SHE-E-E’S BACK
WHAT? No applause, balloons, rockets, red glare? Just possibly I underestimate Clinton County’s interest in the idiosyncrasies of a quickly aging woman. Despite knowing that I am never as good at anything as I think I am, I continue to mount Rocinante and head for the nearest windmill.
The unwelcomed hiatus has been due to a broken left wrist. Thanksgiving day was a beautiful day (remember those, so seldom seen). Scilla and I were doing the dinner—she, the turkey breast and pie, I, the sides. Knowing the sides would take much of the afternoon, I decided to go for my walk early. Stopping to admire a neighbor’s Christmas decorations, I stumbled. My mind, inspired by Simone Biles mid-air vault, attempted a 2.5 while my body screamed, “Are you out of your mind, Mind? It was a three point landing. Broken wrist, the mama of all mama’s fat lip, and slight facial bruising. Instead of fixing dinner, Scilla and I spent four hours in the emergency room to learn that “yes, the wrist was broken, go home, take Tylenol, and make an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon.”
Where are we? Thanksgiving day with the weekend coming, It took five days to contact a surgeon. Comparing his x-rays with those taken initially by the hospital, the break had worsened. My left arm was encased in a hard plastic/vinyl,velcro cast extending from my knuckles almost to the elbow. There was an undersleeve of probably polyester, extending beyond the cast in both directions. Before relating the one million and one things impossible to do with one hand, let me address the undersleeve. Within 72 hours it smelled—no, reeked. There was no way to keep the undersleeve around the fingers dry and, since once again that little girl didn’t show up to help, I was still trying to manage activities of daily living. Finally my Columbus grandson, who is licensed in orthotics and prosthetics, removed the cast and changed the sleeve. As the wrist healed, I became more confident in doing the same, but initially was hesitant for fear of worsening the situation. Thankfully I am reduced to a velcro wrist cast, which is off far more than on.
What cannot one do with one hand? Drive a car; blow your nose; fasten a bra (thank goodness it is winter and heavy sweatshirts are de rigueur ); pick up anything heavier than a kleenex; make the bed; do the laundry; fold clothes; get dressed/undressed in less than 45 minutes; tie shoes—tie anything at all; button buttons; snap snaps; wash/dry dishes; open any size lid on any bottle, be it milk, pills, detergent; open envelopes, take a shower with the affected limb wrapped in a plastic bag, and even then, scrubbing with one hand feels less than clean; turn the pages of a book, and of course that means the book has to be closed to pick up the glass of wine. The list is endless.
A particular problem was my hair. It’s miserable hair, long, fine and thinning. Because of the latter, I wear it in a ponytail. Not with one hand. The day was windy and since I could not put on a coat due to the case, I was wearing a wrap. My loose hair was blowing, the wrap billowing. A small child looked at his mother and asked, “Mommy, is that a real witch?” “Shhh, just take my hand.”
It could have been so much worse. I could have broken my right hand, or my left arm, shoulder, hip. The biggest consequence is that I have lost confidence. My balance is not good. I have to stop moving so suddenly. That will be a hard habit to break, but another break is the very last thing I want.
A final reality. Since Thanksgiving, I have not cleaned the house. Guess what I will be doing tomorrow.
