And that’s exactly what it is. A non-update. Status Quo. No change. Keep on keepin’ on. I met with the surgeon yesterday. Our conversation went like this.
Doc: “Everything looks great, you are right on track”.
Me: “Amazing! I brought a list of questions.”
Doc: “Ok, let’s hear them”
And then it went like this:
Me: “Can I…”
Doc: “No.”
Me: “Ok. Could I then…”
Doc: “No.”
Me: “Right. How about…”
Doc: “No.”
And so it went for all 8 of my questions – which, let’s face it, were all asking in one way or another for a Get Out Of Jail Free Card. But the truth is that I have 3 weeks and 6 more days left in the sling (also known as the arm cooker as per Anja – and a truer name was never assigned, given its black polyester nature and the 32C nights).
And so onwards I go, perfecting my left hand-typing, mouse-maneuvering, veggie-chopping skills. But I still can’t tie my own shoes.
It’s been a little over 48 hours since I had surgery to fix the fracture in my shoulder which dated back to January. Although I was hoping to postpone it until the summer was over, my surgeon (and inner-smart person, when I decide to listen to her) felt sooner was better in order to prevent more damage. So I pouted, mentally kicked and screamed, squeezed in 2 road rides the day before the operation and drove to the hospital for a 7 am check-in. Highway 99 sure is pretty at 5:45am…
Frequent flyer
Fast-forward 7 hours, 4 screws, 2 surgeons and some fantastic nurses (who remembered me from knee surgery 6 months ago) at Squamish General and Jay was driving me home in a lovely fog. I know we discussed several things, none of which I can really remember. My kids were kind and happy to see me and I was happy to hit the couch.
These last few 48 hours haven’t been easy; discomfort morphs into pain if I’m not careful, I can’t sleep and the best part? It’s 34 degrees and my arm is pinned to my side, making me an itchy mess.
Jay has kindly taken the kids away for the weekend, leaving me a quiet house in which to properly rest (or, as the case may be, type blog posts with one hand). I know I’ll appreciate it more tomorrow but for now the house is eerily quiet and I’m wandering from place to place, a bit nervous about how I’m going to take care of myself as a one-armed bandit.
See you in September, road-selfie.
Herewith, a list of things I’ve discovered that I can and cannot do, one-handed.
I cannot…
Start the lawnmower.
Use a shovel.
Open a jar of pickles.
Negotiate buttons.
Make a decent sandwich.
Apply mascara.
Pick up kids.
I can…
Karate chop an apple with a kitchen knife (quite fun, actually).
Shimmy into clothing from the ground up.
Type with my left hand.
(Good god – I hope this list gets longer.)
Soon I will…
Swim. Run. Flail my arms with glee. Pick up my kids and squish them.
Bring on the patience potion, grasshopper!
This will be my last pity post. Here’s to being on the mend, having a patient and helpful partner, universal healthcare, sunny days and a good left arm to toast with.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted, mainly because I’ve been mopey. Nobody wants to hang around mopey, much less read about mopey. So I’m trying to move past mopey into more hopeful. Mopeful, maybe?
My body is nowhere near 100% fixed, as much as I like to pretend it is. Watching the winter pass me by has been very frustrating – particularly not being able to ski. I miss skiing and feel like I am missing out on a lot with the kidlets.
I’ve tried a few days of skate skiing without poles which was ok, but otherwise my workouts have been limited to the gym, pool running (ugh) and the wind trainer… endless hours on the wind trainer. Actually, I’m pretty proud of myself for the workouts I’ve developed: they are based solely on TV characters. When character A comes on, I spin 100 rpm. When his enemy comes on, I spin 80 rpm, etc. etc. It actually makes time fly. As much as time can fly on a wind trainer at 5:30am. Maybe I’ll trademark these workouts and become an infomercial superstar! (Wait… do infomercials still exist?)
I celebrated 1 month post-op with a 1km run on the treadmill in the garage – which I then had taken away from me by a well-meaning physio who told me to back off again. I may or may not had shed tears of frustration. Not having the ability to run daily has had a huge effect on my ability to manage my anxiety, so for both my physical and mental health I’m hoping to get back at it sooner rather than later.
Baby steps, I suppose. In the meantime, while I build my body back up, I’ll continue to lurk on race websites, read blogs, try to pick up a hobby, follow people’s twitter updates and will the snow to melt and my body to heal so I can once again get out and play.
—
Know thyself
A few weeks ago, I was headed to the city to run some errands and let the boys know I’d be picking them up some tees and hoodies as they’d outgrown/destroyed the ones they had. Rory piped up that he “wanted a pink t-shirt with a skateboarder on it, but if they don’t have that, I’ll just get whatever”.
Not a dude.
Will looked at me and said “I don’t want to be a dude”. I was a little confused by this comment and replied “but you’re a boy, therefore you are a dude.” He elaborated: “No, no. I don’t want to be a dude, like who skateboards and wears pink shirts and stuff. I like Lego and books and calmer stuff. I just want a plain blue t-shirt”.
It’s interesting to me that at 6 years old, he’s pretty self-aware. And so very, very different from his brother.
—
Meanwhile…
I bought Anja a new coat as she’d outgrown her current one (belly coats, anyone?) She came downstairs, saw it and said “OH MINE GOODNESS! It’s Beee-ooootiful”!
I like an appreciative kid.
Never undressed.
—
Completely unrelated to anything
I was at one of my recent 298374 doctors appointments waiting for the doc when I saw this:
I must have been having a bad day because it infuriated me. I’m no feminist, but COME ON. Set your daughter up with some slightly higher standards than “Diva”. I hate that moniker applied to little girls – never mind newborns. How about “Astronaut in Training” or “Athlete in Training” or “Average, healthy kid in training”? Anything is better than Diva.
*steps off soap box*
—
Don’t ask.
I gave up chocolate for Lent. I’m not religious, nor have I ever given anything up for Lent. I wonder what possessed me this year. So far so good. But The Chocolate Easter Bunny better watch his back March 31. And his ears. And tail.
—
Yesterday
It was the first warm and sunny day we’d had in a long time. I spent a lot of it thinking about Mum. She used to love early Spring days and would bundle up into her coats and blankets, drag an old chair to a sunny spot somewhere outside and read her book till the sun became shade. I think that early spring days will always remind me of Mum and some of her ingrained habits. I can’t believe that it’s already been 6 months without her.
—
I’m back at work! Bring on the sitting, office snacks and the fluorescent lighting. And hopefully more positive blog updates.
They take care of me by taking care of themselves. Sometimes.
Let me preface this by saying that, in the grand scheme of things, my current injuries are very minor. I’m mobile, upright and for the most part, coherent. When I start to feel sorry for myself, I think of a friend who’s son is in hospital and mentally slap myself and thank my lucky stars.
That being said, being injured sucks. A few weeks ago, I fractured my shoulder. As I was peeling myself off the ground – knowing instantly that I’d done a fair bit of damage, random thoughts ran through my brain:
“There’s NO WAY I’m calling patrol. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Ugh. How am I going to get my shirt off?”
“Stay calm. Kids are watching.”
“Well, there goes swimming for a while. Can I bike? Run? Skate ski?”
See? Inconvenient but not that big of a deal. Does it hurt? Yes. Is it awkward? Yes: just ask anyone who’s watched me pull off a sweater. Do I think I did more damage than good when I caught the blender falling off the counter a few days ago? Oh hell yes.
Being hard-headed, I knew I had a minor knee surgery scheduled for yesterday. Despite knowing that hobbling around on crutches probably wasn’t going to happen, I refused to re-schedule in the hopes that I’d be weight-bearing. And waddya know? The stars aligned, and here I am. Weight-bearing and feeling like I’ve been punched in the thigh. Peeling off the dressing last night made for a super fun family activity, one that all kids were keen to get involved in!
The good news is that surgery went smoothly and that frankly, it was the best sleep I’ve had in YEARS. The bad news is that there are potentially 2 more to come. But I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I’m being shoved over it.
In the meantime, I’m going to work on physio/recovery/rehad like it’s my job. There are too many upcoming adventures hanging in the balance not to!
The SMO's stories 