Sometimes when I am thinking of things to write in this blog I imagine writing a blog about a normal day, a normal day post injury that is. But then in my mind I think it would be so phucking boring I might actually be responsible for further suffering. Of others.
I mean I might get a chortle or two out of someone when I talk about holding down the baby with my not so small thigh so I can change his log filled nappies. Almost suffocating him in dimply flab as my leg now does what my arm can’t. Maybe a chortle. Or a call from docs.
Or telling you how I struggle every day, without improvement thus far, in getting the planets into their bra. I sit there willing with everything I have for my shit hand to hold that strap still so I can hook it with the good hand. It never does it and every day I curse, stretch, grimace, frown, fart, perspire, grimace some more, twist my body into a pretzel, hurt myself, bend my damaged fingers back, cry out in pain, repeat and then eventually when I am at full maniac status allow Husband to help me. He is always very annoyed I don’t ask him first. He is an expert in my planets. A virtual astronaut if you will.
Then there is feeding the horses which is generally straightforward until a buckle has come undone on the yearlings rug and because tying him up is way too much trouble when you only have one arm I just try and fasten the three popped buckles whilst he is eating. Of course this means that not only does he put his head up and down 678 times whilst I am attempting to fasten his buckles, every single head movement comes at the exact moment I have managed to thread one of the buckles, against all odds, and it falls out. I honestly do not know how that horse is still alive. Just remembering this episode right now makes me want to go outside and kill him.
Then I get ready to leave for work and attempt to carry my bag and a coffee to the car. Try opening the car door whilst carrying a bag and a traveller coffee with one arm. If I had a free arm I would punch myself in the face with it.
So you can see already that writing about my day is boring as bat shit. And yet I have started and cannot stop. Oh you agree its boring, tell someone who cares.
My day doesn’t get any funnier at work unfortunately. I talk into my big dick microphone all day, eat bananas, cry out when my shoulder pops out, which for some reason is all the time, and make six hundred trips around the office talking to all and sundry about the four million portfolios I hold.
I am noticing people staring a lot. If there is something worse than everyone asking ‘what happened’ to my arm its strangers staring. I went into the city today for a meeting and pretty much every person I passed stared. I guess it looks a little out of place to be emulating Wonder Woman with big hair, make up, lipstick, stilletoes, a long black skirt with splits up both legs, a jacket, a very expensive red bag, pearls and weirdly my arm in a sling which looks like it belongs to an athlete. It just doesn’t go. People stare. They wonder. They frown. They annoy.
Then I get:
“shoulder reconstruction?” Or
“broken arm?” Or
“what happened here?”
“what did you break?”
How about your face.
One stupid knobend in a lift today asked me “how did you do that?”. He was smirking and I don’t know why. Perhaps he was thinking I would say I did it masturbating and go into graphic detail (although the lift was full), or explain it was manhandling the planets, or that naturally I tripped and fell in my magnificent six inch heels (as if) or clearly as I was a woman that I fell in the kitchen whilst baking and ran my shoulder into the stove.
“I ran my race bike into a moron who was stopped on race line going approximately 200kph and destroyed my brachial plexus leaving my arm permanently paralysed”.
THE SMIRK DID NOT LEAVE HIS FACE.
“Could be worse then”.
Oh. My. God.
I am not sure I can go through the remainder of my life without being charged with a crime. A serious one. Although this evening husband and I went to the supermarket and the gorgeous thing about this injury is that in the store everyone gets out of your way. Lots of positive reinforcement is also wagered. “Gee you are doing well with that trolley” or “please you go first”. It’s funny how people who would normally run down an old lady with their trolley have so much sympathy for my arm. An injury clearly no one understands.
So the boringness continues. I struggle. I don’t. I toil. I laugh. I cringe and my brow is furrowed. But I also do some things easily. Sometimes I forget I am disabled. Sometimes I forget I am in pain. Sometimes I can’t remember having two arms. Although not very often.
So you can see its all very ordinary. I am not special or amazing or unique. Unfortunately I am also not smart enough or talented enough to write this blog with effortless hilarity. I apologise. I wish things were different for both our sakes.
I will, however, keep trying.