Pain in the Ar...ehm

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So here’s a thing about me. I don’t do painkillers. This has less to do with virtue, and more to do with nosiness. If I have pain, I want to know why. Also, I’ve been fortunate in life not to have really experienced much pain, apart from childbirth, which is, erm, sore. And standing on lego bricks with bare feet, which in some ways is worse.

So painkillers are usually a hard swerve for a whole load of reasons which, if you want to dress up as Freud and get yourself an office with some big fuck off couch in it, I could explain. But for the purposes of this Note, though, just accept the fact that I don’t really partake of painkillers.

However, life has a tendency to periodically bring you the lesson you do not wish to learn, and you get what you get, and you don’t get upset. My wrist-shredding escapade has led me squarely down the painkiller route. There’s really no choice, because it’s not pain like I just stood on a piece of lego with my bare foot pain. It’s mostly a weird low constant burr, where I only really know it’s time to take meds when I feel kind of sick and I can’t think straight. Then, ta dah! A couple of Tylenol and an Ibuprofen or two, and I’m good.

The pain of boredom, though, jeez. Of feeling dependent. Ugh. Of throwing yourself to the mercy of people you do not know. There are no meds that make that easier. I have such respect for friends of mine who have been going through this medical bullshit for months or even years. It takes spirit to be able to navigate this stuff. In order to carry the burden of illness, you have to be as strong as an ox.

I met with the orthopedic surgeon this week to see what the next steps were for me and my wrist. It’s in a splint. At some point, it has to go in a cast. I don’t know when because I’m new to this stuff.

It was a very busy office, and when they handed me a clipboard full of paper to fill in even though I’d broken my right wrist, I probably should have known. But the thing is, the wrist needs fixed and these guys supposedly know how to do that, so at some point you have to suck it up.

Thank God Mark was with me with penmanship to the ready, or I’d still be sitting there filling it in now.

The woman who took me through to the examining room asked me medical questions in one of those sugary sweet, like talking to a baby, voices. Maybe I should have known then. But baby voice or not, she's a professional, right? And it's not as if I can fix my smashed up wrist on my own.

But I still don't understand why I didn't get it when some very busy-with-himself young guy in scrubs, flustered in, all full of business and efficient inefficiency, and insisted he needed to take my splint off.

Both Mark and I protested. My wrist had been completely mashed just over a week before and reset under anesthetic in the ER. It really didn’t seem like a good idea. But no. He insisted. The splint has to be removed. That’s the only way the doctor will see you.

And so, like an idiot, I offered up my arm. My hand still black from the injury. My fingers still like swollen little sausages.

As soon as he started removing bandages, it was clear it was a mistake. But he was super certain and busy with his efficient inefficiency. When he tried to lay my arm flat on the bench, I thought I might pass out. So, looking slightly less confident, we scooped my dead hand back into the base of the splint. By then, I was feeling nauseous. I needed water, or I might pass out. The baby-talking assistant appeared and brought me water, then both she and Mr Efficiently Inefficient disappeared.

I don’t remember an awful lot as to what happened next. My arm was laid on the bench in front of me as I didn’t have the capability to move it, and because I thought I might throw up or pass out, I had my head resting on the bench.

Mark was losing his mind - trying to contain his inner Port Glasgow. I knew he kept going out to ask for help. I could hear his voice changing tone and him becoming ever more insistent. But the office staff put their heads down, muttering that the doctor would see us soon.

45 minutes later, the doctor finally appeared. I was not in a good way. My hand was swelling impressively. And I was once again losing movement in my fingers.

The doctor strutted in, furious. Though I don't know who with most. His first action before treating me was to go out to the office and 'chew off' the assistant. Even at that point, I found myself thinking that it was a bit like arriving at a car accident with a doctor’s bag and leaving the casualty in the middle of the road to go off and yell at the driver.

When he returned, it was clear bedside manner wasn’t his greatest skill. Impatiently, he stated I had the option of trying to get the splint on properly again, with the risk of damaging the wrist further, or going to ER to get it reset. I didn’t want to go to the ER - I didn’t know how I could lift my arm for a start. But I was frightened as to how painful putting the splint on again would be, and then I thought to myself, “Oh for fuck sake, how many legos have you stood on with bare feet? You are a professional.”

The splint it was. Admittedly it hurt a bit more than I expected it to, but once it was back in place, it felt like putting on a warm anorak when you’re out in the freezing cold.

The X-ray they took afterwards showed everything was still hanging together. I refused the offer of a prescription for Tramadol, and agreed to a follow-up appointment, knowing I had no intention of taking it. Then Mark and I got out of Dodge. We were both just pretty traumatized and needed to be home.

It's weird to walk into a first appointment with a slightly painful arm splint, and then in just over an hour, find yourself in the position of maybe having to go to ER because of what was done there. It's tricky to get your head round.

Physical pain, I can take meds for, but the ‘questioning brain’ pain of “How did that happen?” and “Could I have prevented it?” is a gnawing irritation which is difficult to soothe.

Mark, for his part, is periodically furious, wondering if he’d just gone out to the office and yelled, “Get me a fucking doctor!” Or, “Call 911!” Things might have been better. I’ve told him I’m sure it wouldn’t. The people in the office were terrified, or assholes, or both. He’d probably only have ended up getting arrested, and what would that have solved. But it is painful to feel powerless. And twice as painful when you are powerless to find a way to help the one you love.

Even now, both of us, I know, relive the incident, running through various stories of how it could have gone differently. But what’s done is done. Like a broken bone, it has to take some time to heal.

I was pondering this mid-week when Lachlan came back from school, and we had one of our ‘hanging out in the living room’ chats. We generally catch up after school, but after my wrist fiasco, all timing has been off. Just one frickin’ joint and it affects everything.

From the moment he opened his tiny wee eyes to the world, Lachlan has been a heady mix of determination, passion, and morality. And perfection. When he commits to something, he wants it done right.

He’s been off a bit lately, but so have I. We talked about one of his schoolmates who is behaving trickily. Lachlan wants to have a word with him, but knows this kid has stuff happening at home, and he doesn't know how to navigate it.

We talk about it. And reason stuff out. And he smiles and says he feels much better. And then he falls silent. Silent, like I know there’s a problem, silent.

“What is it?” I ask.

He says nothing and looks downward. I sit opposite, waiting. He shakes his head. Shrugs, and see a fat teardrop drop onto his lap.

“Tell me,” I say.

“I’ve been trying to do this on my own,” he says, “Solve my own problems. Because one day you won’t be here. And I’ll feel so bad. And I won’t be able to ever feel better, because you won’t be here to help me find the way out of it.”

He looked up to face me. Another fat tear falling down his cheek.

“So I’m trying to start solving problems on my own.”

Now, this is the point where if this was a Hallmark movie, I’d tell you that I replied with something that was full of warmth and reassuring, gentle wisdom. But I'm from Cumbernauld and not the world of cosy fiction, so I said, “Dude. Two things: One, I’m not dead yet. And two, don’t I get a say in this discussion? Because, frankly, I am sitting here, pissed at myself for being broken. And furious that I could be stupid enough to let some efficiently inefficient, moron in scrubs almost break my wrist again. And then you came in, and we had something to talk about that wasn’t my own misery. And I felt a bit better. Almost useful, in fact. You see, sweetie, the point of talking about your own issues is that it allows the person you’re talking to to reconsider their own.”

He looked at me with that half smile he does when he reckons I’m being sneaky. “You did a double down, didn’t you? Went in to solve one problem and solved the other problem too while you were there.”

I shrugged. “I’m multi-talented. I still can’t make myself a cup of tea, though. Or put on a pair of socks on my own.”

He smiled. “Want a cup of tea now?”

“Nah,” I said. “Though I’d bite your hand off for a non-alcoholic beer.”

“You're going to get plastered?” he chuckled, heading off to the refrigerator.

“Yeah, totally,” I laughed. “Though I’d have to drink about 497 of them.”

I’m still sore. My wrist and me are a bit broken. I periodically revisit the question as to why I let stuff happen when every part of my instinct was screaming it was wrong. But, every day, I'm feeling stronger. I’ve already set wheels in motion reporting on what happened. But for now, I kind of just want to focus on getting fixed. So I’m resting my arm, and taking my Tylenol, and shutting my face.

We all get broken sometimes. That’s just the way it is. Everybody gets a turn, in one way or another. The trick is to remember that no pain stays the same, and that even though it might not feel it at the time, one day it will feel better. Trust in that. And trust yourself. And that it will turn out ok.

Also when you’ve mashed up your wrist and you get it reset in the hospital and then some jerk in scrubs insists he takes off that splint because ‘that’s just the rules’, you tell that jerk to fuck right off.

You know, I’m sure I heard that in a Hallmark movie.

Lynn xo

PS: Every Time you click on the wee heart emoji on this post to like it, my wrist gets a wee bit better. Thats a total lie obviously, but it doesn’t half perk up my algorithm.

P. P. S: Come see me and my arm at…

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