Woke up with my shoulder slipping out of its socket.  This happens occasionally, when I move a certain way.  It always gets me out of bed.  It would be a very effective alarm clock, if not for the debilitating arthritis such daily dislocations would cause.  I used to be able to pop it back in, just by sitting up and, using my right arm, positioning my left arm up over my head and into a position that is just like I was trying to reach an itch in the middle of my back.  That used to be enough to coax the parties back into agreement, when things were not so loose as now.  That method still almost does the trick, but not quite, ever since a seizure around Christmas.  My shoulder stayed out of joint for two days—much longer than usual—as I tried to find my way through the dark and friendless landscape of a post-seizure stupor.  Now, hanging is the only method that works. 

In order to cure my wide-eyed distress this morning, I launched onto my feet, which is difficult to do from a futon when both arms are immobile.  I was gripping my left wrist in my right hand, providing crucial support for my unstable arm.  It was a task to get vertical, but once on my feet, I used my right arm to lift my left hand up to grip the top of the kitchen door, my shoulder creaking and popping like dry metal on metal; dry, rusted metal.  Hanging by one arm from the top of the door, I gradually let my weight pull down on my shoulder.  More creaks and snaps, but less pain.  Finally my shoulder arrived home, averse to all the attention from the surrounding ligaments and tendons, now cheering in relief.