The sickbed diaries X

So. The first day of physio. I’m a lot more comfortable than yesterday when I had a longish lunch and a pootle around Brighton, including a visit to the Pavilion, with an old family friend. It seems that the constant jiggle of walking irritates the internal glue and crotchet holding my arm on. One of those ‘feel better for the walk but worse for it too’ days. Highly, highly annoying time to get into a swingy roundabout sort of thing. Still. At least I know. A good night’s sleep helps, however, and in the morning I’m zingingly ready for my first real physiotherapy appointment.

I trot up the hill through the misty rain a little anxiously. The physio is nice with just the right amount of no bullshit and tells me off roundly for being too gentle with myself. As with most every area of life, it seems that my apparent unwillingness to simply give myself over to it is hindering me. Dammit, will I never learn? Still, I listen, adjust, and everything seems fine. In fact, the lack of chronic pain seems to be a very good thing. My tissue is plainly too busy mending to bother telling me so … unless, that is, I take the piss and jar it, forget about it, or generally do stuff I didn’t oughta.

An hour or so later I’m at the doc’s getting my dressing removed. Frankly, it’s quite incredible.The surgeon seems to have spent two hours or so sewing my shoulder back together through a series of small incisions the size of button holes. These are so tiny that the nurse missed one when putting on the new dressing … as you can see, it looks like a red line, a crease, top left of the dressing pad … but this was where it all happened.

The real joy of the final dressing is that, with the judicious use of clingfilm, I could finally get under the shower.

Oh.

My.

God.

You forget the sheer joy of being able to wash the whole of your body, of standing under the torrent of hot water feeling as if your hair is like those weeds which grow on a weir. Oh, bliss.

I suspect it made me rather more delightful to be near, too. Baby wipes are great … but there’s only so far they can go.

3 thoughts on “The sickbed diaries X

  1. You have no idea about the lack of washing….I had 8 weeks in a tent…with a limited supply of baby wipes! Hope you are (relatively) OK. Have a grrrrrrreat Christmas. I personally hate the whole damned thing. But it gives me time to read your book….

    • Ah, but when you’re in a tent, the shower doesn’t wink at you … and two-handedness lends itself to underarm moppage, unlike when one arm is strapped down … and you have a great time pretending christmas doesn’t exist (that’s my tactic) …

  2. I can safely say I have never encountered a winking shower, in tents or any other habitation (or euphemistically- unless I failed to notice). I did once only have one leg, metaphorically ( well almost) speaking…. And I was cold, muddy and had no mechanical transportation……not that that in any significant way impinged on my “shower” experience.

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