to help me recover and heal from it, too.
A crewmate named Kelly took the selfie. It captures the vibe of the day, and how rewarding it felt to rebuild a trail in the Cameron Peak Fire burn scar with a group of really cool people. What you don’t see in the picture, behind the smile, is my newly injured left shoulder.
I was helping another volunteer carry large rocks in a cargo net. As we walked with the heavy load, he turned one way, I turned another, and a pain shot through my shoulder. My response was to shake it off, switch my carrying arm, and keep working through the discomfort.
Back at the cabin, my shoulder stiffened and began to throb. I took a few Ibuprofens and told myself it was nothing, just a dumb pulled muscle, and that I’d be fine in a few days.
A few days of denial turned into weeks, and by the time I finally went to see a doctor in October, I had practically lost the use of my left arm. Simple tasks like changing my T-shirt, putting my hair in a ponytail, or reaching for an empty cup on a shelf, were difficult if not impossible. I had to drive one-handed. Type one-handed. And my shoulder hurt so much it woke me up multiple times every night.
After an x-ray and MRI, I was diagnosed with a partially torn rotator cuff and a condition called adhesive capsulitis, or frozen shoulder. I had never heard of this before. The original injury had triggered a self-protection response from my body – a freezing of the joint – and I had lost nearly all range of motion in my left shoulder. The doctor said the tear wasn’t that bad, it didn’t require surgery, and he handed me a referral for physical therapy.
“That’s it?” I asked, taking the piece of paper with my good hand as my left arm hung locked and useless at my side.
“That’s it,” he said, looking at his watch.
I walked in a fog out of the doctor’s office to my car, grabbed my phone, and sat in the parking lot where I read article after article about frozen shoulder … and I didn’t like what I read. People over forty, mostly women recuperating from a shoulder injury or mastectomy, were more likely to get the condition. And it could take up to three years to fully recover.
Three years.
I told myself I was lucky that I didn’t need surgery. Reminded myself I had use of my dominant right hand. And, most importantly, I wasn’t battling breast cancer on top of a bum shoulder. I should have been flooded with relief and gratitude, but instead, the thought of living one-armed and sleep-deprived for three years made me panic. How was I supposed to write? What would happen to my job? When would I be able sleep through the night again?
Sitting in the driver’s seat of my old Subaru, I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, and a familiar Chinese proverb floated into my head:
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
I opened my eyes and picked up the doctor’s referral letter, called one of the PT clinics on the list, and booked my first appointment for the next day.
Seven months after my original injury, and I’m still going to physical therapy, but today I can write this blog post without any pain. I’m sleeping through the night again, too, thanks to my physical therapist and the shoulder exercises I’ve been doing every day, seven days a week, since October.
It's the first week of spring at the cabin, and it’s gorgeous outside. The warm sunshine and longer days will soon wake the hibernating bears, if they’re not up already. From my desk, I watch the water drip off the metal roof. Hear the river gaining strength from the snow melt. And I can feel my frozen shoulder thawing.
“Remember when I couldn’t take off my jacket?” I reminded my therapist yesterday as I hopped off the table, grinning from ear to ear. I rotated my shoulder in a cautious Pete Townshend-style guitar windmill. My stiff shoulder clicked and thunked in protest. “It’s still pretty crunchy.”
“Yeah, but look at that extension!” my therapist crowed. “You’ve made so much progress.”
It’s the losing or near-losing of a thing that often renews our appreciation of it. Makes us fight for it. Love it fiercely. Invest in its care.
Last summer, I went looking for a healing and recovering experience, and I found one. Someday, I know I’ll be ready to volunteer on a trail crew again. For now, I’m content doing my shoulder stretches, working through the discomfort, as part of the spring thaw. When I do eventually sign up for that summer trail work, and if someone asks me to haul the heavy rocks in the cargo net, I’ll shrug my shoulders and ask for another job.
And I’ll smile to myself, knowing how much time and effort and love went into recovering that simple movement, that small shrug. I’ll be thankful it took less than a year and not three. Then I’ll square my shoulders and get to work.