Months ago, Steve started complaining about his right shoulder. I dismissed it as man shoulder. Sort of like man flu, but without the runny nose. It wasn’t like he ever did anything about it, just said it was sore.
About six weeks ago, he started complaining more vociferously. He couldn’t really move it at all. I said, if it hurts, go to the doctor. So he made himself an appointment. At this point, I knew it was REALLY hurting. I mean, he’d actually volunteered to go to the doctor. It must be bad. The doctor prescribed ibuprofen and a course of physiotherapy.
He’s been to the physio a number of times now. She’s Columbian apparently. And she says his shoulder’s inflamed. She doesn’t know what’s caused it, but is treating it sucessfully. She has also given him a set of exercises to do in between appointments, using an intriguing green rubber strap.
This week, she said that it might take six months to get better. Six months. We leave in three and a half. Steve’s currently in no fit state to carry a backpack. Which is a bit of a worry as he’s Pack Horse Number 1. Pack Horses 3, 4 and 5 are a bit weedy, which leaves Pack Horse Number 2 carrying all the crap singlehandedly.
So onto Plan B. Via his work health insurance, he can be referred to a consultant for a cortisone injection, which will make him pain free, or thereabouts, for six months. So we’re going to give that a try. Otherwise, we are going to have to decide between clothes and computers. And I’d rather take computers.
It's a small world after all 