I knew something was wrong. I felt my shoulder twinge with each rep. But, I grit my teeth, turned up the volume on my phone, clenched the pull-up handles and went again. Up and down, up and down. Twinge, twinge, twinge.
From the outset, I want to put it out there that I have hypochondriac tendencies when it comes to injuries. It comes from a childhood punctuated by visits to the orthopaedic. Ankle twists visited me like the flu. Muscle sprains were cyclical. Most occurred while playing football and often, in bizarre circumstances. There was the time in 10th grade when I tripped over a solitary rock in the football field outside my school, damaged my ankle ligaments and spent a month in a bright, pink cast.
This shoulder injury took place in a similar manner, and it was all because of a water bottle. I was on a cycling tour, riding a heavy electric bike, when the bottle fell to my right. Unwilling to dismount, I tilted to one side and balanced the bike with my left arm. The bottle entered my grasp but my left arm gave way under the weight and twisted backward.
Quivers of pain bolted across my shoulder and the colour drained from my face. It hurt to even cry out so I writhed in silence. It had all happened so suddenly - how had such an innocuous movement left me in such a state? The freakiness tinged my discomfort with embarrassment, so I tried to shrug it off and completed the two-hour tour. The intensity of the pain subsided but my shoulder didn’t feel right.
When it didn’t magically heal overnight, my concern grew. As did my frustration. The shoulder had become ‘a thing’ I had to tend to now. My weekly squash session that I held so dear was forsaken, as were my trips to the gym. I incessantly iced my shoulder, applied balms and looked up treatments online. The more attention I paid to it, the more conscious I became of the pain and the more I began to spiral.
After a week, the shoulder was marginally better and my mood infinitely worse. Fuck it I’m going to the gym, I decided. At least the mental side of the battle [note the use of the word battle] was in my control.
Strangely, my shoulder felt healed after the first pull-up set. It was as though something had clicked into place. That evening in the shower, I was able to twist it enough to apply soap to a part of my back I hadn’t been able to reach until then. I nearly cried.
I returned to the gym in earnest after that, convinced that working out would help strengthen the damaged muscles. My hypothesis was quickly disproved in the next couple of visits and by the end of the week, I knew I was actively doing more harm to my left shoulder.
The kicker here is that I didn’t stop.
In fact, I began going with greater frequency. I couldn’t lift weights or bars, so I felt the need to compensate with increased activity. 50 push-ups and 20 pull-ups became a fixed part of my workout. I began cycling again, returned to squash and even had a couple of cricket net sessions.
Reflecting on my behaviour in that month post the cycle incident makes me squirm a lot more than the incident itself. I could hear my body crying out for me to stop but I didn’t listen. What I was doing could almost be categorised as self-harm but it felt like the price to pay for a quiet mind.
Am I a gym-bro? Neither do I have bulging biceps nor do I wear sized-down tank tops. However, working out is an important pillar for my mental wellbeing. Those thrice-a-week visits to the gym were balms for stress, anxiety and loneliness. A restless mind equated to a restless body. Going to the gym made me feel good about myself. The prospect of facing myself in the mirror after a month of no physical exercise was too scary to fathom.
I’d wake up in considerable pain each morning and that one part of my back remained unwashed for weeks, but I didn’t think the injury warranted going through the NHS wait-times. I adjusted to the pain instead of addressing it. As I was due for a visit home in a couple of weeks, I reasoned that I’ll get it checked there and do the little bit of physio needed for the shoulder twist.
This twist, as it turned out, was a 320 degree tear. The orthopaedic in India took one look at it and sent me to get an MRI. I had to undergo surgery immediately, he said, after seeing the results. I had dislocated my shoulder while reaching for the water bottle and while it had popped back into place, it could go again at any time. The muscles around it had gradually eroded in the month since the injury.
The doctors couldn’t fathom how I had been functioning for so long and wondered if I was on painkillers. I wasn’t. I was operating on endorphins.
The weeks post surgery have been uniquely humbling. Until recently, I needed assistance to shower and had to sleep on a mountain of pillows. Lifting a coffee cup with my left hand felt akin to doing a dumbbell curl and I felt genuine pride when I cracked an egg yesterday. I’m still learning to cast a gentler gaze at the mirror.
It’s taken me nearly a month to be able to type with both hands. Writing this newsletter required me to endure as much as introspect.
The doctors think it’ll take me six months to do a pushup. I haven’t asked how long it’ll be before I can do a pull-up.
Consumption Corner:
Reading: I recently re-read the Marjane Satrapi-classic Persepolis. This telling of the Iranian revolution through the eyes of a young schoolgirl completely changed the dismissive attitude I had towards graphic novels.
Listening: This NYT interview with Arundhati Roy ahead of the release of her memoir tracing her complex relationship with her mother.
Watching: Post-surgery recovery has allowed for copious amounts of movie and TV show consumption. The Blackberry biopic is the film that stands out most during this period.
Take care Shubhankar !! It surely might have been painful…get well soon !! Have a restful Birthday…grab a drink and enjoy ! Cheers !