PT #9: Lose It, Then Use It

One perk of temporarily losing the use of wrist function is to appreciate the brilliance of the One who originally created the wrist (Psalm 139:14). The Craftsman. To observe the intricacy of every wrist movement involved in basic tasks, now dissected and more intentionally performed.

Like assembling favorite scrambled eggs. Does anyone really need a symphony of instruments playing Beethoven's 5th when breakfast preparation in itself is a masterful medley? plus a full-fledged workout of the healing wrist and hand?...

The beginning step requires hand strength plus a tricky wrist-swivel to lyrically dice a portion of red pepper into small squares; observe the slight wrists-bend for a two-handed egg crack; the curved and circular slo-mo (because of healing) but striving for "fast-twitch" wrist-rotate to whip together the egg's whites and yolks, like the circular motion of an orchestra conductor's wand; then, a firm fingertips-grip squeezes the bowl's side to prepare for the lift and forearm swivel-tilt to pour; the seasoned mixture hits a nutrient-infused, pre-heated iron skillet; its sizzle is nothing short of remarkable and music to the ears!

Mark the performance or accomplishment of the culinary moment. Enjoy savory eggs, and write the unscrambled lyrics.

The Fwrist fractured collage

In 6 weeks, IF there is anything to write about, wrist- or reunion- wise... I am in wait-and-see mode.

The Doc: Remarkable? Or Not?

A girl watches Cinderella, or Ever After, or Beauty and the Beast all her life. She lives it; eats it; breathes it; works hard; believes it. Her life will be amazing and turn out happily ever after. And then it does. Remarkable.

Prince Harry + Rachel Meghan Markle = Re-Markle-Ble. Fairy tale princess; tiara; prince; doing good things for others.

And then there are moments to mark, remark, and move on from. Things don't turn out as expected. A dream job is offered to someone else. A marriage ends. Or a variety of other not-so-happily-todays, anyway. One might literally hobble or experience daily pains or impairments in the body. Or have a stiff and gimpy wrist, and the doctor points out a surprise, but it is not a hoped-for surprise.

To work hard and literally pray to hear the words "I'm surprised" from the doctor; specifically from my bone doctor regarding my healing wrist, was the hope. Amazingly, Dr. Volgas actually spoke those very words, about my progress strength-wise and the forward and back bend of the hand at the wrist. But then with a grim expression he added the footnote: "Let's look at the x-rays to show you another aspect I am surprised about."

The re-markle-ble did not happen for my wrist (Fwrist). The slightly tipped and slipped wrist bone's one hope is surgery and a metal disk. But it cannot promise a better outcome. Especially when a patient has metal intolerances to consider. I remember these same discouragements after cancer's diagnosis. But here I am, 12 years later, in some ways stronger than ever.

Progress at the physical therapist will eventually hit a wall and fall short. Plan for re-markle-ble; face reality and move on; and somewhere around the corner there still might be a dreamy or bionic remarkable. The different and unexpected.

I prefer to hold to this intricate promise for my wrist and for my family's reunion after 25 long years: All things work together for good... (Romans 8:28).

PT #7: WOW It's a Halo

Since this wrist-fracture experience began and following the cast's removal, after visit #1 to the physical therapist, my initial three goals were to clap, achieve the yoga prayer pose, and extend my arms in front opened-palm. The clap has returned, and the prayer pose angle has changed from 45 to 60 degrees... Yesterday, Therapist Jill was enthusiastic about the substantial improvement. The most expressive she has been during a session.

I documented goal #3 in three consecutive Sundays of pictures, showing my opened-palm pose. Call me sentimental or superstitious, but the mere thought of permanently losing that relaxed and treasured palm pose creates emotional pain. It is a low-blow, because at the end of Sunday services after Pastor John speaks, in a Presbyterian way (I was kindred-raised), he gives a benediction that as a child I became familiar with: "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord's face shine upon you and show you His favor and give you peace..."

For years I have eagerly extended both arms for that benediction. Every time it produced goose-bumps; even now, despite supination-impaired Fwrist. Mother's Day Sunday we were too busy for a photo of my progress, fixing a special meal. Later that evening I checked Fwrist's progress on goal #3, discouraged that it looked about the same as the previous week. I actually hadn't noticed that Fwrist was still goal #3 impaired, because the morning's female speaker did not lead a closing benediction. I wasn't reminded of the continued arm-fail. Thursday's visit to the bone doctor might end up being this week's confirmation that Fwrist is still off.

On a positive note, yesterday Physical Therapist Jill prescribed an interesting new exercise. She calls it The Halo. I try to learn from Jill the key, including "what does this one do?" for many of the home exercises she prescribes. Specifically, what to notice to have proper pose. This one needs no other key than to provide much-needed hope. WOW [a reflection of MOM]--it's a halo. A visual reminder that someone's watching over me and our family reunion, occurring after 25 long years.

Ankle (Cankle); Wrist (Fwrist): The Re-name

Definition of cankle [online] informal: A wide or thick ankle that appears indistinguishable from the area between the knee and ankle (lower calf).

Definition of fwrist [yours-truly] informal, frist, not fritz: A wide or thick wrist that appears indistinguishable from the area between the elbow and wrist (lower forearm).

Fwrist accurately describes my new wrist. It is a stranger. It looks different, and bracelets that were loose are still tight. Being able to identify the difference, with a re-name, is the beginning of reunion and true acceptance. Imagine Frankenstein's sewn wrist that has little definition, except mine was not sewn but re-set.

Unlike hapless Humpty Dumpty, Fwrist was able to be put back together again, but it healed with a slight outward pronation, and when I hold eating utensils, a supination. My husband was in the Emergency Room when the skilled doctor re-set my wrist, creating Fwrist. The doctor sternly ordered: "No pictures or videos during the procedure."

The doctor couldn't keep Jeff from having that moment forever and permanently branded into one of his memory banks. I was in a medicated state or realm, but according to Jeff, it resembled Elastigirl's reach--the way my hand appeared to stretch all the way to the ceiling and then boomeranged (or was skillfully guided) back into place. The procedure took less than a minute. I moaned, but because of happy drugs, remember nothing. However, the after-effects still remain. 

An arm cast can forever change a person's way of doing things. Uninjured Lefty had to become stronger, and can impressively shower and dress, straight-iron hair, put on tie gym shoes fast, and crack an egg, all one-handed. Injured Righty healed a bit off, so now there is Fwrist. The full effect is still in-process as inflammation subsides.

Fwrist is an estranged family member who returns, changed. Like siblings whose inner-workings are similar. Formed inside of the same mother's womb for 9 months and thoughtfully named; raised in the same home; yet, somewhere along the line one sibling was broken and stretched emotionally and physically, more than could ever be photographed or imagined. A protective barrier reforms. It is like the sibling should be re-named.

To one degree or another, we all experience brokenness; and for many, the result is change and hopefully resilience. Maybe I should be re-named, too. Like Green Gables' Anne-with-an-e... Diane-minus-the-e, plus-a-tail-end-a has a distinctive and complex ring to it. Enjoy the math, Jeff.

PT #6: Silly Meets Sublime

Finally, after uncomfortable wrist-bending and wrist-turning exercises, Therapist Matt pulls out an occupational product that does not look occupational at all. It is yellow-ish; the largest pile of Silly Putty I have ever seen; the amount of which could attempt to fill an average-sized beach pail. The other day Therapist Jill said that one of her patients learned, by experimenting, that it actually is like real Silly Putty: "It bounced to the ceiling."

My unspoken, burning question was, "How many snotty-fingered hands have massaged that putty"?

I was first instructed to press the pile of putty to flatten it as best I could. The purpose was to distract me from the discomfort of bending my wrist, by having fun. I am not that easily distracted, so it was not fun, at first.

Then, Matt tried an alternative form of fun. He formed the putty back into a bucket-like shape, separated it into two equal and somewhat flat halves, like preparing an oval-shaped, thick-bread sub sandwich. He grabbed a small container labeled, "Treasure Hunt." As a kid I was always a sucker for Easter egg or treasure hunts. Matt placed five regular-sized marbles onto one slice of the "sandwich" and then pressed together the two putty-sandwich slices. "Now, use your right hand to find the five hidden marbles."

It was slow-going, and after a minute or so Matt added, "You can use your right hand's fingers, too."

I knew it would be like TV's "Survivor" competition, where five balls are hidden in a large sand pit, the searcher finds four of them, and the last one takes forever to find. "Pull thinner strips with your fingers" Matt said.

After pulling oodles of strips (good finger-strengthening exercises), the very last portion of the putty hid the fifth marble. The shape created from the search was sublime enough to require two photos of the masterpiece, also known as an artsy form of Psychology's Rorschach ink blot test. What is it?

Reminds me of a forever long, twisty road we drove in Puerto Rico

I see... an intriguing obstacle course ahead

co-planning my family's 25-year reunion

PT #5: No Pearl Harbor Fighter Planes Please

Sunday 1, Sunday 2, Sunday 3
Not a striking difference, but each Sunday the pose is smoother
Wood block Wristy still doesn't give in easily

Sitting waiting with two others early Monday morning for heat treatment, before seeing our physical therapists, young skater-mom shows me her black arm hairs saying she thinks they are ugly for summer. It is just like some of my arm hairs that suddenly turned black. She is the mom who fractured her wrist ice skating. Before the fall our arm hairs used to be light-colored. Extra blood flow and healing properties directed to our arms must have done that. So, our pairs of arms don't match like they used to, in more ways that one, and it shows with the arrival of short-sleeved weather.

Physical Therapist Jill says that miscommunication in the body sends unnecessary inflammation to my already-healed wrist. Wristy still remembers the major trauma she experienced 2-1/2 months ago. I want to give her a break, but know that uncomfortable wrist exercises and movements are needed. The motions still send the inflammation, like frightening fight-or-flight responses or destructive fighter planes sent to Pearl Harbor. The body's healing system is complex.

At this stage of the game, Jill says I don't want inflammation. She removes it by massaging the fluids up the arm. Then the block of wood that is Wristy might be persuaded to bend a little further.

No desire to explain why this relates to co-hosting June's family reunion. After 2-1/2 decades, "inflammation" makes information complex.

PT #4: May the 4th Be With You Meets the Wonder

Physical Therapist Jill again emphasized that therapy and their prescribed exercises will not fix Righty's outer wrist issue. The bone healed slightly slipped, and therapy can't change that. Her words "will not fix" contain the power to bring me down.

So now begins the wonder. It is a web of too many thoughts. Twelve years ago I experienced it after hearing the doctor's poignant word "Virulent": "I wonder, I wonder..." will I survive surgery? how will chemo affect my body? will cancer return? will I make it to the 5-year mark?

Wonder thoughts are natural. And some of them even enter into the courageous category: "I wonder, I wonder..." what will my funeral be like? Not because of my wrist, but 12 years ago, before cancer surgery, I mentally spent about 30 minutes visiting my imagined funeral. At first it terrified me, but then I became more comfortable. Just briefly visiting terror and then moving on gave me courage to face the wonder. I am a survivor.

Before working with Physical Therapists Jill or Matt, a technician always leads me to heat therapy that lasts 20 minutes. My hand is put into a large and contained, sand-filled barrel or vat. I slip Righty into the vat's sealed sleeve, it is turned on, and a wind tunnel of heated sand transports me to a Star Wars scene with one sweet and round BB-8 droid spinning effortlessly over the sand. Or, I visit sunny Florida with seagulls and crashing beach waves.

Sitting next to me yesterday was a young Mom trying to visit Florida. I interrupted her beach time asking questions about her wrist fracture. It all began with the Winter Olympics; her two young children wanted to ice skate; Mom skated too; Mom helped daughter to not fall; Mom instead ended up falling on the ice. A plate and screws adhered her painfully shattered wrist back together. The doctors gave her the wonder word: Arthritis.

I can't help but wonder, and even more so, I can't help but feel conformed to the full-of-Wonder One. He transports me to the realm of faith, and humility, and trust, and wonder. I am not entitled to full healing, but Righty is placed into His very capable hands for a sequel that is not limited by a stubborn slipped arm bone.

May the Force be with you, and may He be with Righty... and with planning for my family's first reunion in more than 25 years. Wish it was on the beach!

PT Visit #3 & "Sister-Wrister"

Physical Therapist Matt massaged my lower arm and noted a small bruise below my elbow, "Did my massage the last time cause that bruise?"

"No," I replied. "My self-massages did it. My arm felt so tight, I must have rubbed too hard."

He was impressed and pleased with the reduction of inflammation in my injured wrist area, so he modified and created a revised exercise routine to follow.

A few hours later, at 6:30 p.m., we took a later than normal lake walk. We approached Walker Karen, an avid lake regular, like ourselves. She is probably 5 years my junior, has a charming southern accent, usually walks solo and chatting on a cell phone and waves to us, and is a librarian at a nearby elementary school. We've passed her innumerable times at the lake, but over the winter saw her very few times because early sunset made her walking times different than ours.

As we approached each other, something stuck out that was different. Like the attention-attracting flash of a K-mart blue-light special, our eyes honed to an object covering her left hand. A cast. Rather than our cordial and brief, "Hello, beautiful evening," we had to stop and share war stories. I've seen other people with wrist casts, but seeing hers was different because I feel kindred to Karen. We've navigated literal "water-over-the-bridge" times together at our lake.

"What happened to your wrist?" we asked, pointing to Karen's cast. "Diane's injury is a few weeks ahead of yours... her cast was taken off 2 weeks ago."

Accident stories with show-&-tell lasted at least 5 minutes. Her simple yet painful fall forward was going up unforgiving steps at work; my complicated and painless fall backward was an at-home slipper-stub, rotating and way over-shooting a chair’s seat onto a carpeted floor. Her fall was a week ago and required surgery; I was able to opt out of surgery. She has a plate and screws in her wrist; I am still deciding whether surgery is needed for that. It is her non-dominant hand that was injured; mine is the dominant hand. She has needed for pain strong, mouth-drying medication; I chose to take Ibuprofen only twice, early on, mainly hoping it would help reduce inflammation (but it didn't).

The haunting if-only regrets and choices made just before our falls re-play over and over in our minds; and, we have similar future unknowns.

"I noticed your wrist motions" Karen said, "Your hand is moving well."

Something about injuring a wrist hones eyes to the intricate wrist gestures of others. Like an actor's fine wrist movements on TV. The way their arm lays, with their wrist gently hanging over, say, a split-rail farm fence. Or how their fingers delicately bend as they talk. It is fascinating, because I cannot perform those motions as easily but notice them like never before and hope they eventually return like new.

Finding kindred-spirit "sister-wrister" created a new bond. We are walkers, still walking with similar injuries, and still facing recovery time ahead. Our empathetic parting words were: "Next time, we'll show-&-tell our progress. Take care."

For my family's reunion, after 25 long years, is it possible for bonds to begin to re-kindle? Our war stories are different, yet there are similarities. We can briefly show-&-tell, because we are kindred. Is there any need to ever delve deeper into the past?