RTTPYO-ing My Shoulders
- nvilu7
- Jun 4
- 12 min read
Updated: 1 day ago
How I Prepared for Shoulder Surgery Recovery—Living Alone with One Usable Arm
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Before I get into the details...
Here’s What Made the Biggest Difference in My Recovery from Shoulder Surgery
A grabber tool so I didn’t have to reach or climb
A real shower mat (slipping is bad)
Slip-on sneakers I could get on without bending or tying
Button-front everything
A water bottle I could open one-handed
Pre-portioned meds in easy-open containers
Protein shakes for the first week
A bidet (more on that later)
About three months before the pandemic began, my right arm began to lose range of motion. Over time, it got progressively worse and then painful – so much pain that I started seeking a diagnosis during the scariest months of the pandemic, when I didn’t even want to leave the house.
Eventually, I discovered that advanced arthritis had eaten away all the cartilage in my right shoulder joint and was starting to munch on bone.
The first orthopedic doctor I saw told me that my only option was shoulder replacement surgery. Which I Googled when I got home.
Oh, HELL, no.
It took several months to find an orthopedic surgeon that specialized in shoulders. He suggested an alternative, less drastic surgery that would give me 18 relatively pain-free months with improved mobility.
I scheduled the surgery.
A few weeks before, it occurred to me that, post-surgery, I would not have the use of my right arm and hand for at least 4 weeks. Because I drove a stick shift, I wouldn’t be able to drive for six weeks.
How was I supposed to do even basic tasks by myself? And, even if I did have help, how much would I want to have them do for me?
I looked online but found nothing that helped me figure out how to navigate with one hand post-surgery. Every resource I found immediately assumed that there was a spouse available for support.
My live-in companion was Zoey the cat, who was sweet but not in a position to assist me except emotionally.
Frustrated, I resolved to chase down the information I needed in person at my pre-surgery appointment.
Testing Out My Shoulder Sling
At the appointment, two weeks before surgery, the PA presented me with my sling. It was composed of neoprene, mesh, nylon straps, and Velcro and attached to a large foam block designed to keep my arm at a 90-degree angle with my wrist straight.
Nylon straps wrapped around my back, under my armpit and back to the arm cradle—all clearly constructed to keep my arm and shoulder supported, more or less clamped to my body, and completely immobile.
Except for bathing, I was required to keep the sling on 24x7 for the first 4 weeks. For weeks 5 and 6, I could take the sling off for physical therapy (and bathing) but otherwise had to continue wearing it.
The PA showed me how to get the sling off and on without wrenching my shoulder. He had nothing to give me to help me navigate post-surgery with one arm.
Fine. FINE. I guess I would have to figure it out for myself, then.
I went home and practiced putting on and removing the sling in front of the mirror until I could do it without yanking on my arm.
I decided to wear the sling for a couple of hours to see how it affected my regular activities.
The first thing I realized was that with the sling on I was a lot wider than I was used to. I banged my elbow into walls, corners, lamps, chairs, just about everything in my condo at waist level.
I bet that would hurt post-surgery.
I also noticed that while wearing the sling I shuffled because my balance was off. I tried a couple other common maneuvers and found that when I turned around I would over rotate. Using a stepstool was scary.
Googling revealed that for efficient movement humans automatically extend our arms to stay balanced, and swing our arms while walking to minimize trunk rotation, and the sling messed with both.
Fantastic. Can’t wait to add pain killers to the mix.
I decided to keep the sling on for a while longer and act out a typical day to see what other delights awaited me post-surgery.
Role-Playing my Post-Surgery Recovery
I started my play-acting at the beginning of the day—waking up in the morning.
I lay down on my usual side of my king-size bed. My sling hung over the edge of the bed. I remember reading that my injured arm and shoulder should be fully supported while in bed. Dang. I tried to roll over onto my customary right side to “sleep” and realized that my right side will be my injured side.
Lying there fuming, I remembered a conversation with my surgeon.
“Do you have a recliner?” he asked.
“No.” I said. “Why?”
“You’re going to need to sleep sitting up for 2-4 weeks after surgery,” he said. “If you don’t have a recliner, you’re going to have to prop yourself up with a lot of pillows.”
I got several extra pillows out of my linen closet, put them on the bed, and lay down. 4 pillows seemed like the right number.
I then pretended that my alarm was going off. Because my arm was in the sling I had to roll over on the “injured” arm to turn it off. That was not going to work. Sling still on, I wiggled my way to the other side of the bed. My to-be-recovering arm was now supported and I could use my good arm to turn off the clock radio.
The sling and I got out of bed. Because I was shuffling I immediately caught my foot on an
area rug and almost went down.
Super.
I then went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Since I have a Toto Washlet, using the toilet was one thing that was not going to pose a challenge when being single-handed. Yay.
I mimed washing my face, brushing my teeth, and brushing my hair with only my left hand. Doable, although awkward and slow.
Since I was in the bathroom, I got in the bathtub to mime taking a shower. Obviously, I wouldn’t have the sling on. I bet that would hurt, especially for the first couple of weeks.
The sling and I shuffled back to the bedroom to “get dressed”. This was when I realized the full extent of my soon-to-be predicament. I would be unable to get my soon-to-be healing arm up over my head to take off my nightgown or put on a t shirt. Putting on pants with one hand took a ridiculous amount of time, and I was unable to tie the drawstring on my pants.
Also, I couldn’t tie my sneakers.
Dang.
Still wearing the sling, I sat on the edge of the bed, pondering the absolute depth of the hole I would soon be in. The cat walked in and sat, staring at me. I sighed, got up, and shuffled to the kitchen to check her food and water bowls. Refilling them single-handedly was awkward but doable.
Then I glanced at the cabinet in which I kept the litter box and realized that I would be unable to change it for at least six weeks. That’s one task I’d be happy to delegate for a while.
The sofa was the only seating easy to navigate with the sling on. I sat down, closed my eyes, and thought about what I had discovered in the last hour. Then I thought through additional scenarios, like cooking, doing laundry, working (although I’d already had that discussion with my manager), clerical stuff (getting and opening the mail, paying bills, responding to email), taking medication, etc.
Speaking of medication, I knew that I was going to be taking Oxycodone for pain for the first week or two. So in addition to the physical limitations, I was going to also be out of it for a while.
I needed to make my home idiot-proof because I would be one while taking Oxy.
Thanks to my playacting, I identified all the friction points in my recovery. From that list, I defined all my limitations, figured out what I needed to do pre-surgery to prepare, and how to work around the friction post-surgery.
Here’s what I did.
Preparing for Shoulder Surgery Recovery
This prep took far less time than I thought it would. By the weekend before my surgery I felt as though I had work-arounds for most everything, and I could feel my panic recede.
Arranging for Assistance
I gritted my ridiculously independent teeth and made arrangements for rides to and from the surgery and follow-up appointments, for someone to stay with me for the first night after the surgery, someone to help me take my first shower post-surgery, and someone to clean my condo and change my cat’s litter box for six weeks.
I was astonished and very pleasantly surprised that my family and friends were eager to jump in and help. And were indignant that I was hesitant about asking for help in the first place.
If you live (and sleep) with someone, it’s better to organize your recovery so you sleep alone for the first few weeks. Two reasons: first, you’ll be taking pain meds every four hours; it's better to sleep alone so you don't disrupt your fellow-sleeper. Second, you’re going to be sore, even while on pain meds; it's better to sleep alone to avoid inadvertent jostling from another person in bed with you.
Administrative
Two days before surgery, I paid all my bills that weren’t set up as autopay. I also put a two-week hold on my mail so I wouldn’t have to walk to my mailbox in a drug-induced and Velcroed state.
Mobility
I rolled up all my area rugs and stashed them under the bed, moved the furniture and lamps that I had bashed into, and boxed up my breakable home décor.
I moved the items I used regularly to where I could access them while standing on my soon-to-be unsteady feet. I also got a grabber device just in case (which I still use).
I switched sides of the bed to get used to my new sleeping spot. I eliminated anything superfluous from the top of my new bedside table. I got out the pillows I would need to sleep propped up.
Clothing
I ordered button-front nightgowns, sweater vests, and cardigans, sweatpants with elastic-only waists, and granny panties. I ordered everything two sizes too big and machine washable and dryable. Before deciding to keep an item—including the panties—I tried it on while wearing my sling.
During my recovery, my wardrobe was draped over a loveseat in my office because folding requires two hands.
I also ordered a pair of slip-on sneakers.
Medication
One of the final issues to address was pain management. The one thing drilled into my head during my pre-surgery appointments was to STAY AHEAD OF THE PAIN BY TAKING YOUR MEDS ON TIME.
But—here’s something no one told me: with one arm immobile, you will not be able to open child-proof caps.
Great.
After some thought, I bought disposable plastic condiment cups and lids and used them to hold all the meds I would need to take for four weeks. The lids are easy to get off and on with one hand (yes, I tested them). I used a Sharpie to write on each lid what was in each cup.
I also got a pill splitter and cut some of my pain med pills in half while I still had two hands to make it easier to wean off.
I timed the 4 hours between medications using the timer on my phone, which I preset to 4 hours the day of the surgery while I still had my shit together. Then all I needed to do when I took my pain meds was tap the start button.
Food
A week before surgery I made three large batches of soup, divided them into one-serving microwaveable containers, and froze them. I also bought one-serving protein drinks that I didn’t have to prep (perfect while befuddled by pain meds), and set up an Instacart account.
I used a set of melamine dinnerware and plastic cups for dining for several weeks because they were lighter than my china—and non-breakable.
Hygiene
Post-surgery, my skin was raw from the anti-bacterial soap the hospital insists that you use before the surgery, so I was happy to postpone showering for a few days. I washed my face with these for a few weeks with no ill effects (i.e., zits).
Speaking of showering, get someone to help you shower for the first few times, especially while you’re taking pain meds. To protect your shoulder from water, cut the bottom out of a garbage bag and put the drawstring part over your head (do that before surgery).
I also felt much more secure in the shower with this bath mat.
When I was able to shower solo, I used a back brush to get my back clean—and avoid bending over too far while I was still loopy.
I am a dedicated flosser, and I couldn’t do it with one hand. These made it possible for me to keep up with my dental hygiene.
Dealing with Pets
I arranged for my cleaner to change Zoey’s litter box weekly until I was free of the sling.
The morning of my surgery I cleaned Zoey’s litter box. I also filled her automatic food and water dispensers so she would stay alive during the first week when I would be too groggy to feed her.
FYI—your pets will freak out when you come home from the hospital because you smell weird. It will pass.
If you have a dog, you’ll need to find someone to walk it for you for at least six weeks. As long as you’re in that sling, you’re going to be unsteady on your feet—and not the best playmate for your dog.
One Year Later
The sling and I made it through surgery and recovery. I wanted to set it on fire in my driveway after I took it off for the last time, but my brother persuaded me that the fumes from the foam and plastic components would probably kill me, so I refrained.
Since then I’ve had both shoulders replaced.
Really got my wear out of that sling.
Looking back, I can see that my post-surgery self-care started the minute I tried on the sling at my pre-surgery appointment. Until I put on that sling, I had forgotten how much ordinary life depends on having fully functioning limbs—and that the world is designed for “normal” people.
Years before my shoulder surgeries, my first professional job was coordinating academic support services for disabled university students. I spent a great deal of time in the dorms and classrooms used by students with significant physical disabilities.
What struck me most was not the equipment or the logistics.
It was the waiting.
Waiting for help getting dressed.
Waiting for transportation.
Waiting for doors to open.
Waiting for someone to retrieve something.
Waiting for assistance in bathrooms, cafeterias, classrooms, dorms.
Waiting because the world was designed around bodies that functioned “normally.”
Later, when I gave a lecture to social work students, I built a role-playing exercise around this idea. I had the students simulate a typical day in the life of a disabled student, including the constant waiting.
A couple of disabled students attended the lecture. One of them told me afterward:
“You get it. You actually GET IT.”
I still remember going into the women’s restroom afterward and crying.
Because what moved him was not the role-play itself.
It was being seen.
Post-surgery me wasn’t seen, even by my surgeon—until I put on that sling and saw myself.
Up Next
I decide to replace the assorted flooring on my condo with hardwood.
If you don’t have a bidet, strongly consider one.
Solution:
A non-slip shower mat (this is not optional)
Help for the first shower
No baths (seriously—don’t)
An extra-long back brush so you can actually wash properly with one arm. Otherwise, you’re guessing.
Body:
Extra-long back brush (so you can actually wash one-handed)
Handheld shower head (if you have time to install one)
I ended up living in hands-free slip-on sneakers, and they were so good I still wear them now.
And for anything I couldn’t move, I used a grabber tool so I didn’t have to risk reaching or climbing.
Switched to a flip-straw water bottle I could use one-handed without spills
I used:
Protein drinks (these carried me the first week)
Pre-sorted meds into small easy-open containers
This Prevents a Very Bad Week
Body:
Pre-sort meds into small containers
Label everything clearly
Use a timer for dosing
Keep everything within reach
Split pain meds in advance
This is the difference between staying ahead of pain—and chasing it.
Post-Surgery Reality
A few things no one tells you:
1. You Will Be Exhausted
Random, overwhelming exhaustion.
2. You May Get Emotional
Totally normal.
3. Pets Will Be Confused
You smell weird. You move weird. You act weird.
Give them (and yourself) time.
Recovery
My recovery went well.
Why?
Because I had already solved most of the daily-life problems before surgery.
What I Actually Used (and Would Use Again)
These are the things that made the biggest difference:
Mobility & Safety
Clothing
Button-front tops
Elastic waist pants
Slip-on sneakers
Daily Function
Home & Pets
Bathroom
I don’t recommend things lightly—these solved real problems when I only had one working arm.
Your One-Handed Survival Kit
If you want to shortcut the trial-and-error, this is what actually made recovery manageable.
Mobility & Safety
Grabber tool (reach without bending or climbing)
Clothing That Actually Works
Button-front tops and nightgowns
Elastic waist pants (no ties)
Hands-free slip-on sneakers
Daily Function (The Stuff That Saves You)
Flip-straw water bottle (one-hand usable, no spills)
Small lidded containers for pre-sorting meds
Pill splitter (for preparing to wean off meds-do before surgery)
Food & Energy
Ready-to-drink protein shakes
Microwaveable meal prep containers
Pet support (If applicable)
Water fountain
Self-cleaning litter box (optional, but worth it)
Bathroom Upgrades
Shower mat (again, because it matters that much)
None of this is complicated. But all of it becomes critical when you only have one working arm.
Final Thought
This wasn’t a traditional home RTTPYO.
But the principle is the same:
Identify what will make your life harder—and fix it before it happens.
Bottom Line
Living alone. One arm. Six weeks.
Not easy.
But absolutely doable—if you prepare for it.
Walk through your daily life now, before you have to.
Fix what doesn’t work. Simplify what you can.
That’s RTTPYO.
Next up: A different kind of systems problem—installing hardwood flooring throughout my condo, and what happens when the materials themselves are wrong. It took a lot longer than expected. Here’s what that looked like—and how to deal with it when it’s not your mistake.
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