Cracking Time

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I am impatient. I've learned that this week. Although considering how impatient I am, you’d think I'd have learned that ages ago.

I am very much not enjoying having a broken wrist. I am over it now. I figure I've done the extreme pain part, and the discomfort, and sling thing, and now it should be done and dusted.

But no. My splint encases my right forearm like some tenacious brick, and I am stranded on various chairs around the house, observing all the things I cannot do: Making dinner? Forget it. Planting tomato seedlings? Don't make me laugh. Running the hoover around the living room floor or washing down kitchen cabinets. Delusional.

In truth, a whole load of things I used to moan about having to do, I now moan about not being able to.

The Stoics have this saying which is, “It’s not the wound that kills you. It's the inflammation around the wound that does.”

And no doubt in ancient Greece and Rome that was the practical and metaphorical truth. In modern-day America though, it's not the wound that kills you; it's waiting on the authorizations from your health insurance that does.

I have a splint. But I need a cast. There are plenty of Ortho people around who can do my cast (I’m literally falling distance from LA’s Orthopedic Institute) and yet the first choice for my health insurance authorizations was a guy who averages a 2-star Yelp rating and is a 20-minute drive away.

So when I call the Insurance up to have it changed, they tell me it could take them 72 hours to do the paperwork. I do a bit of pleading about my poor sore wrist in quaint Scottish Brigadoonish style, and they get me a new authorization within 24 hours… for an Ortho guy who only does knees and shoulders.

When I call up to get that authorization changed, and they do the whole 72 hours spiel, I move rapidly from Brigadoon to Braveheart. (That's what impatience does for you.) The authorization was fixed within the day, and I go to my Ortho wrist guy tomorrow.

It will be fine, I know. I already like this new guy - or rather, I like Abigail, the woman who runs his office. She handled all the medical administrative bullshit with such ease that I’ve thought of naming a chicken after her.

Because, of course, as this was the week I broke my wrist, it also was the week that the eggs we had in the incubator hatched. Three new wee lives entered the world in a completely Tweddletopian way - as in adorably but chaotic.

Last Sunday, after the drama of wrist/ ER combo, we figured a chilled-out day was in order. We were hanging about drinking tea, and Mark remembered that the eggs were due to hatch on Monday night, so he should probably put together a brooder for the chicks and maybe go and get baby chicken food.

Literally, he was just back from buying the food and about to prep dinner when Jocelyn appeared, full of attitude and angry tweeting - earning herself the name because of how she kept jostling about the incubator.

We left her in there for a while as baby chicks really don't like to be on their own, but eventually, we had to move her to the brooder. She protested loudly until we hung up Mark’s shaving mirror and, seeing her reflection, believed she’d found a best friend for life. (I bet the Stoics would have a saying or two about that.)

Ophelia meanwhile couldn't be arsed to hatch until late Tuesday. Mark and I were considering going out to buy a couple of baby chicks for Jocelyn, to stop her becoming a sociopath. But Ophelia appeared, without any particular drama, and eventually joined her brood mate and made friends.

On Wednesday night, we’d sort of given up hope on the last two eggs. It's sad, but that stuff happens - hence the don't count your chickens before they're hatched advice. One of the eggs definitely had a chicken that hadn't made it, but the last egg - just as we were considering throwing it out - made a loud tweet.

And here's the dilemma: It's not healthy for the chickens if you crack their egg, but clearly this chick wasn't managing herself. With my one usable arm, I was no use, but we agreed Mark should crack the egg a bit to free it up and at least stop her suffocating.

Before too long, a beak appeared. But the egg was very much attached to the baby chicken, so it really was up to her to deal with the rest from her side, and we left her in the incubator to sort herself out overnight.

On Thursday morning, when I got up, she was fully hatched. Not because she’d particularly managed anything, but because Mr Tweddle - assuring me he hadn't been worrying about her at all - had gotten up very early to check she was OK. Having found she hadn't managed to free herself, he’d sat for about half an hour, chipping away at the egg shell with a pair of tweezers, till she was free and clear.

With part of the egg still covering her right wing, she lay in the brooder, exhausted. Mark and I surrendered to the idea she might not make it. Physically, she didn't look great, but that wee chicken could tweet like a trumpet. Mark named her Nikita.

By Thursday afternoon, Nikita was up and hobbling about and ready to move into the brooder. But there was a problem.

Aptly named Jocelyn - then a four-day-old monster - might eat her. I was especially concerned, as I felt Nikita with her messed up right wing, and me, with my messed up right wrist, had something in common.

Mr Tweddle is nothing if not determined though, and fashioned a wee brooder room divider out of bug screen, and hence all three chicks became roommates. Jocelyn did, of course, go mental trying to get through the screen, but we’re not sure whether it was because she wanted to peck Nikita or because -as they’re both the same breed - she believed her to be the chicken she fell in love with when her only company was the mirror. (Over to you, Stoics.)

Anyway, it’s all worked out. The chicks are getting stronger by the hour. I’ve finally sorted out the Health insurance, and in between cooking dinner and doing laundry, Mr Tweddle is building some sort of contraption for Arthur the dog to be able climb up beside me when I’m on the sofa.

There are so many things that need fixing and so many things I want to do, but as of now, I must sit and wait.

I’m not going to lie. I hate feeling powerless. I hate feeling wounded and weak and vulnerable. But I know it's just a matter of time really. Where I am now will not last forever. Nothing ever does. There will come a time when this will have righted itself.

I've mostly been avoiding the news not just because it's disturbing, but more often than not, because it's disturbing and bullshit. This country is being run by sociopaths, morons and bullies no matter how much you whitewash it.

But I heard a little about Zelenski’s visit to the White House and felt sick. Like I’d just broken my arm sick. How could that orange dipshit who cares nothing of others, and my husband who cares so much for life he hatches a baby chick with a pair of tweezers, live under the same sky?

And like I say, I fucking hate being powerless. I hate pain and suffering and feeling vulnerable. But nothing lasts forever. Nothing. The only thing that is certain is that where we are now, is not where we will always be.

I learned from wee Nikita this week that there is always hope.

And I've also learned that, though I am very very impatient, I can wait.

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Cracking Time -Audio