When I wake, I refill the ice bags and sort of feel okay.
It’s got to be just a sprain, right?I tell myself, and I’m happy that my wrist at least looks like a wrist again. Sort of.
I spend the day filling and refilling ice packs. Until I finally move my hand across the ice and can hear—and feel—bones moving. I cave and admit that I need help.
After a hideous non-sleep, but at least a very frozen one, I get to urgent care, where a very nice doctor checks me out and sends me for an X-ray. If it’s a simple break, he thinks he can reset it, cast it, and send me on my way. People break bones all the time, right? The staff is pretty shocked that my pain level is only at a four out of ten, and so I feel pretty tough. Maybe a little smug. But after I’m sent for that X-ray, the technician’s face says it all.
Dammit.
After I’m back in the exam room, the doctor walks in. “Good news. You get to go home tonight.”
Hallelujah! This isn’t so bad!
Then he slings X-rays up to a screen. “This is a pretty terrible break. Actually, afewterrible breaks.” He squints and zooms in. “Wow, really bad. Huh. I consulted with an orthopedic surgeon, and you do need surgery to reset your wrist, but the other good news is that I got you an appointment tomorrow. Usually, you’d have to wait a few days to deal with insurance, but this really is an emergency surgery.”
So, not so much hallelujah. And this guy needs to learn the definition ofgood news.
I may regret it, but I take pictures of my breaks.
While my wrist may be the problem, I leave with a cast that goes from above my elbow down to my fingers, so my entire arm is incapacitated. My rideshare home is not exactly fun for eitherthe driver or me, as I’m full of piss and vinegar and swear the entire time.
“What in the hell? Shit. It’s just my wrist, but my entire fucking arm is now locked up. Fucking hell.”
My driver agrees. “Dude, that sucks.”
After parking outside my place, he kindly escorts me to my door.
He’s gonna get a big tip.
My bed feels wonderfully cozy when I stumble in. Sleep is all I want right now. But as I’m about to pass out, RobBob texts me.
RobBob:It’s bad. Apparently, Patrick started vomiting after surgery.
Okay, I knew that. It’s fine. Everything is fine. RobBob just didn’t know that I knew.
RobBob:Then he had a stroke. He has no movement or feeling on his left side. They put him into a coma and on a respirator.
I almost wish RobBob would stop texting me unless he has a positive update. Or until he has one.
Because therewillbe one. There has to be.
Me:This is insane. Can’t be right.
Me:Broken wrist. Can’t type.
Wishing I were able to say more or call and feeling generally miserable, I roll over and clutch my cast. The ice packs I had on all day are wearing off, and it’s no wonder the urgent care people thought I had a high pain tolerance. They didn’t realize I’d numbed myself into oblivion and that I’d be hurting so hard later. In more ways than one.
It didn’t occur to me to ask for any kind of pain meds, but now I’d give anything for drugs.
Sleeping only happens in fits. Nightmare fits, of course, but rousing to RobBob’s texts are another kind of nightmare.
The morning is a disaster as I try to dress myself one-handed, and there is simply nothing to be done with my hair. Trying to even get it into a scrunchie is impossible, and while vanity is by far not my biggest struggle right now, I cannot ignore how deranged I look. It seems petty, I cannot imagine taking a rideshare to the surgery center.
Then another texts dings. Presumably one I’m not going to want to see. And I’m right.
RobBob:Just keep wishing for some sign he’s still him. Hopefully, that comes as he gets more motor control. Maybe there’s a magic moment where he wakes up fully and tries to talk and smile. Could be he’s resting and recovering and him coming back is not far away.
RobBob:His brain function has diminished significantly since this happened.
