Mary, caregiver extraordinaire who has been spending a couple of hours each day to help me and to walk Rooki, took this photograph of us on the first walk I was able to go on. As soon as Roo saw any water, she jumped right in. It was great to be out, even though a patch of mud and slush made me shuffle like a 100-year-old hoarder trying to find his glasses under a pile of old slippers. There won't be any venturing into the backwoods trails that Roo loves so much for a while. Luckily, there are a few places to take her where she can run and where it's flat and safe for me to walk.
I have been warned by my surgeon, Dr. Gordon Groh, that falling would mean, "a real problem." By that I think he means that if I don't shoot myself he will be obliged to in the name of culling the mentally insufficient from the herd.
Speaking of Dr. Groh, he did fail me in one substantial regard: he didn't generate even a tiny fraction of the horrendous pain shoulder replacement surgery is known for. Here I was, looking forward to some good old-fashioned agony, writhing around, groaning and sweating, maybe even hallucinating when it became unbearable in the middle of the night. Instead, all I got was a little boo-boo. That guy knows how to operate. He took me apart and put me back together with new parts and I can barely tell he was in there.
Tomorrow is my first post-op visit with him, and if all goes according to plan, the rehab will begin with mild exercises. I haven't been allowed to use the arm at all, so I have no idea what to expect, though I imagine it's going to be clunky. In theory, at the end of about three months I should have a fair amount of range of motion and strength.
I have to use the dictation software built into the computer to write. It's worse than typing only with the left-hand, requiring as many edits per sentence as there are words in it. It might work better with Roo's enunciation.