So in three weeks exactly I will be waking up in recovery after a 10-12 hour nerve reconstruction procedure. My surgeon refers to it casually as “exploring my plexus” like he is going to wander around a garden. Hopefully it means he is so relaxed and comfortable about performing this surgery he can speak of it in such nonchalant ways.
I am moving through emotions like a complete psychopath, one moment being at peace with it, then terrified, then anxious, then indifferent. It goes up, and then down. Clearly.
I laid in bed this morning with Husband after sleeping like the dead and still feeling like another week of sleep was needed when I woke up, slurping my coffee and said despondently “I am not getting my arm back”.
A few months ago I said to him “I feel like my arm will come back, but it will be very slow”. He agreed at the time. I don’t think that any more. And neither does Husband. He replied this morning with “well the surgery might get your shoulder going and some movement might return”.
It’s as if I know it’s gone forever even though there has been no catalyst. Other than time and a lack of improvement. Clearly the same ‘knowing’ has infected Husband’s mind also.
Perhaps this is acceptance. I am not sure. Or perhaps I am worried this surgery is not going to work and this is my “assume the worst and anything else is a bonus” subconscious at work.
The most telling moment for me daily is when I need to move my arm, to put it in a shirt sleeve for example, and I lean my whole torso downward so the arm swings forward, like it belongs to an ape, with my hand turned to the inside spastically and Colin flapping oddly and I look down it my arm and the way I have retardedly ‘swung’ it and I know – this is it. This is dogshit. This unfortunately is forever.
I do not mean to insult any other BPI Warriors who have to swing their dead arms like I do, this is just how it feels for me.
But then I put on my suit, strapped on my sky scraper nude sling backs, fluffed my hair, put on a shit load of make-up and worked the bejesus out of my job all day long. As I have said before loving your job is a wonderful gift. I can’t imagine how I would have survived if I hated my job and Husband was a dickhead. Heaven help me.
A normal day entails waking up and having coffee, getting kids up, getting ready, driving over an hour to work, working a minimum of 10 hours, today included sending 47 emails (thank you Dragon), having a one hour meeting, chairing another 2 hour meeting with 14 participants, finalising an annual report, sending the report, reading 67 emails, shovelling in lunch, having work conversations with 10 separate people at work, driving the hour + home, bathing the kids, cleaning up all their shit all over the house, feeding them whatever Husband cooked, putting them to bed, feeding the horses at 9pm in the dark, eating 57 bullets and then writing this blog.
One Arm Can Do! And that is a normal day. I am not big noting, well maybe a bit, I am just saying you can still get shit loads done with one arm, if you try.
One thing I have not done with any enthusiasm yet is exercise. Chasing horses doesn’t count. But I have decided with three weeks until surgery why start now. Just eat bullets and wait until this surgery caper is over.
It’s now 11.36pm so in 25 minutes it will be less than three weeks to go – eek!
I better go to bed whilst it’s still three weeks, three weeks with my sural leg and intercostal chest nerves intact, with my neck not opened like someone has been using a human can opener on me, with my plexus ‘unexplored’.
I will pray for the surgery to work and by work I simply mean my shoulder holding my arm, holding Colin, under it’s own steam. I don’t need much, but that one I do.