I’ve spent just over a week adjusting to my new reality- a broken right humerus bone.
There’ve been surprises.
First: I sleep- a lot. I sleep all night, wake up around four o’clock a.m. as usual, pad around for a while, and fall asleep again as soon as I sit. I can sleep most of a day away (a quieter body promotes mending.) In between snoring I’ll ride the stationary bike and catch up on news. Eat something. Hug Bryn-dog. Everything always ends in sleep, though. And I still sleep all the night long, even with so many day naps. In fact, by 8:30 p.m. I’m so tired I don’t move, once bed-settled. Not an inch.
Second: I’m learning to carefully think before I move, which avoids shocking jolts of pain. Spontaneity is a no-no.
I’ve discovered huge bruises, six days later. My arm – and right side- have turned black and gray. Ugh. And the blackened areas itch and are tender. I can’t scratch. Probably a good thing.
Lots of can’ts.
Can’t cut meat, or cheese, butter toast, fix hair, floss; can’t wear coats, or my backpack, shirts- anything with sleeves- or pants. (Buttons and zippers are impossible.) Not a hope. But I unearthed some elderly pull-on sweat pants: perfect.
Can’t be around crowds- too much risk of being bumped. A howl of agony isn’t socially acceptable. Half way to the packed Frankenmuth Ice Sculpture Festival we remembered that danger and turned around.
Can’t walk Bryn (Joe has caught me holding Bryn’s leash in my slinged right hand!), or write checks, or walk outside, or tie my shoes or snowboots. Can’t cook, or wear a bra. The list is endless. I need Joe for the simplest things. Things I always took for granted. So, practically the first thing I did was to send $100 to Wounded Warriors Foundation. Those heroes- those defenders of our right to live free to watch soccer games and laugh, and hug in public, and say what we think- must cope with this sort of thing for as long as they live! We live in the Land of the Free because of the brave. (Poor me- I face only a few months of dependence/inconvenience. Big deal.)
Where was I? Oh- yeah. Some ‘cans.’
Four days into this adventure I did an assessment. 95% of me is fine. Up and operating. Only one little part is dysfunctional. So, I decided there was no reason I couldn’t drive. My leased Buick’s layout makes it impossible to reach over to shift, but my old Subaru, which is configured differently, allows the motion without more than a twinge. So I c.a.r.e.f.u.l.l.y eased into the driver’s seat, pulled the seat belt over my uninjured shoulder and buckled up. (Putting on a passenger side seatbelt will be impossible for a long time.)Then I practiced backing up, reached over to put it in ‘drive’ - and then –went. It worked! Staying off main streets I drove to a hairdresser recommended by a friend, who assured me that the lady would listen to what I wanted. (I can’t cut my hair, or cut anything, for a long time. Meanwhile, my unruly locks had grown too long to see properly, so a decent trim was imperative.)
She DID listen, and I drove home happy, even though she couldn’t wash it. Too painful.
It really annoyed me that I’d had to wear the same long underwear top for days and days. Frankly, I was beginning to stink. So I parked myself in the bathroom and had a think. (Joe could have helped, but I wanted to figure this stuff out myself.)
The door handle! It wasn’t a knob, but a lever…Perfect! I hooked the grubby undershirt’s thumbhole to the lever, which was rock steady because the door was closed, and slowly, slowly pulled it off the uninjured arm. Then I inched the shirt over my head using my good arm. That left only the wounded part to denude. To move it even a little brought stabs of pain. But there had to be a way. (Joe once told me that one could climb any stairs at any age, if one went about it s.l.o.w.l.y. “Just do one step at a time. It may take a while, but you’ll definitely get there. If you must, pack a lunch to eat on the journey. But never give up and just sit.”)
O.K. Applying the same reasoning, I took ages to remove the complicated sling before inching that cotton shirt’s long sleeve a millimeter at a time over the broken shoulder. Then down, down the blackened arm. Five minutes later it was off. Phew! I flung it into the laundry with a shout of triumph.
Next challenge. A shower. Again, the same approach. Turn on the water. Step in, shampoo, scrub what I could, rinse, towel-dry, all with the one operating hand. (An old belt served admirably to brace my broken arm.) I was jubilant! Putting on a fresh underwear top required doing everything in reverse. It took forever. But, ‘impossible’ goals like this are not ‘out of reach,’ mostly because Time and I are friends.