My wife Erika suffers from a nasty, lifelong shoulder condition called multi-directional joint instability. It means the muscles and ligaments around the glenohumeral joint are weak, creating a laxity in multiple planes. It means she can dislocate her shoulder doing simple, non-traumatic movements. She has dislocated one side or the other carrying a camping mattress, shaking out a tablecloth, passing snacks to the kids in the backseat, and sometimes for what looks like no reason at all. It’s worse on the right side but affects both shoulders. It’s chronic and genetic: her brother has it, her mother too.
When it slips out, it usually slips back in within a few seconds—shocking, scary, and painful, yes, but it’s over and done often before the rest of us even realize what’s just happened. But last fall I got a call saying it happened to her during a shift at work. Her co-worker said that Erika was lying on her back on the floor, her shoulder out of joint and not going back in, and that an ambulance couldn’t get there for hours. I drove over, helped her sit up, helped her get to her feet, and drove her to the emergency room at the city’s biggest hospital, Erika gasping and shrieking at every bump and pothole that jostled her injured shoulder.
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