Bus

Since the swelling subsided, I got the splint snugged up. Took the bus up because why not.



Called a recommended house cleaner to tend to the floors. Driving me mad, I can't sweep or mop, however slowly. Everything else I can manage, in time. Weird the stuff that bugs you. I could ask Dylan, but he doesn't see dirt, and I'd get irritated or disappointed or both. Not worth it, he does what he can. Wednesday, they will come get the floors, tomorrow, I will get everything done that I can that is not floors.

On Palm Sunday, I put so much off, figuring I'd take care of cleaning later, with a deep clean in May. Then that Monday* Happened. Now I'm so behind and losing ground. The ground is all over the floors. And what I want to do is keep the garden going, however slowly. Taking care of cats. Therappy thrice daily, at least. Normally not much, feels so much muchness.

Why is this thus? What is the reason for this thusness?






*"Holy" Week my aunt fanny.

Screwed

Go home dad, you're drunk.



Just a short way down the sidewalk on our block. It's a constant source of retelling that joke. Graffiti in a bar, more usually.

Neighbor walking in with her friend, tells how I broke my arm, specifically where. I added detail. Friend says "That's not funny." I said, "Actually, it is." She laughs, proving me right.

In the core of surgery, in an orthopedic hospital, surrounded by nurses and techs and surgeons. One hand surgeon, Dr.K, working that day, and honestly I was relieved that his schedule was packed, and I'd eaten lunch 90 minutes before. Dr.K may be technically proficient, but he is slow, and does not treat staff well.

Core tech, as I lay on the floor with my eyes closed, not moving, in a bit of shock, kept asking the nurses if she should get an ice bag. After several tries, she threw up her hands and got one anyway. Susan put a pad under my wrist, which felt pretty awful but needed doing. Kelsey took my pouch and put it in my locker. Brandie took my iPad and sent Dylan a message. Which helped later when asked for the time of the Incident.

Another one up in clinic, Dr.H who I trust and enjoy working with, made room in his OR schedule the next day to take care of me. Before that, he leaned in - "Let's talk politics, who do you want doing your surgery..." And he meant it. Him, or either of the other two hand surgeons, without hesitation. He offered the non-surgical option, without enthusiasm, and accepted my gut assessment that I needed it screwed down tight.


Going to make this into a button for my return. Fall Risk.

Promenade

Long, long ago, when I was in high school, there was this weird leftover ritual from a previous century - the Prom. Remnant of Coming Out, no doubt originally from being Presented to The Royal Court, and for the upper classes, entering young women into Society so they could make advantageous marriages for their families. Dwindled to a dance for students to spend a lot of money to accomplish nothing at all.

OK, maybe if I'd had a boyfriend... nope, even more pointless. I'd have preferred a quiet snog in the library.

My mother offered to fund it, find a dress, even make one (she was skilled enough, but I would have been granted little say.) Even if I had someone to go with, the whole idea seemed ridiculous. I attended HS dances, and never got asked to dance. How would spending more money improve this? I wasn't sad about it, I was relieved. A formal ritual? Had those in church, first communion and confirmation, hated both. Dressing up on a tight budget was not any kind of pleasure. I can't say how often I was told I'd regret it if I didn't go.

Know how many times I've regretted it? Compared to how many times I was SO glad I didn't give in to pressure?

About as many times as I've regretted having children vs. not.

Never, not once, not a bit.

Living life to a script is no life.


Swelling down profoundly. Will go in Monday to get the splint snugged up and otherwise adjusted. Typing with both hands. This is all feeling more hopeful. Still, woke up with my arm in deep pain and stiffness, so I told myself "Of course it hurts, I broke it, it's gonna hurt."

Post

The stretch always feels good.

Then. Opposition.



Then the flippity-flopity.



Counting.




Always better after, which is very encouraging. At day 12 post fracture, inclusive.

Yesterday. Shopping cart trip for catsoup poultry, other groceries, not really a long walk, long enough. Everything takes 3X as long, twice the effort, half the progress. The floors are all filthy. I'm struggling to keep dishes cleaned, kitchen counters semi-clear, my own hand washed. Spring light and mud, and here I am trying not to notice too much. Waves of despair, aches, and exhaustion. Took drugs last night, slept better, feeling more able today. Dylan off to see a movie, with my blessing. I pulled weeds and grasses. Walked for beer, which keeps me from being tempted to take opioids. Did, a half, last night, slept better than since the 14th. Pre break days.

Glad I haven't shaved since 1988.



No damn shaving.

View

In December, if asked, I would have said I needed a month off. Perhaps the beginning of burn out, not quite there. A week in February was nice, but not long enough. I came back saying, 'not long enough.'

And here I am with at least a month off work. No option. Can't even go to meetings. (FMLA. Which makes sense when flipped around.) Here I am scraping the lesson out of the turd. But it's a damn fine gift, however packaged. A chance to walk, slow waaaaaay down, garden one handed, let the left hand rule and teach. Practice patience.

Two phone calls today, Workers Comp and hospital safety, keeping on top of admin. Kindness, thoroughness.

Not just making the best of bad, but accepting the gift and it's price and strings, as valuable entire. It's hard, it's none of it a pleasure unalloyed.

Oh, the view is magnificent.

Like hiking with the ex, with my inadequate gear and prep and altitude sickness, through the Grand Tetons. Cold, sore, wet, already regretting the marriage. The beauty stays with me, and my own toughness, and I cannot regret those. The path to here and now.

Absolutely gorgeous.

Found

We found art in the neighborhood.

Derecho

So, once I feel safe, I am allowed to drive with the brace on. Not yet, I certainly don't feel I have control of my hand yet. But not as long as another four weeks either.

I find myself encouraging Derecho like a small, timid child.

Gardened ridiculously slowly, sitting flat on the ground, one handed weeding, put down a wildflower/mulch pellet mix. New corner neighbor out in her garden, a former landscaper who plans to open an airbnb and coffee shop. Wound up offering the long term loan of my rarely used push mower, she offered to help with weed whacking. More stories of injuries, a common theme of my life now, everyone has a story, and I am the current designated Listener. Well, that's fine.

The formal x-ray report:

There is an acute comminuted impacted fracture of the distal radial metaphysis with dorsal displacement of 1 full shaft width, 1.3 cm of fragment overlap, and approximately 50 degrees of dorsal angulation.
The remaining imaged osseous structures are intact.
Mild first metacarpophalangeal osteoarthritis.
Prominent surrounding soft tissue swelling.

So there.

Titanium

Resplinted, exercise routine in place, Surgeon happy with healing & strength so far. I can get incision wet. Compression bandages on to reduce swelling. Supply person showed me the same plate implanted, with ten, count 'em ten, screws. Exercises as expected, still not too bad. Tired.



Shiny. Titanium.

Zing

Thunderstorm yesterday afternoon, raining this morning. Friends over to watch Yojimbo and eat last night. Slept well, woke with shin splints - walked too much. Took no pain meds yesterday at all. Not to say it's painless, but not enough, not persistent enough, to take drugs. I'll save them for PT days. Lots of weird little pulls and zings, mostly transient.

Lots of songs running through my head. I seem to be focusing on art as much as practicalities. Dying my hair (yes I did) taking care of nails, weeding, the silly photos, writing, all seem of equal importance, based on how much time & effort I'm putting into it all. Lefty is improving on getting caps open, buttons, combing. Right is stretching further every day. Thumb twiddling has commenced.



Bruised up by the elbow, ulnar side. Not really painful. Not the orange prep, my surgeon doesn't use that, as I should bloody well know, having prepped hundreds of his cases. The little bruises are from the nerve blocks.


Lie still, little bottle, and shake my shaky hand
Black coffee's not enough for me, I need a better friend
One pill at the bottom is singing my favorite song
I know I must investigate
I hope that I can sing along

There's no time for metaphors cried the little pill to me
He said, "Life is a placebo masquerading as a simile"
Well, I knew that pill was lying
Too gregarious, too nice
But as he walked I had to sing this twice

Lie still, little bottle
Don't twist, it ain't twistin' time
With every move you make you just disintegrate my ever-troubled mind

Lie still, little bottle, and shake my shaky hand
Black coffee's not enough for me, I need a better friend
One pill at the bottom is singing my favorite song
I know I must investigate
I hope that I can sing along

-They Might Be Giants

Nails

Woke too early, got catsoup started at 0430. Dishes run, showered while Dylan was home, walked to get groceries. He's got the allergies, trees. Napped around 0900. More walking, got beer, odd/consignment clothes shop had harem pants. Got home, did not fit. Getting menopause-spread bad. Walked back, exchanged pants, met Dylan at the library, read Rolling Stone's Jordan Peele, in part, waiting for end of shift.

Sat out with Moby a long stretch, as he basked. Eton Grasse.



Keeping myself busy, moving, engaged. Have not had more than a week of vacation... since moving out to Boston? Oh.

Went for a pedicure, toenails a mess, Dylan anxious about hurting me. Best thing to happen to me all week. Feet and lower legs cleaned and tended, young woman with a lot more English than I have Vietnamese, which is none as should be obvious. (If I go in again, I will learn how to at least say thank you.) When she put the hot towel over my feet, I cried, quietly, in humble gratitude. The color on my tiny toenails is silly, but irrelevant.

I find having my feet washed more humbling than washing another's feet.

Fingernails are my own issue, Dylan trimmed my left hand for me. My damn right hand can just fuckoff.

Acronymics

Sam is helping, good bear.




Since my legs are working just fine, we went out to walk. Lovely lunch, picked up an item ordered pick-up-in-store from last weekend, all on public transportation and feet.

Warm enough to be out in short sleeves, sat on the porch a long time as Moby basked.

I'm cheerful and well, except for the injury and a host of little bruises and sore spots. Getting in better shape, in every way I can. Taking very few pain meds, none since last night, and cut in half. Moving my fingers more every day. Left hand getting the idea, enjoying the challenge. Feel patient and kindly to all.Getting help all over the place.


Lots of forms and admin, as this is workers comp, FMLA, PTO, other letters sure to come for my ORIF. Like being in the army again. FUBAR.

Piano

It's been a unholy week, with grace notes. The full moon through our front tree this morning, Eleanor like a furry, purring tumor on my chest through the night, the greening garden running off grinning - taunting "you can't catch me!" Beats kneeling in a grim church praying to an absent god. I will sit out in the sun later today.

Moving my fingers on the damaged side, proof of progress. Taking minimal pain meds, half doses at longer intervals, not letting the pain overtake me. This has let me sleep sufficiently. When I was a kid, cough syrup came with codeine, OTC. I remember a flu, and that stuff, and the most lovely cozy sleep. This is very much the same, not drugged up, a soft respite. I know to be cautious.

My training as a scrub is proving worthwhile, getting creative with one, non dexterous hand. I don't know how to do what I need to do, I do know how to approach the problems. I am my own patient in that way.

Dylan is my other hand. And having an on site IT guy is vital.

We can't find Eleanor's hairball treats that we got Sunday. The pitcher we ordered came in at tarjay, picking it up is harder. Getting to the plant sale in May could be difficult if I'm not driving yet. I can't shave Dylan's head. I don't want to cut my long hair, but keeping it tied back is a bit of a bugger. He has no future as a hair stylist.I keep thinking of places I'd like to pick something up, realizing getting there will be a problem. Nail clipping for felines and humans will be fun.

When I hit the floor, apparently I screamed, but after that I only swore with the words shit and bugger, which I'm oddly proud of. Shit is our business, so I always considered it a fair swear at work. And bugger isn't acknowledged as a swear here, but since I know it is, it still helps. Swearing helps pain tolerance.

Cone

That ain't right.



Better. Stable. Enormous improvement. Up several times to the toilet, seem to recall this as a thing after anesthesia. Can't quite remember what.

What my amusing surgeon Wrote. A YES or initials on the correct side is policy, they still get creative.



The card.



Now I want to make myself a Cone of Shame, take a photo & sent it to them. There were also flowers and candy.

Oh. I should wear it to my first post-op visit....

Auto fill is my left hand's new best friend, if occasionally a bit erratic.

community

home. feel much more stable, screwed back together. dense block, and no crepitus sensation. treated as a valued and loved person. they gave me flowers and chocolates and grippy socks. the last being a joke or joshing. it is funny.

more tomorrow.

thanks for all your kind support.

Irrelevancies

I've seen it so often, when there is a traumatic event, people focus on little things. It's a useful coping mechanism, I've done it myself. Yesterday, last night, I exhibited it profoundly. My short term memory was shot to hell, not much improved today. I worried about handing off my room, getting my pouch secured in my locker, as mild shock set in.I though about PTO & workers comp, and blowing two holes in a schedule already snug for staff, and if they would do the ORIF with a surgical block since I'd had lunch at 1100.

I was clear, tried to be funny, reassuring everyone that I was not going to panic, was accepting help, did not have a brain injury.

Last night I got up so I wouldn't keep Dylan awake. He needed his sleep. I'll get mine this afternoon anyway. And I read up. OF COURSE I did. Dr.Hand* gave me both immobile and surgical option, depending on X-rays. After X-rays I could tell it was still not absolutely clear, but when I said my gut feeling from the first moment was that I would need surgery, I could tell he was leaning that way, but did not want to sway me.

The block is holding, but the fracture is not stable. Movement feels awful, even though it's still largely numb.

I confessed to Dylan that I'd taken him for granted yesterday, and would do so today. I promised I never would. He says that's fine.

My head is making lists, then misplacing them.

broken

hi.

I broke my arm. three hours ago. at work. slipped, fell, knew immediately

surgery tomorrow

bugger

right arm

fastest response team ever

best block anesthesiologists got me numb

Dylan got there right after X-ray,filled out incident reports, worker comp, paperwork done.

I have paid time well accrued



so, for a bad thing, I'm in the best situation

still

bugger

Candyman

Continuing to dig up foxtail grasses and transplant wayward mint plants instead. Let them take over the verge. With the rain falling and snow expected, it will settle in well. The earlier moving mints are alive and promising already. Got a half inch of water yesterday. This won't end the drought, it will help this summer's garden.

When I was small, I attended an Easter party at All Saint's Church. There was a guess the number of jelly beans contest, that I won. Got the softest stuffed bunny, in real bunny colors. As I waited on the church steps for my mother to pick me up, several bigger girls that thought they should have won, took the bunny off of me. My mother showed up later, and told some of the church committee people about it. I don't know if the girls were ever confronted, but the church men gave me another bunny, bright yellow. I was well enough taught that I expressed effusive gratitude. A bright yellow bunny was not at all the same, the injustice was not corrected. A valuable lesson, that stings over fifty years on.



Sometimes the world sends an apology. Being on geological time, it's almost immediate.

Dylan pulled bunny out of the bag when I got home. As I told him about the floor cloths we'd hoped to get that would not in fact be feasible, he held bunny. Suddenly I looked at him and said, "You got me a bunny! Thank you!" and hugged him. This is how we give gifts between us. He grinned and presented the bunny to me. Perhaps I'll call her Evelyn.

Crabtree&Evelyn have always smelled wonderful to me, and I am repulsed by most scented products. Went to my local gift/stationary/bunny store, that has been in business a long, long time, to get the face cream that works for me. And was told that C&E were going to only 'mazon&targay. Ah, well, everything has a lifetime. Got one last stash for half price.


Remembering being taken with when mom would pick up dad from work. One car, no place to park all day near the factory*, she wanted it for errands anyway, and it was only a couple of miles. I was allowed, sometimes urged, to walk the block from where she could park, to stand by the door, and wait for shift change, to meet dad. The sidewalk was wider than usual in Detroit, and I would lean against the red brick wall, listening for the horn to signal end of shift. The men would trickle out in ones and twos, then gouts and a torrent, and it was a little frightening to be standing out there all alone, pressing back out of the way. It was also a time that I could be by myself, unseen, unnoticed anyway, out of the house. All the legs. I only remember legs and feet.

Wolverine Tubing is a ruin today.



I don't remember any women. The men in regular trousers, not suit pants, but not denim either, not when I was very small. They worked in coveralls, but changed clothes, (I found out when the factory had an open house when I was maybe 7 or 8.) I wasn't eager to see my father, except that it meant I could stop standing there. But he would arrive, sometimes pick me up, often he'd have gotten me a treat from The Candyman. A ball of sugar that would change colors as I licked through the layers was my favorite. Not for the flavor, the artistry.

My father was never angry then. I think he liked showing off to the other men that his little girl waited for him. I'm certain I was always in a dress, at that stage. I expect my older brothers did the same when they were little. It's an oddly neutral memory for me.

I expect I met whomever it was that sold/gave him candy for me, not that I remember him. Only the name, and that he was the source of candy.

*The copper tubing factory closed and moved in the 70s. My father got a job in a steel mill, then more layoffs in the recession, during my adolescence, misery multiplied. Then he hired on at the cemetery as a groundskeeper, which got mom flowers and he lost another finger, but also a decent retirement.


“I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”

Rainer Maria Rilke

Out

Dylan headed out to walk, Moby says, "oh, good, I'm going out."



We take care of each other.

I'm soaking up tea and resting everything but my sore foot. Sore foot has PT to do. Screw sore foot.

Turds

Saw my physical therapist yesterday to dry needle my foot. She also did a full evaluation, after reading the foot PA's notes from January. She went way over how much this would be unpleasant, making sure several times, full disclosure... blah, blah, blah. All with me certain and both of us laughing. PTs are funny people, I think they have to be. Mine is delightful.

She oversold the pain, it was nowhere near as bad as a full calf/foot spasm that would wake me at night. My leg and foot did tap without my volition, which amused Dylan. Gave me further exercises, which I have also now done. And I woke this morning sore, but less stiff, and without that hard deep spasm that I never could break. Walking around the house is easier, and I hope to walk miles soon.


I knew it would help. I knew she would help. And I'm glad I got my foot to this point first.

The other good news is that Moby's bowels are working. Yesterday, hard turds were followed by a substantial soft one. I'd started giving him an abdominal massage the evening before, which he totally relaxed into. I only stopped when he vocalized an "ok, enough" sound. (He's a very communicative cat.) So, when the little log was spotted, Dylan and I were joyous. The kind of rejoicing that floor nurses with gut surgery patients have for them at the first post-op farts. It means the gut is waking up, and they cheer. Moby get's a daily belly squish from now on.

Moby's been sitting up on the back of the couch, we heard a thumpathump, he'd gone off the wrong side. So last night, we laid down padding for him.



This morning.

"Hey, this is good."


I got called off for low census. Given that I'm not feeling so hot, this is a gift. Cold sores on my lip and up my nose. I will rest, putz around the garden a little, and do my PT.

Keys

Addendumb:




Put more stuff on, with a larger ring, so it's harder to lose. We just don't carry as many keys anymore. No separate trunk lock, or apartment building and apartment door, or even front door back door. Two keys are easy to drop and not notice.

After running the full ten hours yesterday, today was more lax. Breaks between cases, not late finishing. I changed, had my keys in my hand, walked out, and nurse K was in the elevator, so I got in as well, shifting my badge into my hand instead to be ready to clock out. After that, I reached for my keys. That were not there.

A frantic search, tracing my steps, questioning my memory, help from my cow-orkers, a mild to moderate panic. Messaged Dylan, who simply got a Lyft, as I did one more search. Finally figured my keys dropped down the elevator shaft gap as I fumbled, didn't hear it because I was chatting with K. It's the only explanation that makes any damn sense. There was nowhere else.

It speaks to how much Dylan has earned my trust over the years, that I never for a moment thought he would do anything other than solve the problem as best he could. After my childhood and failed marriage, this is notable. He called the dealership, which was horrifying. So I did a little more research, and AAA will reimburse us for the new key, and our favorite locksmiths will make us a new key. If it costs the same or less than the (awful) dealership, it'll be worth it. I do hate car dealerships, shady at the best.

So, tomorrow. Our reliable local locksmiths are getting our business.


Car keys are a security issue, but they shouldn't be the scam they seem to have become.

Not feeling so perky this week.