What I Wore for Halloween, or Feeling Wristful

How it all started. An innocent (and environmentally conscious and physically healthful) bike ride to a morning meeting.

But not on THIS BIKE, which is gentle and friendly and hasn't a malicious spoke in its body.

On this particular sunny Monday, a gorgeous late October morning, it did, however, have two flat tires.

So I took the husband's bike. An older, crankier velocipede with dark intentions, not to mention a sticky, screechy front wheel brake. (Not pictured, because it doesn't deserve the attention.)

Then I had an uneventful, breezy ride from Chestnut Hill to a charming little Mt. Airy coffeeshop featuring a large plate glass window.

I arrived. Applied both brakes, so as to coast to a stop. Back brake: A-okay. Front brake did its job, too, but in its own unpredictable, malevolent fashion. The bike stopped. I did not. I chose instead to cooperate with inertia.  I did NOT plunge through the plate glass window (and I know that's what you were hoping for, given my earlier setup in the description, right?)  Instead, my choice for breaking my fall was nice, soft...pavement. The bike chose to break its fall with nice, soft me. And my wrist chose just to break, all by itself. Or, rather, as a result of serving as the selfless landing point for roughly seven hundred pounds of Rebecca hurtling earthwards.

Then it was off to the ER. Linda drove me in her Mini Cooper at a speed that broke the sound barrier. I called David to tell him, and got fairly hysterical as I looked at my crazily bendy wrist while telling my sad little tale.

Here I am, back in my own little curtained-off area at the hospital. I seem to be resigned to my fate. Or on heavy pain medication. Actually, it was both. My constant and caring companions were Susan and Linda, who kept me company and didn't laugh at my dopey, doped-up attempts to make conversation.

While pain medication began to take over, I worked on answering the same questions seventeen times (date of birth? full name? favorite color?) for seventeen different people. My favorite one was "Do you feel safe at home?" to which I replied "Yes, it's just on my BIKE that I don't feel safe." Tra la. Interesting thing to note is that they never asked me about insurance -- they just sprang into action to get me fixed up without knowing whether or not I was good for the billage.

(Fast forward to a moment much later in time: we ultimately did get a bill for $1200. But the actual cost of the hospital experience was $30,000.00. That's THIRTY-THOUSAND DOLLARS. Golly. At least my wrist was cheaper -- for us, at least -- than Zero's flipped over stomach surgery.)

Then there were the xrays. The techs get major points for creativity -- how does one xray a wrist shaped like a pretzel without torturing its owner? Answer: one doesn't. But at least one gets to crawl around on the xray table first. And by "one," of course I mean the two x-ray technicians. I pretty much just sat there, holding my arm up and trying desperately to keep those two wacky ladies from even TOUCHING my fingers, which seemed to have become mood rings for excruciating pain...

After a few hours, while the xrays were passed around to a few dozen medical types, as well as to the receptionist and the guy who pushed my wheelchair, the word came back. Consensus was that yes, everything was indeed all broken in there, and the next step was foretold: AN ADVENTURE IN SURGERY!

So then, finally, they sent me home, with my wrist "stabilized" by a piece of styrofoam (well, it was fairly stiff styrofoam) and an ace bandage.

Sweet Linda, my saving grace throughout this long day, got me settled on the sofa and then went off to fill my pain meds prescription. She came back with meds AND yummy soup. Almost at the same moment dear Mark arrived, with flowers and three or four full meals, all ready to warm up and nom. They both hung out with me until David got home. Sweet peeps, these.

I went to see the orthopedic surgeon the next day (with the wonderful Mark as both chauffeur and consulting room assistant -- what Mark doesn't know about orthopedic surgery ain't worth knowing.) Surgery scheduled for the next Friday. (It is at this point Tuesday.) I am sent home to wait for four days, with wrist just swaddled up  and lying on a styrofoam bit. That was a fun stretch o' time, for sure.

So yeah, pain meds were key, all that incredibly long week. Here's my pharmaceutical array. Do note the bottle tops that have been attacked by a desperate one-armed woman crazed with pain and wielding a steak knife.

So finally there was the surgery. Here's what they wrote on my index finger, just to be sure they had the right (I mean, correct) wrist. As if they couldn't tell.

And the surgery was okay (one of my Mendelssohn friends was my anesthesiologist -- this was a very cool coincidence, although I was a little concerned that this would involve his seeing more of my personal body parts than I would normally want to share with a fellow singer. As it turned out, all he probably saw were my incredibly hairy legs. And he didn't kill me, which is exactly what I asked him, in the name of our singing fellowship, to do. Not kill me, that is. He said it had actually been a pretty long time since he had killed anyone, anyway. So I guess I wasn't that special.

So then I woke up and I had apparatus. Four pins, two in the forearm and two in the hand, each pair secured with a little purple bit that resembles an electrical plug, and with the two attached to each other by means of a little black rod, which would be good to hang things on if it didn't hurt to do this. The brand name on the purple plug thingies is "Mr. Safe." This brings me great joy.

After the surgery, I was inundated by kindness. Here are views of some of the lovely items I received from very very kind friends (I didn't manage to photograph all of them because many arrived and were consumed by us or otherwise disassembled by the David while I was in a medication-induced fog.)

Flowers from Mark and from Betsey. Pears from Harry & David (so thoughtful of them) -- actually from Zoe and Bob, who are just as sweet as them pears were.

Flowers from Mendelssohn Club's Board of Trustees -- what a lovely bunch of folks. (And what a lovely bunch of flowers, too.)

Some of the MANY cards. I especially loved the Halloween rings, bunny rabbit pencil and confetti shooter included in the fabulous basket o' goodies from Laura.

Lovely, lovely and oh-so-delicious fruitful arrangement from Heather. Note the white bits: I thought, at first (and extremely stupid) glance, that these were mushrooms, but they were IN FACT strawberries covered with white chocolate. Oh my, oh my.

Missing photos are the baskets of wonderful food -- from Bidi and Deb, and from the Board of Commonwealth Youthchoirs -- cheeses and crackers and candy and all kinds of deliciousness. And then there were the soups, and the chilis, and the many other dishes brought to the door by so many lovely friends.

And then the dear sister, who is aware of my predilection for things featuring skulls, very thoughtfully sent me a gift of a sling. It came in adorable packaging and was itself adorable and festive -- if you like skulls.

(I feel compelled to note that my church hymnal, used for my choir singing, features a cover in this same pattern. I do love the skulls -- and of course the roses for color and contrast.)

My extremely witty sister also MADE me another, extremely funny sling, which features a pictogram of exactly what happened to me. Saves me having to tell the story over and over -- I just point to my sling. (I love the bent front tire -- hah.)

And this accessory was a great visual aid when I visited a kindergarten class recently and was talking to them about my career as an illustrator -- someone who tells stories with pictures. "I'm wearing something that tells the story of what happened to my wrist. Who can find the pictures that tell this story?" Aha. Teaching moment. We loves these.

In other clothing gifting news, my dear pal Brigid and her merry band of sewing assistants made me an awesome pair of lounge pants. Which are even awesomer at the moment because the elastic waist requires only one hand to raise and lower the trousers. Woot. Love those pants. Can't wait for the monkeys and the giraffes...

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Okay, so are you now ready for an icky moment? This is about the required regular wound maintenance. You may want to scroll down QUITE quickly so as to avoid any exposure to a view of The Arm (and the pins going into and coming out of it). I have to unwrap my swaddles and clean and re-antibioticize the open areas in my arm where the pins go in (and come out.) Sposed to do this everyday, but can't bring myself to do it more than every other day. That seems to be working pretty well. No horrible oozing or raging infections have occurred because of my more casual schedule.

Here's my array of wound maintenance supplies: alcohol squares for cleaning, antibiotic goo for de-germing, q-tips for applying the goo, square gauze pads for putting neatly around each set of pins (one cuts a little slice into the square, and then slips that around the twin set of pins; tape into place; repeat for a total of two gauze pads per pin set), gauze bandage to be rolled around the entire arm area (this is mostly for comfort and camouflage for the public of the unsettling view of pins sticking into (and out of) my arm. There is also tape (not shown) and scissors (not shown). An ace bandage goes around the whole thing.

Contrary to the images of my arm just post-surgery, when I wrap the ace bandage, I don't cover the erector set. I find this helps to make people aware that bumping into my pointy bits will probably hurt them more than it hurts me, and it will most certainly hurt me. Plus when the erector set is on display, I look WAY bionic. Also in this picture is the box containing my amazing plastic shower arm, complete with really, really tight upper arm gasket -- this allows me to shower without getting my arm wet, while at the same time cutting off my circulation entirely, so the whole shower experience is necessarily a zippy one. Two strong men are required when applying the amazing plastic shower arm to one naked woman. Fun times.

Okaaaaaay, here comes the picture of the unveiling, which reveals the pins going in (and coming out of) my arm. Avoiders: scroll down fast NOW. But if you're still looking, do note how the skin on my arm has morphed in such a way as to let me get in as a regular guest at a Zombie party, even if I'm not bearing the traditional brain casserole to add to the buffet table.

Okay, so after THAT exciting moment of medical reality, now we can move on to superficial things, such as clothing and What I Did With My Hair.

First the clothing. So for a long while, while my arm was still really painful, I couldn't bear to pull a sleeve up over my arm. It turned out I had a lot of shirts I really didn't like all that much, so THEY were subjected to arm surgery.

I guess once this adventure is over, maybe I can give these slitty-armed shirts to Salvy. Hope so.

And now onto The Hair.

Because I effectively had one arm tied behind my back, there was simply no way I could manage to turn my roughly 30-inches of mane into anything remotely tidy enough to be presented in public. David turned out to be Not So Good at braiding somebody else's hair. (He does his own quite nicely, though). Or washing somebody else's hair.

So it was clear. The hair had to go.

Here's where it went. For now. I'm going to send it to "Locks of Love" to see if it will be at all helpful.

So once it became apparent that my hair would be very short, I decided that it would also become very purple. (Or very blue. Depending on the light source and one's individual approach to perceiving color.)

And so that happened. And here I am, sporting both my broken wrist transformer and hair transformation.

And here's just another nice thing for which I am grateful. Thanksgiving was really really great this year. I got to spend it with my family of the heart, and that was just over the top wonderful. (I can't say enough about how terrific it was to be there with the B-K team, so I won't try here.)  But it was also wonderful for me, the dictionary definition of someone who doesn't know how to boil water, not to have to do anything more strenuous in the kitchen than making hand turkeys.

Plus Annie helped with my wound maintenance, and she is an exceptionally good medical professional.

More Fashion Notes

It turns out that a sock, appropriately tailored (which means having a few holes cut in it), makes a MUCH better arm covering than does a boring ol' ace bandage. It's crafty, much more fashionable, and offers the flexibility to accessorize to one's outfit. I wore a black sock to accompany my formal attire for a recent choral concert, and for everyday, well, the laundry basket full of single socks offers a world of possibilities. Today's choice goes very well with my aquamarine velour sweater.

The Prognosis
Pins are scheduled to be removed (with a Black and Decker DRILL and NO anesthetic, I want you to know) on Friday, December 17. To this we look forward, though we are somewhat unnerved at the unknown prospect of what happens next in the wristful adventures. Will I play the fiddle again? Probably yeah, just as badly as before.

So I think that's pretty much the end of the story.

(Though I will comment that having purple-slash-blue hair does elicit strong responses -- let's just say, often QUITE strong responses -- from the general public. I hadn't anticipated this. Maybe I should have. The good news about this often unpleasant experience of unsolicited negative or critical commentary is that being able to get pissed off by people who are rude about my hair is a nice way to get my mind off my broken wrist and the pins going into (and coming out of) my arm. And, on the positive side, my hair is a huge hit with bike messengers and baristas. Also, every once in a while, a random pleasant stranger. So when people are mean about my hair, I just look at them and then kill 'em dead with my bionic arm. Hah.)

And now, finally, here endeth the reading of this extremely lengthy tale of a wrist and its downfall. I am very ready for this story to come to a close. Being a bionic woman has been nice and all, but back to being a mere mortal as soon as possible would be very, very great.

Ah, but there's just this one bit more...

Friday, December 17th was the day the pins came out! O frabjous day, indeed. The extremely nice medical professional Dr. C. handled the process, and he was extremely gentle and didn't hurt me one bit. Well, okay, there WAS one bit that hurt, but it wasn't his fault.

Having armed (tee hee) myself for the promised pain of pin extraction by ingesting not one, but TWO hydrocodone tablets, I presented myself at the hospital at nine a.m. sharp. The whole thing was over in 15 minutes. The extraction was effected not, in fact, by a Black and Decker drill set on rewind, but rather with a humble Allen wrench (it was like I was a piece of Ikea furniture, in disassembly mode). First thing was to unscrew the two purple "Mr. Safe" pluggy things, and off they came, followed by the removal of the black stabilizer rod thing. Then we got down to business: Dr. C. wielding the Allen wrench, and me acting all nonchalant and making really stupid jokes, while clutching David's hand tight enough to cut off HIS circulation. But after a twist or two (or five) of the wrench, out came each of the four pins. Only pin three gave me any pain at all, and that was a little moment of agony, though mercifully brief.

Of course I asked Dr. C. if I could keep all the pieces of what used to be my constant companions, the two Mr. Safes and their amazing combo, the External Fixator. I think he found this request a little odd, but of course the patient in question had blue hair, so I guess he figured he should just go along with it. So then he offered me the loan of the x-rays, too, so that I could scan them and preserve the images of my once broken, now healing wristal bones for all eternity. That was so very nice of him. I have yet to scan 'em, but maybe when I do, I'll add them to this final chapter of the wrist-y blog.

And now for some pix.

The entire set of items that worked together to become my very own personal bionic 'External Fixator.' Check out the pointy screwy ends on the pins: I cleaned the blood off, but still -- they are SCREWS, you know? Urgh.

And here's a close up of "Mr. Safe." Ain't he cute?

Aaaaaand -- finally -- my pin-free arm. Calloo, callay!

I know the thing is not lovely in itself. It's puffy and has icky skin, but it is at last my very own again, and that is indeed a wonder to behold (despite appearances.) Here we are festively sporting "Littlest Pet Shop" bandaids, but as of this writing, now an entire week pin-free, we are actually also band-aid free, and healing like crazy. Those little pin holes closed up within minutes, seemingly...

But the wrist isn't really interested yet in taking on its former work in flexibility and strength. Staying puffy and stiff seems to be its grouchy, uncooperative preference. (I can now bend it backwards an entire 5 degrees -- woot.) Sooooo, clearly the future holds physical therapy, lots and lots and LOTS of physical therapy.

Because I really do want to play the fiddle again. AND get back on my bike. Oh yes, indeed -- life is all ready for me to jump back in for more craziness. What fun has this adventure been, and what fun for it all to be (nearly) over.