Page 31 of Rock Me

The next morning, I don't feel much better. My arms ache more now, like they're not sure how to feel after being freed from their restraints. Don't know whether to stay up or flop by my sides. My right wrist screams with pain every time I rotate it to the right and my elbow feels so stiff, my arms move like I'm a zombie, either straight out in front of me or pointed directly at the ground.

My first hour with the physio therapist ends in tears. Hers, not mine. And I'm sent back to my room like a kid in detention for being mean to the substitute teacher and with a stern warning from my doctor to step up my attitude.

By lunchtime, I don't want to see anyone. I tell the nurse to close my door and that I don't want any visitors. I hear the commotion outside my door when the guys come but it stays closed, and I don't move until I know they're gone.

"Honey," Toni says, coming in to bring me the food they left behind. "Have some lunch."

"Just leave it on the table," I tell her, my eyes not leaving the TV screen.

"You need to eat something."

"I will. Just leave it."

"Can I get you-..."

"No. Close the door on the way out."

"Okay. I'll check on you in a bit."

"I'm fine, go take care of your other patients."

The next day is the same. I spend an hour at a useless physiotherapy session with a new physio-therapist where I do nothing but lift my arms up and down, flapping like damn wounded baby bird. I yell to the nurses I don't want to be disturbed before hiding out in my room.

My friends knock on the door this time, yelling my name, calling me out.

But I ignore them.

At this rate, I'm not going anywhere, it's better they don't waste their time coming to visit.

I make sure the door is open by the mid-afternoon, though and I sit, waiting. Waiting for the music. But it doesn't come.

What a waste. She can play like that, and she doesn't.

What a waste, I think to myself, cradling my wrist.

What a fucking waste.

***

The next morning is the same old shit.

"Rotate it to the left now," Brian, the PT tells me.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it fucking hurts," I tell him. And he looks like he couldn't care less.

"It's not going to get any better if you don't exercise it,” he says for the third time that day.

"Is it going to get better if I do?"

"There's a better chance of it healing fully, yes."

"You promise?" I snicker, knowing full well he can’t.

"No. You know better than to believe a promise like that, Jez. Now, please rotate your wrist anti-clockwise."