Give these guys a medal!

It occurs to me that the last few posts here on the Sparking Synapse have been, shall say, a tad on the cloudy side of the street.

Partly this due to the fact that I am a little more than three weeks into having to wear a very restrictive shoulder immobilising sling night and day for six weeks, and I am constantly uncomfortable, hot, and unable to function normally, with a side order of pain, random itchiness and boredom. This the second such period within five months, with a surgical repair thrown in for good measure, and I can’t even have a good slug of wine now and then because alcohol doesn’t mix too well with heavy-duty painkillers. So perhaps it’s forgiveable, but methinks it’s maybe time to haul on those bootlaces a little and cheer the fuck up.

So, with this in mind, and with a gentle reminder from Valerie over at A Mixed Bag, I am inspired to write this.

As we go about our daily lives we come across all sorts of people, and all-too-often, the ones that leave the biggest impression are the idiots, the rude, and the incompetent. We love to come home and say to our families and friends “You’ll never guess what a stupid woman in Boots said to me” or “the way some people park is (expletive of your choice) atrocious” or “it took me forty-five minutes to get home today, because some stupid idiot at the council thought it was a good idea to … (blah, blah, blah). And if we are angry enough, we follow it up with a complaint in writing, do we not? Or we get all hot under the collar and pick up the phone and give some poor lowly office worker hell. Yep. I know. I’ve done it myself. In fact, I am in the middle of a series of ultra polite, barely-sarcastic-at-all emails1 at the moment with a company who refuse to refund the shipping costs on some returned goods (but that’s another story).

The thing is, dear readers, that we so seldom remember to fill in those forms and write those letters – or even go home and tell our loved ones – when we are met with smiling helpfulness and efficiency, or outstanding service.

Basically, we do not thank people enough, or give credit where credit is due. I try to remember to do so but it’s so easy to forget, and if you’ve ever worked in the service industry, or in any job where you have contact with the public, you’ll know how one compliment or genuine smile of heartfelt thanks can brighten your whole day2.

So I’m going to try to concentrate on looking for the good in people again. To this end, at the end of my hospital appointment yesterday I filled in one of those feedback forms so industriously that the young lady behind the desk asked me if I was writing a book.

Despite the title of this blog post, the quietly efficient, the compassionate, the polite and the helpful don’t usually want a medal, and quite often they don’t even need to be commended3. But everyone does like to be appreciated, and we all feel better for meeting someone who knows how to smile without being patronising, or help someone in need without being pushy. A smile here, a word of thanks there, a bit of eye contact … and I’m told that the best way to show your appreciation for an employee – especially someone who works for a smallish company – is often a letter of commendation to their boss, which mentions them by name.

So go ahead. Make someone’s day! And it doesn’t have to cost you a thing.

1 I specialise in ultra-polite, barely-sarcastic-at-all letters of complaint. They are written rather passive-aggressively, I have to admit, and in the best and most polished prose I can muster, with perfect grammar and high-level language (Thank you, Mrs Learmont*). The recipient knows that I am probably being rude, although there’s nothing in what I say to hang that particular hat on, and they are left in absolutely no doubt that I know what I’m talking about. Of course this is never the first letter that I send, I only do this if I get stupid, misinformed or obstructive letters back in reply to my first letter, and the progress into veiled insult is gradual, and always well deserved.

* Mrs Learmont was my High School English teacher. She was a Scot, and she was fierce, but she gave me an enormous affection for our beautifully rich, complex, and absurd language.

2 There doesn’t even have to be money involved, though in the restaurant/cafe trade where the waiting staff are often poorly paid, it certainly helps.

3 Although some of them perhaps do, especially if they’re in the running for a “Volunteer/Employee/Etc of the Year” award. And why not, if they deserve it?

I have been a very brave girl

MeShoulder-Oct2017

Some years ago now1, I tore one of my rotator cuff ligaments, and had to have it surgically repaired. I blogged about it because it was traumatic, extremely painful, and took a whole year plus a truckload of physiotherapy to get right, and that was also extremely painful. By the end of that time, I pretty much had full use of my arm, but there were still twinges of pain from time to time, and I swore that if I ever did the same to the other arm, I would refuse the op and just fix it with physio.

Well.

Fast forward to 1st June this year. I was clearing up after tenderly tending my hoverfly lagoons, went flying up a 3 inch step in the garden2 and landed heavily and awkwardly, dislocating my (other) shoulder. Much profanity ensued, and after the obligatory six weeks with my arm immobilised in a sling, I set off on the physio trail. It worked, up to a point, and there I stuck. And so, after scans and discussions3 I was booked in for the dreaded surgery, because I’d completely torn two ligaments, and displaced a third, and while I could do an awful lot with that arm, I could not lift it away from my body sideways..

The fateful day – Saturday, 21st October, rolled around, and I admit that I arrived at the hospital in a state of terror and cowardice, and very nearly chickened out. It didn’t help that despite being on a high dose of acid-reducers for GERD, my stomach was pumping out acid like anything – all the stress, no doubt – and I was convinced that I’d wake up from the anaesthetic with a laryngeal spasm4 and die on the spot, and it would all have been for nothing. That’s what happened after the last anaesthetic I had, by the way, except the dying part. Obviously.

But I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to know that I went through with it, and I was fine. The surgeon was able to do the repair arthroscopically, so there is a lot less pain, and I am home and beginning the long road to recovery. When I say ‘there is a lot less pain’, all things, dear reader, are relative, and it still bloody hurts. Oh, boy, does it hurt! But I am managing, so far, without quite as many painkillers as last time, so I am not (at the moment) hallucinating. Is that good? I think it’s good 5

And one of the best things is that I am sleeping okay. Partly, perhaps, because it was a less invasive operation, and partly because I did a lot of research and bought myself a very heavy duty, large, bed wedge to prop me up, and another for under my knees to stop me sliding down the bed6.

The consultant and the anaesthetist were both lovely and very patient, by the way, as were all of the nursing and auxiliary staff throughout my stay. But I still think I was very brave not to turn tail and run from that hospital room.

And I didn’t even get a sticker!

I did, however, get no less than three bunches of flowers from OH, and they were all waiting for me at home when I was discharged. He’d put them into vases, and everything! Aren’t they lovely?

Flowers4MyShoulderFmA-Oct2017

1 2008, to be precise

2 Yes, yes, I knew it was there. It’s been there for fifteen years or more

3 The first consultant I was referred to was a knee specialist and didn’t even order a scan. Then the physio asked for an urgent referral to a shoulder guy, and the doctor’s surgery sent me a copy of my blood results from March 2016, instead

4 Laryngeal spasms are terrifying, and happen when a foreign substance touches your vocal chords – stomach acid, for instance will trigger a spasm, because stomach acid will seriously damage your lungs. Your larynx literally clamps itself shut, so it’s like trying to drag each breath into your lungs through the space between two pages of a damp book. It happened to me after a minor investigative procedure, and didn’t enjoy it

5 Although I did kind enjoy the impromptu opera performances by the invisible people, and OH found the one-sided conversations rather amusing

6 Ah, the wedges … After shoulder surgery, it’s not possible to sleep flat, so you have to find a way to prop yourself up. Last time, I used about five pillows, which kept slipping (which was painful) and if they didn’t slip apart from each other, I slid down the bed off of them (which was painful). This time I have a heavy-duty, 8 inch high firm, long, wedge which I can put my pillow on, and a ‘hill-shaped’ wedge for underneath my knees, so that I don’t slide off it. It’s actually quite comfortable, and it works!

Um … what?

DentalMouldTeeth-MFileXpistwv

A couple of days ago, OH and I spoke at some length on the subject of dental implants. You see he has some teeth which have been loose for some time – they’ve been supported for a few years now by a dental splint, but that broke1, and now they’re doing what our dentist referred to cheerfully as ‘waving in the wind’ (it didn’t help that he added a little ‘goodbye’ wave with his fingers at the time). So OH wants to see if there’s anything he can do to avoid dentures, and we were discussing what he should do next. Options, prices, and all that stuff.

I didn’t post it to social media, and I did no online search – heck, even if I had, I use Firefox and DuckDuckGo, neither of which (supposedly) track you.

So here’s what I want to know. How come I’m now getting ads on my Facebook page offering me dental implants at various ‘bargain’ prices? Both yesterday and today there have been dental implant ads, and, for goodness’ sake, one of them is even in Italian, which, yes, I do speak!

Screen Shot 2017-10-25 at 14.14.10

I was using Google.it to search for something yesterday, but it was certainly not ‘dental implants’. What is going on?

1 Following an unfortunate encounter with a crusty sourdough