Keep Your Shirt On

OneGoodArm Swear Scale: Nil to begin with and then a large sting in the tail.

Apparently I am delusional and all those times my surgeon asked me to take my shirt off were undertaken with totally medical based motivations! Man. And here I was thinking he just liked looking at my ginormous fun bags. Hahahaha. Sorry. But it’s true. And funny.

In fact he was so disinterested in them this visit I was almost offended.

This visit wasn’t all non-nudity tulips and rainbows however. They never are though are they. After offering me some lollies (no they weren’t boiled) we had a seat in his office and he proceeded to tell me that my suprascapular nerve has been keeping him up at night.

Hmmmm. And no the suprascapular nerve does not feed the genitals.

Seemed an obvious point to make.

So to get all medical on you for a moment the suprascapular nerve is a big fat arsehole that comes from the front of the chest through the shoulder bone and drives the supraspinatus and infraspinatus muscles which are the ‘rotator cuff’ in old money. As we know, without the nerve driving, the muscle is as useless as a screen door on a submarine. And without a rotator cuff one’s arm is as useless as a glass hammer. Or a bicycle for fish. Or a chocolate teapot even.

Unfortunately when I was in surgery, all sliced open at the front, only 1cm or so can be seen of this arsehole of a nerve. That 1cm looked ok. Plus I don’t know if after 10+ hours on your back they can flip you over and go wandering around the other side, and I will assume they can not, as they did not.

So after surgery whilst I was still in hospital an MRI was undertaken to check this suspicious little mongrel and at the time I thought the MRI report said

“all looks good cobber, she’ll be right”. And I thought that as my surgeon did not give me any cause for alarm.

But apparently the report said:

“most of that fucking nerve didn’t come out real good on the MRI but the tiny fucking bit we did see when we weren’t picking our noses and scratching our balls looked like warmed up dog shit”.

So when I saw the surgeon Friday he actually let me see the report instead of giving me a paraphrasing overview which I have outlined almost verbatim above. Now the report was also full of big medical terms that I am too stupid to remember but I did see the words “degenerated” followed by “wasting” and “at least 4cm that could not be seen due to the patient moving” in the text.

Errr, I’m sorry, but I am going on the record to say, categorically, that I did not move during my MRI. No one is more acutely aware of radiation exposure than me and I DID NOT move. Perhaps if the fuckhead technicians weren’t making jokes about what a bloody fucked up mess my shoulder was they could have worked the equipment properly. And I know they were carrying on about my dogshit sandwich of a shoulder as they told me when I was released from said magnet.

Anyhoo – what happens now? You guessed it, another MRI – stat. Only this time a specialist MD is going to supervise the whole thing to make sure more of the “it didn’t come out real good” bullshit is avoided.

And if that report says either:

a) we couldn’t see said nerve as it’s wearing an invisible fucking cloak


b) we could see the nerve and it was fucked up good

I need to have more surgery. IMMEDIATELY. Sob. Of course if they can see the nerve because their eyes are open and they are looking at the screen instead of digging for boogers, and the nerve is fine, then all good peeps. We just go back to waiting.

My money is on surgery just quietly. Naturally as I have accepted my current scars and they are healing up lovely life has decided no, no, no, more scars are required including slicing open those legs again to donate more sural nerve. I told the surgeon he better take an even amount from each leg because, you know, one cannot have uneven leg scars. Come on man, I am not a monster. I am nothing if I am not consistent.

So another ten days until the MRI and then we will know if the nerve is an arsehole or a gentlemen as my surgeon is going to talk to the dude supervising the MRI straight after it’s done and then he will tell me.

Soooooo more waiting.

Also if you asked yourself, as I did, how necessary is this nerve to the surgery already undertaken the answer is COMPLETELY.


If you imagine that all the work undertaken to date is to get my bicep, elbow and wrist moving, and most importantly get my shoulder going in order to hold the whole thing up, so if this one dickhead nerve is damaged, the shoulder won’t recover so even if all the other shit works, the arm will still hang out of the socket like a fuck wit.

Therefore this nerve is very important. I should probably stop swearing at it. Sorry nerve, please forgive me and my potty mouth.

Until later, OGA nervously out.


I love motorbikes.

So does my husband.  I even have my favourite most expensive bike in the foyer of my house (Ducati Tricolore 1098S).  I always have loved them and even though racing them has put me in this position, I long for the day I can do it again.

There is no feeling quite like being leaned over in a corner scraping your knee on the racetrack, turning the throttle and driving that motorcycle out of the corner and moving through time and space.  It’s a rush and a complete escape. You cannot race a motorcycle and think about anything but what you are doing. No worrying that you didn’t turn the iron off on the track.  The only allowable thoughts are ‘how do I go faster, brake later and overtake that bastard in front’?

It’s also really really hard to be fast and being an A type personality I like mastering hard tasks.  I was back riding 10 weeks after both babies, not so much because I missed it, which I did, but because I didn’t want to lose my skills.

A lot of people will not understand.  Especially wanting to ride again after my accident, but once a lover always a lover.    Unfortunately there are a lot of dickheads out there who have no real skills except going flat out in a straight line and behaving like fools in traffic who give those of us with genuine ability and skill a bad name.  Riding at a competitive level is like poetry in motion.  It is a love affair.  So try not to judge us too harshly.  Some of us are not the ones riding ‘like they stole it’ through peak hour traffic. 🙂