I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That’d be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It’s not as flashy.
[Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, “life-threatening hurricane” hadn’t even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was wondering for the 1,000th time if I should ask my ex if he’s properly laid in supplies or if I should continue to assume he’s a capable adult and not, you know, be a worrywart jerkface even though I’m nervous. And then Tarrant commented that, “Oh geez, after the year you’ve had, you’d think you would have factored that in,” and that made me laugh so hard that I forgot to be worried for a couple of minutes. Thanks, Tarrant!]
Anyway, our weekend was SUPER exciting, I’ll have you know.
On Friday when I saw the surgeon who made me bionic,
I marveled once again at how freakin’ YOUNG he appears to be he bent my hand this way and that and told me that “any pain you’re feeling now is smoke in the kitchen.” I swear, this is a direct quote. In fact, he said it several times, and it took me a while to figure out what the heck he meant. He meant that there’s nothing I can do at this point—short of a real blow to my new hardware, of course—that will actually damage anything. The advantage to getting screwed back together is that, technically, the bone is no longer broken. Or, it is, kind of, but with everything being held together, I can move however I like and it’s not going to jar the bone. Granted, I’m still sore and swollen and very bruised (though arnica is helping a LOT—thanks to everyone who suggested that!), but suddenly that stupid splint I’m wearing seemed worse than the surgery.
I was advised to “talk about it with the physical therapist” (who I won’t see again until Wednesday), but to “feel free to move around more and get those fingers working.” It’s like a whole new world opened up. I… washed dishes! HAPPILY! (I know, it’s weird. Washing dishes never makes me happy, unless I’m using my previously useless hand, apparently.) I… took a shower with a fully naked hand and was able to shave my armpits without major contortionism! (You’re welcome for sharing that visual.) I AM TYPING WITH TWO HANDS. Granted, I still have to get the okay from the PT to ditch the splint permanently (or maybe to get it cut down so that it will protect my hand without rendering my wrist and fingers inoperable), but for short stints at home when I feel reasonably certain an anvil isn’t going to land on my hand or whatever, I feel remarkably whole again. Hooray!
I was trying to describe to a friend the restrictions I’m experiencing due to the affected three fingers still not working quite as well as they used to, and the best I could come up with was “Half my hand appears to still be slightly drunk.” So there you go. I predict another few weeks at PT to retrain the fingers in question until they can reach my palm again, but still. I’m feeling pretty lucky, all things considered.
Related to all things Hand Massacre: Saturday night was the first night since this all began that I went to bed without benefit of heavy-duty painkillers. I could not fall asleep. I could not stay asleep. Other drug-related side effects aside, that really sucked. I’m pleased to report I slept like the dead last night with no drugs and no issues, so I seem to have broken the habit. Nonetheless, I was a little taken aback to discover how quickly my body apparently adapted to stupidity and sleepiness. Whoa.
Otto declared this weekend one of those Oh My God The House Is A Mess I Can’t Stand It weekends, and set about doing all sorts of domestic tasks while I sat on the couch and cheered him on. Eventually I felt guilty and joined in the fun, and lemme tell you, there is no feeling quite as heady as an organized cabinet of plastic food storage containers (vs. a cabinet where you open the door and a shower of Tupperware hits you in the face). My husband organized the CRAP out of that thing. What a guy!
For an encore, he washed down the walls in his bathroom. (Our shower is in there, and the room is shaped in such a way that even the exhaust fan cannot clear away enough steam to keep the walls from periodically getting kind of mildewy. It’s gross.) I was ready to throw him to the floor right then and there, BUT THEN he also hung up a new shower curtain liner and bought a new, not-rusty (like the old one) shower caddy. Fancy new bathroom! SWOOOOOON!
And then he changed the air filters in the HVAC and organized a whole bunch of other stuff, too. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Otto is a MUCH better wife than I am.
Me, I cooked some stuff. And did some laundry. And sat on the couch a bunch. I’m helpful like that.
Monkey is recovering from The Cold That Won’t Quit, and he is perfectly fine except he sounds like a 3-pack-a-day smoker. Otto and I haven’t tired of telling him he should stop smoking, even though he rolls his eyes at us (practicing for his upcoming teenagerhood) whenever we do.
At one point during Laundrypalooza I was up in Monkey’s room putting clean sheets on his bed and helping him put clothes away, and I found a pair of Chickie’s skinny jeans in his drawer.
[Sidebar: The packing involved to get Chickie ready for her move was, shall we say, EXTENSIVE. Her particular manifestation of anxiety required a level of organization that was, I thought, foolproof. But about a week ago she called me in a panic over the missing pair of jeans, and I assured her they must’ve made it up there because they weren’t HERE and how could the One True Jeans have gone missing? It was a mystery, right up until it wasn’t.]
So there were Chickadee’s missing jeans, hooray! And then this:
Me: These are your sister’s missing jeans. What are they doing in your drawer?
Monkey: I dunno.
Me: They must’ve been in with your laundry, somehow.
Me: But didn’t you notice they weren’t yours?
Monkey: Why would I? I had a stack of jeans, I figured they were mine and I put them away. *coughing fit*
As my son coughed, instead of being a solicitous mother, offering to get him some water or something, I laughed until I cried, imagining him working his way down to the last jeans in the drawer, donning his sister’s skin-tight skinnies, and then shuffling downstairs, coughing away. Maybe you had to be there (you know, in my head), but nothing could’ve been funnier at the time. Emo Monkey, ready to rock. Heh.
I have to go out and do a bunch of stuff today, so I guess I’ll have to go put my splint back on. You know, in case a piano falls from the sky, or something.