The sickbed diaries III

In the land of the one-armed man, the, er … well then …

So, three hours of sleep and I’m back in the room. Nothing like the long, deep sleep I need to help me to recover. It’s not that I’m in pain … hardly any, to be fair (makes me wonder whether they forgot to do anything in surgery), just a sort of low-level discomfort which makes relaxing hard. There are only two places I’m close to comfortable, and that’s in bed or on my swivel chair. The living room’s too low, the dining room chairs too solid.

Today the first physio began … just simple exercises to stop the joint from stiffening up. And they’re hard. Not because they’re difficult, but because it’s terrifying to start moving the shoulder, feeling the pull of flesh, knowing that it has to happen but scared that you’ll push too far … making a fist … even straightening the arm is fraught with danger. Well, fear, anyway …

And then there’s the sling itself … I have no waist strap, so it twists a little, but it’s mainly getting it on. This involves grabbing the strap, hulking it over the shoulder, and holding it between one’s teeth as you manouvre the dodgy arm into the harness and pull it, well … as tight as you dare.

It was splendid having my mother to minister to me, but I mostly refused help – when you’ve got help is when you need to test things, see if you need it, and if you do, work out how to get round the problem.

Washing up is going to be tough. As is buttering toast … all a system of wedges and blocks … but I got some of yer actual work done, too. And the fridge is full. So far no need for any of my meticulously prepared single meals. Which is a good thing, because I forgot to get the rice out … d’oh!

Well. It’s 5.33am. Ginger will be outside the bedroom door, miffed (he loves to walk over my shoulders in the morning … not good). I would love to sleep. Any ideas?