Knitting as rehab...or distraction...or both

I would love to tell you how I am feeling and doing.  But I will spare you... I am hoping to stay as far away as possible from the kvetchy knitter persona we all love to hate; the one who's mostly b*tch and low on stitch at the dreaded yarn-night we've all been to. Don't get me wrong. There is a huge part of me that would love to wail, holler, b*tch and moan. But the truth is, I am trying to do as much as possible: as per usual.  The fact that my family is not the doting type helps: sort of like physio and occupational therapy all rolled up into one. Right now if I ask for help I get nothing but whinging.  And if I don't ask for help I get a tongue lashing for not asking for help. I don't know about you, but avoiding the whinging 'factor' far outweighs the threat of finger wagging when push comes to shove. And once the pain factor subsides I am sure things will be better. True, things take what feels like 50x longer than normal, but I have patience: duh...I'm a knitter. After a short chat with myself and the realization that I desperately wished to avoid joining the ranks of the stretch pant brigade I taught myself how to zip a zipper and button a button with just one hand. Sure, we are talking mom jeans here; there will be no skinny jeans for a good long while. But I am thinking YEAH! I'M LIKE THE STEPHEN HAWKINGS OF THE FASHION WORLD! On New Year's Eve, I  figured out how to triple bag and tape my arm up all by myself and though washing and shampooing my tangled up mess of hair proved both difficult and nothing short of a massive pain in the ass...I did it. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs I'M A FRIKIN GENIUS... in fact, once I finally worked out how to get a bra both on and off with only one hand I KNEW I was a frikin genius.  My girlfriend's partner boasted that he knows how to take a bra off with just one hand. "Good for you," I told him "you're a girl! When you figure out how to put one on with just one hand, call me, because Mazel Tov, you'll be a woman." Okay, so maybe I am a bit b*tchy...But you would be too after what I went through less than 72 hours after my accident. Let me explain:

I had my first Fracture Clinic appointment on Monday morning. Bye-bye 500 kilo plaster cast. Hello fibreglass Coco Chanel inspired cast. They were all out of the groovy Sargent Pepper Psychedelic colour options they usually have in supply. Black or Baby Blue were my only choices. I went for the Black Tie rather than the Cowboy Denim look. Also, black minimizes the potential for 'teenage sentiments' being scribbled upon the surface for all to see. (see previous blog post for that doozie).  Now I wasn't expecting this (especially as the Doc had already set the bones a couple of days before) but in order to do this little procedure they had to put my hand into what is called a finger trap. And thanks to the miracles of the iPhone, everyone's a documentary filmmaker and photographer.  Yes, for reasons that totally escape me, the hubby decided to commemorate this event as a Kodak moment. Seriously. Were not the births of our two offspring enough?

Some he videotaped, other moments he snapped jpgs of... I will spare you the shots that show my entire left upper extremity looking like the Cascade 220 colour chart... lovely visual, yes. But dear lord, look at this... this Finger Trap. Can you blame for thinking that at any moment,

John Cleese and the entire Monty Python crew would jump out from behind the hospital curtain and proclaim NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION. What is astonishing to me is that after all the money that I donate annually to this Hospital's Foundation, and all the advances in medicine over the years, THIS is the best they can do in the fracture clinic: mesh metal finger traps and a weight to stretch you out on the 'rack'. AAAUCH!  After they finish hooking up your fingers they weight down your elbow with what is, I believe, a 5-10 lb weight, I know!  Shut up!  But here's the worst part. Here's what made me cry. It's 8AM. Clearly the technician has had either too much or not enough caffeine. Instead of lowering the bed slowly the mattress drops with a thud. "Oops," says the dude... "pressed the wrong button". Yup. I noticed. Once again, the epic mental rant is sending me straight to Hell for sure. I actually saw stars. They were pretty pretty stars...no, they didn't give me meds. After the cast, What I did get, however was a cool souvenir.

Weird but trendy in medical circles, I'm sure. I posted a pic of this on fb and within seconds I got a Mazel Tov! response. We live in unusual times when a green piece of paper like this becomes part of the deciding factor on whether or not you get to enter the medical imaging location so you can be exposed to radiation. You know?

The unfortunate part of all of this is that it sent be back 2 days in the healing process. Back to the hurts like @#%^! of day one.  
Teenagers are hilarious. Before signing my cast, back on day one, my daughter stated one thing and asked another. Her statement: "Let's get one thing clear: I am not bathing you" (yeah - cuz I totally didn't do that for you for the first 8 years of your life) and her question: she asked about the pain. I told her it's really funny how they always ask you to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10. But most mothers I know reserve 10 as the childbirth rating.  Here's how brilliant this young lady is: "Well that's dumb... they should just have a separate scale for women... Rate your pain on a scale from splinter to birthing." YES! I AGREE!

So I may sound like I have things all worked out. But this morning I realized I didn't. Thank you to my Mum, who recognised that one day soon, I will be faced with the challenge of opening up a can of tuna. Given my current condition, she agreed that it will totally be my undoing. Visualise a broken down puddle of myself on the floor using toes, teeth and my one good hand. Not a pretty sight. I haven't owned an electric can opener EVER... it is the best gift! Thank you, Mummy! I love you. 

And now it begins. Rehab...Physio...etc. I consider this blog blathering not just cathartic, but good practise and physio, as well. My one handed typing skills far surpass those of a Barney Miller Cop typing up a report, so that's not too shabby!  And this evening I took up my knitting again. I could only knit half a row, but it's start. But, oy....
G-d forbid a stitch drops. I will be soooooooo screwed! I will have to call either Wooly Mammoth or Guerilla Knitter for a knitting intervention: dial 911-K1P2.
Knitting as rehab. I'm not sure if I say this in an OBAMA or BOB THE BUILDER way, but Yes, we can!