Two days after my surgery, I left my friends’ place (shrugging off their concerned looks) and headed off to the rental apartment I’d organised, long before I smashed up my wrist. I was going to be in plaster for a while and took the view that I needed to start doing things for myself as soon as possible. I also felt the urge to be alone - I was exhausted, bad tempered from the pain and needed time to process the events of the last 10 days. Peace and quiet would get me back on track.
Of course, I had entirely underestimated just how tough the following weeks would be!
Within 24 hours, I was astounded at how many things I’d taken for granted in the past were now impossible or extremely tricky. Showering? Well, apart from the fact that I needed help wrapping my plaster in a plastic bag, before stepping in the shower, scrubbing myself from top to toe was near impossible. Washing my hair wasn’t much easier, since my left hand wasn’t used to operating with such dexterity. Cleaning my teeth was a real feat - since I couldn’t pick up the toothbrush with my right hand whilst I squeezed the paste with my left, I had to squeeze paste on a basin surface, put down the tube then pick up the brush (again with my left hand) and “scoop up” the paste.
Life in the kitchen was just as frustrating. I could not use a knife (my left hand wasn’t sufficiently dexterous) so it was impossible to chop vegetables, spread butter or even cut a piece of cheese. Attempts to make an omelette ended in chaos, tearing plastic was hellish so I resorted to my teeth and trying to open a bag of vacuum-packed coffee reduced me to tears. Friends opened jar lids, chopped me salads and washed my dishes when they visited . But when I was alone, there was always something I hadn’t foreseen - such as the night I put a ready-made pizza in the oven, but was unable to cut it into slices once it was cooked. Finally, after almost weeping, I let it cool then ripped it into chunks with my left hand!
Walking the streets required endless vigilance - even though I was in plaster and a sling, I became acutely aware of how many people around me were too busy looking at their phones to notice me heading towards them. Trips to local supermarket filled me with dread - endless unsupervised kids running up and down the aisles were ready to knock me down and re-fracture my wrist at a moment. Oh, and don’t forget the patience needed to actually shop - put bag on the ground, with left hand. Pick up item on shelf with left hand. Place item in bag with left hand. Pick up bag and repeat. Just buying milk, bread and a few other basics was a real challenge.
And public transport - well, I’d been banned from using the London Underground (too many commuters, too many escalators and stairs, a real possibility of being accidentally jostled and knocked down). So either I walked around the neighbourhood (slowly) or took cabs. When I became braver, I ventured onto London buses, sitting in the seats at the front of the bus reserved for pregnant women, the elderly and the disabled. To be fair, most people were kind and helpful, offering help gladly, but it was still a struggle on certain days (when it was hot, when it was rainy, when the buses were crowded).
But I survived!
Photo courtesy of Amazon
In the months since my surgery, I’ve begun to realise how much I took for granted before I broke my wrist. I’m far more aware of someone wearing a brace, sling or plaster boot now and what efforts they’re going to, just to keep up a daily routine. I’m also more grateful than ever to friends of mine who took time out of their busy schedules to help me, in ways that I’m sure that they considered trivial but, in my eyes, were an enormous help.
As for the doctors, nurses and physio staff…well that’s for another post. But for me, they were nothing short of a godsend and I salute them. Big time.