I’ll admit it – I got complacent. I fell and when I pulled the glove off my left hand, the poor thing was pointed in the wrong direction – an unearthly bizarre sight that made even me cringe.
“This isn’t good,” was my first thought even before the freight train of pain arrived at my brain.
My companion was relatively calm following a stream of expletives that filled the cold winter afternoon with steam like a tea kettle coming to boil. Soothing words and unconditional love kept me from losing it. Off we went to the emergency room. The pain wasn’t too bad considering that I’d shattered my left wrist by falling with it behind my back.
After a feeble attempt to reset the wrist in the ER by an orthopedic surgeon who was good enough to pull himself away from a Saturday afternoon with his teenage daughters, I was still hopeful that it wasn’t a catastrophic injury.
Feeble?
Ever try to put back together something that’s shattered, crushed or pulverized? Ever try to glue together a vase that's broken into a million pieces?
The end of my radius – one of the two bones connecting my arm to the wrist - was gone.
“When you get home,” he said, setting a temporary cast around the wrist, “you better get to the hospital and see an orthopedic surgeon.”
Back home, I called several highly recommended orthopedic surgeons and was seen immediately by the nice folks at South County Orthopedics.
Dr. Mark Coppes frowned when he saw the wrist and the X-ray that showed the bone had been shattered – just like that proverbial vase – into a hundred pieces. But like my companion immediately after the fall, he was upbeat and supportive. “We can take care of this.” That is, after the swelling and the bloating went down.
Surgery was set, but my body had something else in mind – the flu.
The delay didn’t help but when I finally got into South County Hospital, I was ready to have this problem fixed.
The fix in my case was a several inch long L-shaped plate with three surgical screws holding it in place.
I was out of it minutes after arriving at the pre-surgery room. I don’t remember a thing except more than an hour later, I had a vision of Dr. Coppes, new X-ray in hand, saying something like “this looks good.”
Initially, I had planned to have out-patient surgery, but the doc wanted me to stay overnight. It was the first time I’d ever been hospitalized and the injury was really the first time I’d had to use the American medical system except for my now-regular visits with a general practitioner.
After a sleepless night at one of South County Hospital’s new single-patient room, with the nurse coming in hourly to check my vitals, I was released the next morning.
No cast, this time just an Ace bandage wrap and a sling to protect my hand, wrist and arm. I was on the mend, but the bloat was back as the introduction of metal bits and pieces took its toll.
Despite urging of friends and coworkers to take advantage of the system and file for temporary disability insurance - I choose not to. As a borderline workaholic, I couldn’t imagine sitting at home all day, watching Oprah and snacking on bon-bons.
Back to work, I found it a challenge to learn how to type and paginate with one hand.
Everything I had been doing for years I had to learn again. It’s amazing what we take for granted when it comes to our bodies and what they do for us.
I had to learn how to put on a belt with one hand, button a shirt and pants with one hand. Cooking, cleaning, showering, driving, opening doors all had to be adjusted to accommodate my “broken wing.”
Washing dishes, not one of my strong suits even before the injury, was a particular challenge. Try flipping a wet, soapy dinner plate with one hand. Or tying your shoes with one hand. Try taking a shower and washing all the nooks and crannies of your body with one hand. You get the idea.
During a wound check about a week after the surgery, I got my first look at the incision and began to come to terms with just how bad my injury really was. I was ordered into physical therapy.
The doc told me to go immediately - we couldn't wait any longer. So I visited South County Orthopedics' physical therapy center across High Street from the main office. I was assigned to a physical therapist named Maureen Redding. What I didn't know is that she probably gets most of the patients with really damaged hands, wrists and arms.
I would soon discover that she's something of a miracle worker. She'd never say that and always reminds me that it's the patient who does all the work.
First, she had to measure just how non-functioning my wrist, my hand and whole arm had become in the weeks since the fall.
It was pretty bad, she admitted.
When you place your palm skyward, that's a 90-degree angle. My hand was stuck at -18. I couldn't even get it to turn over so I could glimpse its underside. The tendons in my fingers, my hand and my whole arm had begun to shrink. If I didn't embark on a daily regimen of stretching exercises, my hand would have clamped up like a chicken's claw or something from a Monty Python skit.
My fingers couldn't touch my palm, my wrist was unable to move my hand up and down and my thumb - forget it - it was stuck and not able to flex at all.
I could see the concern on her face, but like my companion the day of my injury and like Dr. Coppes, she was upbeat and positive.
"Let's get to work," she said.
Now, if you know Redding, you'll know she's a bit of a jokester, she's always laughing or kidding her patients or coworkers.
Through the pain and occasional tears, she never fails to make you laugh, smile and readjust your attitude. Even on crappy days with problems at work, home and in relationships, she had me smiling and laughing.
Laughter is a great medicine and that's something Redding proves each and every time I visit her.
She led me through exercises that increased my hand's flexibility and mobility. In just a couple of sessions, I was able to turn my hand over and see that palm that had eluded me since the surgery. Slowly, the fingers began to work, the wrist gained strength and I was able to use my left hand in typing. In just weeks, she had shown me just how able the body is to heal. I could hold a cup of coffee in my injured hand, open a door with it and began washing my hair with both hands.
At my last visit with Dr. Coppes, he said the wrist - with its metal augmentation - looked good. He, however, wasn't surprised at the progress I'd made. I guess he sees the power of healing and hard work each day on the job. All in a day's work.
For me, the power of healing was a miracle. The human body is amazing and with the help of modern medicine, great medical professionals, hard work and the right attitude, I know that all will be well.
Barrett is executive editor of Southern Rhode Island Newspapers.
