Humpty Dumpty 2

* Images may be too startling for some- read at own discretion.

Humpty Dumpty has a new arm!
Bruised, scarred, filled with metallic charm.
Humpty's new arm freaks her out.
It looks like an eel, but not wiggling about.
***
Day 3, post removal of cast.

  Rise and shine, Angel.  I've got work to do.

Angel-  But it's Saturday.

First things first.  Gently massaging my arm to try and improve blood flow, wake deteriorated muscles, and prevent too much stiffening of tissues around the scars.

All the yellowing is simply the bruising healing.

The wounds are thankfully clean.

Practising rotating the lower arm.  Trying to get my palm to fully face upwards.

And then downwards..

I repeat this about ten times.

These microscopic movements are as much as I am able to achieve today.  

Then I practise the hinging stuff.

HOORAY!  

My arm lifts up at my FIRST attempt, unlike the previous day where it laid unresponsive!

(The goal is to one day be able to lift it with the palm fully facing upwards.)

I do this another ten times, bearing in mind what my therapist had cautioned against, when he realised  how hard-core a patient he has.

Lastly, I work on straightening my arm.

That's where my arm is at now.  

Both Dr C and Dr L had gravely forewarned that aside from possibly never being able to touch my face again, I may never be able to straighten my arm either.

The wonderful thing about the voice of reason and the voice of doom is, it fuels determination.

I can't get my arm to straighten beyond this place now, even with gravity pulling at it.

So I decide to tag the hinging exercise stealthily to the straightening exercise, and this is what I got.

***

Humpty spent the morning looking at fear.

She touched it, stroked it, kept it near.

Humpty is facing a new wall.

When she gets there, she'll stand up tall.

Humpty Dumpty

*  Advisory Note:  Images used in this post may be too startling for some. 

Humpty Dumpty was having a ball!

Then Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

So all the best doctors, and the kindest of men,

Are working hard, to put Humpty, together again.

I took myself off all medication, the moment we arrived at Paradise Island.

My body was too wrecked by the side effects- nausea, extreme gastritis.  It's hard enough trying to keep optimistic with the broken arm.  I don't need to waste focus on side effects.

Dr C was a bit concerned when he heard this.  I think he would prefer I keep the pain at bay.  Yesterday he succeeded in removing the cast and sent me immediately to physio.

All my life, I have been the dancer that wants to repeat everything again and again,and again.  Yesterday however, at only the 3rd set of "exercises", I shut my eyes and wished everything would come to an immediate end.

My therapist A, said so beautifully-  With pain, we want to respect it.  But we also don't want to fear it.

My body went into shock again.  Lying there with my limbs knocking against each other, I wondered was I in semi seizure from the pain, or was I simply shaking with fright?

Because I've been feeling damn it, scared.

Back on this island, I've put myself back in a daily modified floor practice.  I tell Jon even as the arm has to heal, it cannot heal separately from the rest of the body.   

But God, I am still scared.

Trace reasoned that it's the unknown.  Jon explained it's the athlete's nightmare, the fear of not being able to regain lost ability.

Finally, this morning.  Eureka.

It's my new arm.

I'm afraid of it.

I'm not bothered by the faint bruising, the scars, its sheer disfigurement.

No.

It frightens me because it  does not for now, respond to what my brain wills it do do.

I've been given tasks; for 1-2 minutes at each waking hour, I have to practise the simple act of bending the elbow, deeper, with my palm facing up, fingers splayed.

This is my 5th attempt.

My 6th.

(Awesome.  I managed to open my palm!)  I can't bring my arm any closer, or rotate the lower arm to face the palm up.  And then I am suppose to repeat the entire exercise in the opposite direction.  That is, to begin coaxing the arm to straighten.

I try out of sheer curiosity, to cheat with my legs propping my arm up, to guide it nearer to my face.

I cheat with  my legs and my good arm.

(Dr C had told Jon, that without the operation, I may never be able to touch my face again.)

That's as far as I got.

Dear Broken Bionic Arm. 

 

Quit scaring me.  

Somewhere within you lies the memory of folding, stretching, pushing, pulling.  

You and I have too much of a life to lead. 

 

Blue

Blue?

Blue is the warmest color.

Thank you, Fairy Godfather, for understanding that the first tentative steps towards recovery, need to be made in absolute style, supine by the ocean, hearing it roar.

All around me, blue, blue, blue.

Time slows.  In my elbow I can feel a sharpness.  It is as if within me now, there is a knife, nudging.

I think I'll go lie down.

Strike 3

*  Bruno pictures belong to the House of Mutt, as posted on their Facebook page

Discovered:  Dislocated elbow, torn ligaments, two pieces of fragmented bones floating about, crushed radial head of the ulna, fractured ulna.

Strike 1:  Pack of dogs appear, one dog lunges towards Dumpling.  Dumpling kicks up into a giant handstand, I am flung too fast, and too far over.  I lie in blinding pain, on muddy tracks, in the Commons, my left arm, a separate body part.

Strike 2:  Surgery on Monday.  No complications thankfully, GA well administered, doctors are happy, no nausea (praise God!).  Post-op, the pain is stunning.

Strike 3:  Review, 2 days post-surgery.  Dr C unravels my arm.  The hope is to get me out of the cast and start me on physio, because there is the reality that we have to race against time to recover as much movement as possible.  My arm is unrecognisable, deformed.  The pain pushes me into shock.  I can focus my breath, steady, steady, but I can't control the shuddering and shaking of my whole body.

Spice feeds me lunch.  How's my little friend with the wounded wing?
Jon opens and shuts doors for me.  He leans close to kiss me and buckle me into the passenger seat.
Trace says how long are you in hospital for, what is a good time, I'll come visit.
S says, shall I bring dinner over tonight?  SF and TJ send love from London.  K says something about my ability to adapt.  Every other person I know cheer me on, Get well soon, Tam!

I miss my dog.

After 19 years of a good marriage, it is now only dawning on me that I have trust issues.  I trust my husband to be the wonderful human being that he is.  But I have not trusted him with myself.  I have kept myself unconsciously, bottled up, away.  

How does the song go... Three strikes you're out at the old ball game!

Strike 3, I'm out.  The pain is too loud.  

I can see his worry.  Because he needs me, to trust, him.

Sombre/Somber

Went to bed sombre, woke up, somber.

It was supposed to be a straightforward review of the broken arm.  

But once the doctor saw the x-rays, a shadow crossed the room.  A second opinion was quickly sought, then a third.  I sat in a quiet room with the very best in hand-elbow-arm in Singapore, listening to them discuss subluxation, compressed fracture, radial head, ulna, flexion, extension, rotation, physiotherapy, limited range of motion, surgery.

There's also a piece of bone, adrift.

When can I get back on a horse?  Will I ever be able to cartwheel again?  Kick up into handstand?  Do a push-up?  Move my arms like this?

It's one thing to halt a dance career by choice.  It's another to thing altogether to suddenly be confronted with the possibility/reality of losing the full range of motion of a limb.

I know not being able to cartwheel is not in the same category of true catastrophe; heartbreak, loss, sickness, disease, poverty, war crimes.  But being able to throw your body in a moving circular shape, on your hands instead of your feet, feels like a spontaneous smile- that simple, that joyful.

One of the kindest things ever said to me was what he said yesterday-

It's just the way it is with you athletes.  He didn't say anything else.  Instead he's put aside a few minutes in his morning routine to help me with my contact lenses.  He's bought a bucket and a ladle, set up an area for me to bathe.

The last time I hurt my other arm was right in the middle of production and a tour.  The show went on as it must.  I learnt to dance with that arm in a cast.

Backstage with YW, waiting to go on.

Early tomorrow morning, I am scheduled for surgery.  Post-op, I know there will be the usual pain, discomfort, vomiting and nausea.  I've asked for the option to return home.

And then the journey will truly begin.  Some combination of rest, and the re-educating of a mended arm to build strength, and move, move again.

photo credit- Eric Nakamura

Costume Change/ Broken Arm Season

 I'm doing the best I can.

 I still have one good arm, a great pair of legs, and when necessary, I hold things with  my mouth.

One of the bigger challenges each day is the once simple act of getting dressed.

The morning shower has been replaced with a hot bath, and every attempt to not slip in the tub while using my feet to manipulate the shower head and taps.

My broken arm needs to be kept dry.

My good arm does gymnastic feats and prevents me from drowning.

Then there is the wardrobe crisis.  

Aside from my favourite green dress-on-its-last-legs, I can't fit my arm into anything else; forget even attempting to pull on and button jeans.

Undaunted, we went back to the old hood in search of sleeveless, large pieces of clothing that I can crawl into and zip up with one hand.

Bruno waited patiently...

I got lucky.  At Helmut Lang, the SA gathered a long skirt into a hole for me to step into.  She then pulled the skirt up, smoothed it down, and folded the elastic waistband once over for a better fit.  She suggested three loose blouses to go with the skirt.  I chose the one with the largest arm holes.

Voila!  A new look.

I think the word is- editorial.

Because it took such a collaborative effort to get me dressed, I decided to leave the store in my new editorial outfit, and asked the kind SA to pack my old threads up instead.  Then I walked down the street to have tea with the London Besties, thinking editorial works at Grangier and Co, because Notting Hill netizens respond to style.  The restaurant was packed, but Broken Arm clad in editorial secured us a table.

And then the wonderful Myha at Matches called in a sleeveless coat for me.

 Together we found a way to get me into the coat.  She belted me up, knotting the ribbon towards the side of the body.
Do you like it, Tammy?  It's very, 'The Row'... I agree with you, it needs a heel...But you could wear it with-

I could wear it with leg warmers, I tell her.  On my arms.  It would take care of the cold.  It's editorial, I say, and don't bother taking it off.

*sleeveless coat- Isabel Marant

Dislodged

Dislodged- my left arm, I can feel it like a separate organ, hanging limply by my side.  I'm curled up, my shoulder is hiked too far up my left ear.  The ground is soft, wet, ah mud- my friend.

I can hear Dumpling, but I can't see him.  Voices buzzing around me-  There's been a casualty!  Get the ambulance!  Get the ranger!

Out in the Commons, I'm in everyone's way.  Call Ridgeway!  We can't have horses coming down the path!

Caroline holds my hand.  Someone else puts a blanket over me.  My body goes into shock.  The cold makes everything numb.

***
The pain is excruciating, audible.  I need the pain to subside before I attempt moving my legs.

Caroline again-  She's a tough woman, ordinarily she would just get up and get back on. She's a dancer. Her husband's a doctor.  She thinks she's broken something.

Dislodged- my arm, hanging without purpose by my side.
***

On the count of 3, I say, I can't get myself centred.  I need help.  One paramedic holds my disabled arm, the other cups me under my right armpit.  The ambulance can't be driven onto the dirt path.  The ground is too icy, there is mud everywhere.  I have to walk, my dislodged arm, carried like a purse close to me.  The pain, excruciating.
***

In the ambulance, they use a pair of scissors to cut off my jacket, my jumper, my long-sleeved shirt.  They need to get to my arm and my back.  Later at the hospital, I ask the trainee to cut off both sleeves, my attempt at symmetry.  After I rise from being sedated and having my elbow shoved back into its correct place, I find more of my shirt has been cut off.  I leave the hospital shrouded in one of their gowns.  When I finally get home, I cut off everything that's left.  It's the only way to get out of these mud-filled clothes.

It's been a long day.  I got a bit weepy hearing his voice.

I've sub-luxed my elbow, fractured the head of my ulna.  Shit happens to the best of us, and oh yes, horse-back riding is an at-risk spot.  But in moments like these, there's still so much to be joyful and grateful for.  The chorus of love, friendships old and new, the kindness of strangers and the kindness of friends.

Two summers ago, we journeyed to the Fallen Empire, and boy did I feel, dislodged.  It took a while to find my feet, build an ecosystem of sorts.  How long we remain, God only knows.  But while I'm here, breathing, moving with that newly disabled arm, I'm gonna give it, my all.