I’m back! Sorry Part II ended up being a couple of months later rather than weeks. I had some depression issues and had to go through physical therapy for a month, which was hard sometimes and pretty painful. But as far as the range of motion goes, I’m pretty much back to normal. Not some much for grip strength though.
If I cross stitch too long, I need to wear my brace, but I didn’t have any trouble with it golfing nine holes recently. Here are some pics of the scar, the first one is from before physical therapy and the second one is from today.
It appears that my after picture looks worse (more red), but that’s what it really looks like and the physical therapist said the redness SHOULD fade over time. We’ll see. But the really good news is that I’m finding more time for blogging!!
I hate that I’ve been absent. I don’t like being stuck in bed not being able to do much besides get up to pee. I’d love to be writing my book and doing crafts to post blogs and cross stitching. I feel like I’m starting to get back to that now; four weeks after I’ve broken my left wrist.
So, I was walking down our slightly sloped driveway on some snow-covered ice and slipped. I fell backward and of COURSE, put my dominant arm out to catch myself. I landed on my butt and my wrist and heard the snap and I screamed in fright. In fright of what the meaning of breaking my left wrist meant: No more use of my dominant hand. And no more cross stitching. (My favorite hobby.)
Cross Stitching with a Broken Wrist
I spent the first week in a simple splint until the swelling went down. Cross stitching was only manageable with my right hand due to the pain and restriction of the splint.
The next two weeks I was in a regular green cast. I could cross stitch with my left hand again and at a decent pace.
Unfortunately, my muscles “relaxed” (as the doctor said) and my broken bone shifted further out of place leading to a higher degree of permanent damage that I just couldn’t live with so I decided to have corrective surgery.
I would need a plate and some pins put in to shift my wrist bone back into a more mobile angle. Perhaps irrationally, but maybe a sign of denial, my biggest fear initially was setting off metal detectors for the rest of my life! Then I started to worry about complications of surgery and my wrist ending up in worse shape than before.
The Day of Surgery
By the time my surgery date arrived, however, I was confident in my doctor and I had a good feeling about the staff taking care of me at the hospital during prep time. The nurses had trouble finding a vein for an IV so I got one in my upper arm using ultrasound for the first time. Another nurse warned me not to use my wrist too much or my pins would come loose and I briefly swore off cross stitching for two weeks.
The doctor showed up an hour and a half late (I was having surgery after his clinic hours that day). I forgave him quickly, though, when he reassured me he was going to fix my wrist like new again. I trusted him.
Eva Khatchadourian, separated from her husband, writes letters to him about their son Kevin who killed nine classmates and a beloved teacher in his high school’s gym. Eva writes letters to her husband, reflecting on the past to see just what went wrong. Was she a terrible mother? Is she to blame for this horrific act?
While this book primarily looks at the reasons for Kevin’s act, it also explores the “whys” of many other, factual school shootings and I found Eva’s theories on these evil deeds very intriguing. There is also a glimpse into Kevin’s perspective on what makes teens kill. This is not a political book with an agenda, however.
Although this book is quite dense and I struggled for the first fifty pages or so to get fully entrenched in the book, I was eventually absorbed in the language and the storyline of Kevin’s childhood. Eva seemed pretentious in the beginning, but she soon became a very relatable person. The struggle, in the beginning, is offset by the spectacular ending. I dare say, We Need to Talk About Kevin is powerfully written.
The author, Lionel Shriver, is an American journalist who currently resides in the United Kingdom with her husband. We Need to Talk About Kevin won the Orange Prize, now known as the Women’s Prize for Fiction.
“…You can only subject people to anguish who have a conscience. You can only punish people who have hopes to frustrate or attachments to sever; who worry what you think of them. You can really only punish people who are already a little bit good.”
Would you read this book? Have you already read it? Do you agree or disagree with my comments?
I got my koi tattoo right after I got married, which felt like a victory in life, and I wanted to mark how far I’d come. I named it Yoshi after my favorite koi fish we’d had growing up. Yoshi ended up playing a part in saving my life. I got Yoshi because koi symbolize courage in the Japanese tattoo culture. And I’ve been through hell in my life and come out stronger, but then haven’t we all?
My Son’s Birth Story
When Sebby was born by emergency c-section, I had been doing well so they sent us both home. Unfortunately, I ended up back in the hospital by ambulance three days later. I was bleeding out because my stitches had dissolved too fast (with an autoimmune disease, I’m a very slow healer).
All that bleeding left a hematoma (basically a large blood clot) which the doctor wanted my body to reabsorb. They monitored me for a few days, but the hematoma became infected and the doctor decided to extract it. The extraction surgery was risky and I ended up in ICU for a couple days.
The Second Stay
In total, my second hospital stay lasted two weeks and I was on Dilaudid (a heavy pain reliever) for most of it. I felt horrible most of the time, but never so horrible as when they took me off the Dilaudid. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t have any fight left in me either. I was just so damn tired…
BUT I had my new baby who could visit during visiting hours and I had Yoshi when Sebby couldn’t be there. I especially need my tattoo during the long nights of the fevers that wouldn’t break. Yoshi reminded me that I’d been through hell before and I could do it again. This is what I do. This is who I am. I have courage. I am strong. I can get out of this place. I can get home to my son.
UPDATE: I’m divorced now, which is another story of hell and courage for another post another day. However, it does not change how I felt about my marriage then.
What is your story of courage? How did you get to hell and back?
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