The sickbed diary of a whinging man

So. It happened this afternoon. Between 12 and 3.30.

[By the way. I think the Tramadol are kicking in as I appear to be drooling]

There was no count to five. Just … back in the room, trussed up like a turkey. Then the sling attached and out I’m slung. With a book of exercises and instructions on various matters and a bag full of analgesics.

My arm is still numb, which is utterly expected, but totally weird. I may even wake up with it numb, but the block ought to have worn off by then. I can feel the sutres. At least, I know where they are.

Today has been odd, and the loss of use of my left arm totally odd. The PD makes my left hand rather less than efficient, but with the arm strapped to my torso, numbed and odd-feeling, it’s another ball game entirely. Sitting down? Nightmare. Getting up? Torture. Getting into bed? Epic. Getting out? Christ. Right now, I can’t see it happening.

There was more, but my laptop ate it.

There will be more, and it might even be interesting.

But I’m of a mind to attempt sleep. I’ve blocked myself in with pillows to keep me on my back. It’s not going to be a fun night. And everything I need is on my left …

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