Six months or so ago I’m happily plodding along in my day job when a sudden downpour and slippery surface underfoot combine to send me spiralling through the air in a cartwheel that would have seen me score 9.9 for style and difficulty in the Olympic gymnastics arena.
It would have been a perfect 10 but for the landing.
That’s because I landed on my outstretched left hand rather than my feet like a well-polished gymnast.
At the time it felt a little tender so later at home I threw the mandatory bag of frozen peas on it and carried on watching telly. As you do.
Unfortunately, over the following weeks the injury stubbornly refused to get better and so I took myself off to the doctor. He sent me for an X-ray and somewhere along the confusing minefield which is our health system I found myself in front of a specialist who was shaking his head and muttering one two-word phrase.
“It’s bad.”
Worse was to follow. I would need surgery. There were two options but I needed to move swiftly, such was the ongoing deterioration, otherwise I might not be able to retain the limited movement I find myself with now.
That noise you may have heard a few months back was probably me muttering an expletive. For which I humbly apologise.
But think about it from my point of view.
There I was trundling along with life. A bit sore here and there from the dreaded arthritis but generally speaking not doing too bad then bang. I’m suddenly unable to play golf any more because I can’t hold the clubs and pulling the bedsheets up at night is a 50/50 proposition. Some nights it will be no drama while others even the slightest deviation from correct alignment while pulling can cause agonisingly sharp pains.
The specialist tells me the smart money is on the injury being an old break which I didn’t realise I had. Now there is bugger all if any cartilage in my wrist. There’s no room for one of those special injections they do to give it some relief so the whole thing has to be fused together.
He wonders whether I’d had an injury years ago.
All I could think of was the time about 17 years ago when I was at a party. Long story short I got my arm caught behind a door as someone came through and it bent it right back.
I recall it hurting like hell for a few minutes but subsiding after a while – most likely because I was a lot younger and, er, well hydrated on a night out with mates if the truth be told.
“That’d do it,” said the specialist matter-of-factly as my tale ended.
So now here I am tapping away with one hand to bring you a giggle over your cornflakes.
I say one hand. It’s actually just one finger.
Throughout my entire 40-odd plus journalistic career I have only ever been a two-finger typist. I learned my trade on old heavy-as typewriters where blisters on the tips of the index fingers were a badge of honour.
Fellow reporters of some experience would tell me I’d graduate to four fingers and then eventually use them all but that never happened for me.
We went to computers and “soft” keyboards – which I used to break on a regular basis such was the strength of my two pointers – and then my job changed a bit and I ended up in a different role and didn’t do as much writing.
And so, as I say, here I am trying to work out an easy way to put this column together for the next six weeks as my hand regains its strength and the left index finger is freed of the cast currently parked around it.
I have tried a bit of dictation but I’m a little wary of that.
I sent a message to a client last week via my cellphone and it didn’t go too well.
For some reason the thing inside that decides what you are saying sent a message to this lady starting with “Hi Elephant” rather than her name. Luckily she was a good sport about it but I’m sure you can feel my reluctance to pursue the option.
So, for now I’m just tapping away one-handed.
Of course, at home there are some issues.
For instance, I can’t carry the washing basket out to the clothesline for Mrs P and mowing the lawns is a little difficult. Driving is out for a while so I get chauffeured around but thankfully I can still hold the TV remote and point it at the telly ... from the couch I will be living on for the next wee while.
I can’t butter my toast or crack an egg for breakfast. Nor can do up my belt so shorts with an elasticated waist band are proving a big help.
I can wander around the park with George the three-legged dog but if Mrs P hasn’t ‘opened’ the poo collection bag for me before I depart I’m afraid I’m risking a fine from the council. On the plus side a small patch of grass down there will be getting some healthy fertiliser. Ahem.
As a result of all this upheaval, My Beloved has once again stepped into the breach and is buttering toast, cracking eggs and helping with my belt where needed. She’s even rearranged the cushions on the couch for me so my wounded limb gets plenty of support.
At least I think that’s what she is doing. She may simply be looking for any loose change that has fallen out of my pocket. She’ll be wanting to snaffle it before my painkillers wear off and I re-emerge from a state of delirium I expect.
Anyway. For now we are coping. And as we always do, we’ll get there. One way or another.
Luckily, we’ve had numerous offers of assistance from friends and neighbours.
I’ve thanked them and said I’ll definitely be in touch.
If I need a hand.
