I screwed up my arm at work. After soldiering on for weeks like some kind of optimistic martyr, I finally got the diagnosis and a very quick surgery date. The nice thing about the surgery being scheduled so suddenly was that it barely gave me time to convince myself that I would die on the operating table, or slip into a coma and wake up to find the world overrun with zombies with no sign of my wife or best friend Shane (Please excuse the Walking Dead reference, there won’t be any more, I promise).
In any case, the surgical repair of my distal bicep rupture has left me down a hand for the summer. My right arm has turned into an aching, worthless piece of luggage filled with mismatched socks and tightey whiteys with the elastic shot out. Much as I’d like to abandon it on the baggage carousel, I’m sure I’ll need it eventually.
I managed to avoid wasting precious pre-surgical time fretting about my potential adverse reactions to anesthesia by scrambling to get as many two handed jobs done around the house as possible. I moved a bunch of furniture, fixed some drywall, caulked the tub and cleaned out the gutters (Handymen and -women might point out that caulking a tub is a job which can be done one handed, but in my case, I can barely manage it with two hands and 3 or 4 rolls of paper towels).
Luckily the surgery date was so soon that I was spared cleaning out the basement or alphabetizing the garage.
The novelty of my one-handed reality wore off nearly as rapidly as the pain meds. I quickly discovered that nearly every pair of shorts I own have drawstrings. I also realized that my selection of slip-on shoes is severely limited. There’s a possibility that I could tie a bow one handed, but it would not likely be a very good one, and could take hours.
Brushing my teeth is not difficult, and floss sticks work great one handed. The rest of my bathroom activities however, are more of an adventure. In the spirit of discretion, I’ll spare you gentle readers any specifics (Unless you read the caption for the photo below).
For the time being, I’m still in the ace-wrap, rigid splint and sling ensemble I wore as I left the surgery center. Fashion critics agree the basic little black sling is accented perfectly with the ecru bandage – it’s elegant without being pretentious. Soon, I go back for the dressing change and possible wardrobe upgrade. I’m tingling with anticipation, or maybe it’s just nerve damage.