Busting a Move

(The following was written in November 2010 and things are now on the slow mend)

What’s wrong with this sentence: ‘I slipped on the ice in Phoenix and broke my wrist.’?  My daughter, Lauren, and I went to open skating at one of eight ice rinks Arizona boasts. I had no protective equipment on and Bubble Wrap would have come in handy as I fell hard on my right arm.  I knew right away what was wrong: (Pardon the medical jargon:) The head bone was connected to the neck bone, the neck bone was connected to the shoulder bone, the shoulder bone was connected to the arm bone, but the arm bone was definitely NOT connected to the hand bone.

Lauren drove to the ER and I was paranoid about getting broadsided on the way over—I didn’t mention that to my lovely daughter who was driving quite well if not a bit jerkily.  In the waiting room I was not a good patient. Lauren kept telling me to have a positive attitude, think of the funny side of it.  The WHAT?  As there had been a bit of blood on my wrist, the rink guy had thought maybe it was a bone coming thru.  After about five minutes of putting up with my wailing, Lauren marched up to the ER window and mentioned the bone-out-of-the-skin business and they came for me right away.  After being gifted some lovely morphine, I was X-rayed and, while all bones were declared still tucked inside, the radius and ulna were broken clean thru.  I cried about missing my hockey season, and when asked if there was anything else I needed, I apparently replied, ‘George Clooney.’ The orthopedic doc came (very easy on the eyes) and reconnected the wrist which had swelled to the size of a nice Idaho baking potato.  My surgery could wait until I was in Minnesota.  Instructed to ice it, I was told that a bag of frozen peas works really slick.

Lauren flew off to college in Denver while I missed my plane to the Land of 10,000 Ice Rinks.  Drugged up, I was lollygagging around Sky Harbor Airport as my flight had been delayed—at least I thought  it had...   Lucky for me, and anyone worried about the doped up vagrant sprawled out in the waiting area, I got on another flight soon after.

After surgery my wonderful, handsome husband (besides this being true, I have to make up for the ER comments) took care of me all weekend.  I have this electronic icing machine that connects to a bag inside my splint. Steve had to hook me up to it every hour along with getting me this and that, zipping, buttoning, tying, helping me wash my hair etc.  While tethered to the frosty, pulsating ice contraption, I noticed my grey, dangling, swelling fingers and thought the extremities might enjoy the frozen vegetables.  “Hey, Steve, would you mind bringing me my pea bag?”  He stopped dead in his tracks looking stunned and thought, ‘you mean I have to do that too?!’  I explained and he was much relieved not to have to…relieve.

My lazy weekend with Steve doing everything ended with his going back to work Monday.  On my own, I can’t entirely unplug myself from the black hose used in my hourly ice baths from my friend the Ice Machine.  I can unhook the prodigious plug attached to the machine, but not the end that plugs into my forearm splint.  So, the dog and I take a walk both wagging our black tails behind us, or the bandolier look is fashionable-- not necessarily in Mendota Heights, but it does make a statement.  A few people cross the street when they see me coming.  It is nice black braided fabric but doesn’t work real well as a belt because, well, it’s a hose.

To reduce swelling I hold my hand up in a frozen Prom Queen wave.  On several occasions strangers have smiled and waved back!  (Unless I’m sporting the bandolier) It cracks me up!   I’ll take every bit of ‘looking at the funny side’ that I can get.

©2010, Jana B. Patrick