Half Way There

Making good choices, it would seem, is not one of my strong points. This is one of the many things that has become abundantly clear to me over the last six weeks. We all know I'm a big fan of the epiphany, but not so much when I'm inundated with potentially life altering realisations all day every day. No wonder I'm tired all the time.

These realisations include, but are not limited to:

• After experiencing an anaesthetic injection, I probably won't have the balls to get a tattoo
• People can be really super nosey and not very tactful
• But some people can be really super nice and caring and offer to do things for you #babes #blessed
• Desperate Housewives is one of the greatest shows of all time. 100% fact
• Knees are literally the greatest gift God has given us. And elbows aren't too bad either
• I definitely care too much about what people think
• I need to stop that
• Knives are sharp
• I should probably do something different once in a while, like, I don't know, live a little
• There is no greater luxury than being able to put your arm into the sleeve of a jacket/hoodie/shirt
• Keeping your arm elevated every hour of every day makes you look like a real keen bean who always has something to say. And it's not all that comfortable when you try and sleep
• This injury works great as an excuse if you don't want to do something...

Anyway, by some miracle, I've made it through 50 days of my 85 day recovery. I was planning to publish this when I actually hit the half way mark (which was six weeks) but you know how life is, just getting in the way and all that. Plus, Now TV just started streaming Cougar Town, so you know, priorities. Either way, we're seven weeks down the line and it's been a wild old ride, that much I can tell you.

The first four weeks wearing an arm splint twenty-four-seven, were, shall we say, challenging. It's like that age-old saying: "You never know what you have, until you no longer have it". Obviously this better applies to break ups, but my hand felt like it had broken up with the rest of my body so it seems relevant. My four-times-a-day exercises got that little bit better and easier as the days past by; After two weeks I began 'scar massage' which is, as you can imagine, thoroughly unenjoyable (picture me perched on the side of my bathtub wincing and slathering E45 all over the wound in an attempt to treat the skin and get all that soft tissue to chillax a little bit); I saw my physiotherapist a handful of times (no pun intended) and together we nurtured my tendon back to semi-health.

At four weeks, Flint the Splint came off during daylight hours and I was allowed to use my hand for lightweight tasks (picture me attempting to squeeze a dry sponge. Now picture me trying to squeeze a dry car washing sponge. Yes, I had to improvise a bit...). As each week passes, theoretically, the tendon becomes stronger and so the weight of the things I can do increases; I've just about mastered holding a glass of water so that's pretty wild, right? But obviously, I'm massively looking forward to the end of week eight when I can finally drive again!

In my naive condition, I'd hoped that my hand would be in a slightly more usable state when the splint came off, and that I'd be back to washing my hair like the ladies in those borderline inappropriate Herbal Essences adverts. Sadly, we're not quite there yet, and although I've also had the luxury of being allowed to straighten my index finger, yesterday I learnt that my 'peace' sign ain't quite what it used to be.

There's still a fair way to go but I'm feeling positive, which is very unlike me so the pain medication must be working...
~ Eleanor xo

PS. The title of this post is in reference to this song, but you already knew that, right?

| And if none of the above makes sense, you can read part one here |