The sickbed diaries VI

Not the best of days. I’m beginning too wonder whether there isn’t a sort of anti-depressant quality to the anaesthesia I ‘enjoyed’ on Sunday … I sort of tripped and danced my way through the first three days, well, within reason and the bounds of not being able to do muchness because I’m pretty much broken. Naturally, my right shoulder and arm are sore because I’m using them more than usual, and with no support.

But Thursday I sort of spiralled into a bit of a black dog … maybe a grey puppy, or something … and perhaps spiralled is wrong, too. By the evening I was despairing of ever regaining the use of my left arm. The physio felt wrong, the sling uncomfortable, the shoulder sore, the wounds pulling, the tendon tweaking as I sneezed … the fear began to grip.

I’ve been expecting it, but like the operation itself, when it comes it’s almost more surprising, as the expectation pretty much takes the place of the real thing as a totem.

Perhaps that explained my mood – I have /had been so fearful of the rehab that when I didn’t wake in screaming agony, my mood automatically shot through the roof: proof, if proof were needed, that the way of the cynic, as in ‘if I expect the worst anything else is a bonus’, does sometimes reap rewards. When it’s not self-fulfilling …

I slowly levered myself into bed, pillow on my left to support my elbow, and stared at the ceiling waiting for oblivion.

Then I dreamt about golf. I mean, wtf?

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