In Memoriam: Blue Thunder

Part the Last: Hell

A month after the event, my orthopedic surgeon allowed that it was time to start rehab.

My wife often tells the story of Dead Arm M., who was principal of her middle school. Not wishing to be known as Dead Arm Dave, I decided to give rehab my best shot.

Torture is illegal in this country, except when it's called physical therapy. The racks, iron maidens and water boards have been replaced by treadmills and other seemingly innocuous machines designed to do essentially the same thing--inflict pain.

And so it was with no small amount of trepidation that I met my physical terrorist for the first time. The face-off was like that at the start of a MMA bout. I gave her my best "you are going to rehab me?" look. Her smirk said, "In two days I'll have you crying for your mommy." "Bring it!" I telepathed.

She was wrong. It didn't take her even a day. But I didn't cry in front of her. I just went home, curled up in the fetal position, and stuck my thumb in my mouth. "Wuss," snorted my wife, who had undergone much the same rehab after surgery for a torn rotator cuff. Listen--if God wanted men to experience that kind of pain, they would be having the babies.

Dee, I'll call her, is your average girl-next-door-ish woman. Beneath that feminine exterior, however, lies a penchant for abuse that would make de Sade seem like Mother Teresa (think Gunnery Sergeant Hartman meets Bernardo Gui).

Her first instrument of torture consisted of a length of parachute cord ran through a pully, the ends of which were affixed with wooden hand grips. She told me to sit in a chair and, using my right arm, pull my left arm up as high as it would go. She ordered ten repetitions.

"That's good, Dee. Everyone should have a dream," I laughted apprehensively. Her glare in response told me I should focus on helping her realize her dream instead of trying to be a comedian. I agonized through a couple of reps and moved my left arm two inches. Maybe.

Next was "table dusting," a sort of wax on, wax off exercise, where I was to use my left arm to move a dishtowel up and down, back and forth, clockwise and counter-clockwise 20 times each.

"What, you don't have cleaners to do this stuff?" I asked. Dee (think Capt Lewis meets Irina Spalko) was not amused.

The killer was next. Using my fingers, I was to walk my left arm up a wall and back down ten times. I managed two or three, and the agony was brutal.

Other torture devices included sticks, elastic bands, machines and isometrics. But the kicker was, I had to do two-a-days, whether in the torture chamber or at home.

One day I made the mistake of saying, "Well, that exercise was nothing." "Really?" Dee (think Nurse Ratched meets Annie Wilkes) replied, with a grin the Joker would have envied. "Well, then, do this one." I should have kept my mouth shut.

I've been enduring this torture for about ten weeks. I'm sleeping in my bed now, can shower and shave, dress myself, tie my shoes, use my left arm to operate the car's turn signal, and clean the pool. And yes, I know--I owe it all to Dee (think Florence Nightingale meets Clara Barton).

I suspect Blue Thunder has been repaired by now. Someone else is probably riding him around one 'hood or another. I miss him.

Repairs to Blue Thunder: $565.
Repairs to me: $25k and counting.
A wife who had my back: Priceless.