by Pa Rock
Impaired Groomer
I never understood the true ramifications of hand dominance until I suffered a broken arm a few weeks ago - and now I realize all too well the severe limitations imposed by being right-handed with a broken right arm. A good portion of what I accomplish each day is the result of hand activity, and now I am suddenly forced to acknowledge the importance of hand dominance - especially with regard to common activities like eating and personal grooming.
My arm was broken on May 31st, late in the evening, as I tried to step backward out of a raised flower bed approximately eighteen inches above ground level, As I lifted my foot over the lip of the homemade stone circular planter, it caught on a rock and down I went. I assumed I was going to die because everything went into slow-mo as I drifted backward, and when I finally landed flat on my back, I heard a bone crack and felt my head bounce off of the hard ground.
I was a heckuva fall, especially for an old codger like me, but I knew I had survived as the pain quickly began coursing through my shoulder and chest. I was home alone, in a rural setting, so there was not point in calling out for help - and my phone was, of course, in the house. I laid calmly where I had landed until the shock of what I had done started to subside, and then I tried rolling a couple of different directions until I was at last able to sit up. Eventually I hobbled to the house, found my phone, and secured an ambulance ride to the hospital.
(Being right-handed, with an obvious injury to my right shoulder or arm, I did not even consider trying to drive myself.)
My self-diagnosis from the way I felt was that I had broken my right shoulder, but fairly quick X-rays in the emergency room that were read by the on-duty doctor who happened to be an orthopedics person out of Springfield revealed that there was a straight break across the arm bone just below the shoulder. I was fitted-up with a cloth sling and sent home in an Uber.
Late the next day I visited the local orthopedic clinic where I was told to expect a nine-month recovery period - but not much else. The doctor and a physical therapist wrapped me in a contraption that they called a "girdle" which immobilized my right arm near the shoulder and near the wrist - and then they told me to come back in two-and-a-half weeks. In the interim I have visited my personal physician twice, once by video and once in his office, but he was only able to provide some general reassurances - like the reason my upper arm had turned coal black was due to "a lot" of internal bleeding, and that it would slowly return to normal. He also worst-cased the matter - at my insistence - and let me know that if things went south during the recovery period I could face some truly awful surgeries.
So I am home with a firm resolve to be very careful and follow all doctors orders.
One of my first "learnings" after getting home was that there are many things that I can no longer do on my own - particularly with regard to personal grooming. My son lives with me and is very helpful with outside chores - like mowing, and taking care of the dogs and cats and chickens, as well as meal preparation, but I am not comfortable in asking him to help with acts of personal grooming. I did try to procure the services of a home health aide but learned quickly that it would be an out-of-pocket expense because Medicare and my private insurer - Blue Cross-Blue Shield - do not regard good hygiene as a medical necessity.
(I will hire a home health aide if it gets to the point of necessity, but meanwhile I am trying to learn to cope as best I can on my own and with the help of my son.)
I shower every morning but am not able to reach everywhere. I bought a special long brush over the Internet to scrub my feet. Some parts of me get soaped, and others have to get by with just a daily rinse. Brushing my teeth is also an adventure in frustration. Left-handed brushing is slow and cumbersome, and I never feel as though I have done an adequate job. I use mouthwash after each brushing, so that provides some extra protection to supplement the new normal.
And hair care? Forget about it! I do manage to shampoo fairly well with my left hand as I shower each morning - but every day it takes more time as more and more hair accumulates on my aging head. Even dragging a comb through my increasingly ragged mane is a major chore. (I have not had a haircut since early February due to the pandemic - and where once I looked like an elder small town businessman, now I am more apt to remind people of an aging roadie for a Cheech and Chong reunion tour!)
Facial hair is also a new concern. Shaving with my left hand is not possible, which means I haven't had a razor slide across my face since the last day of May. I had a mustache for many years but finally outgrew that phase of life about three decades ago. Now, of course, it is back, along with a short white beard that gets a little thicker, a little longer, and a little more pronounced with each passing day.
(Part of my morning routine has become looking in the mirror and asking myself: "Who the hell is that?")
My beard is at a point now that, if I could trim it, I might look like a more distinguished roadie for Cheech and Chong, but a careful personal trimming is also not an option - and I will not present my tired old body at a barber shop during the on-going pandemic. If things continue unchanged for nine long months as I recover the use of my right arm, I suspect that my senile old head will have morphed into that of Gabby Hayes!
It's been seventeen days (and nights) since my grand indignity and I am feeling better. My arm no longer shoots bolts of pain as I lay down in bed or get up, though the dull pain of the break is still persistent. I no longer take pain pills, except occasionally one as a sleep aid - but most nights I sleep well on my back and securely wrapped in my restraint girdle.
Hopefully by this time next year I will no longer be trying to get food to my mouth on a fork using my left hand - and I will have the ability to put on my own socks when my feet are cold, and I will be able to drive myself to town whenever I take the notion to go.
Look for me putting up and down Porter Wagoner Boulevard. I will be the old coot at the wheel of an antique Saturn Vue and sporting a full Gabby!
Impaired Groomer
I never understood the true ramifications of hand dominance until I suffered a broken arm a few weeks ago - and now I realize all too well the severe limitations imposed by being right-handed with a broken right arm. A good portion of what I accomplish each day is the result of hand activity, and now I am suddenly forced to acknowledge the importance of hand dominance - especially with regard to common activities like eating and personal grooming.
My arm was broken on May 31st, late in the evening, as I tried to step backward out of a raised flower bed approximately eighteen inches above ground level, As I lifted my foot over the lip of the homemade stone circular planter, it caught on a rock and down I went. I assumed I was going to die because everything went into slow-mo as I drifted backward, and when I finally landed flat on my back, I heard a bone crack and felt my head bounce off of the hard ground.
I was a heckuva fall, especially for an old codger like me, but I knew I had survived as the pain quickly began coursing through my shoulder and chest. I was home alone, in a rural setting, so there was not point in calling out for help - and my phone was, of course, in the house. I laid calmly where I had landed until the shock of what I had done started to subside, and then I tried rolling a couple of different directions until I was at last able to sit up. Eventually I hobbled to the house, found my phone, and secured an ambulance ride to the hospital.
(Being right-handed, with an obvious injury to my right shoulder or arm, I did not even consider trying to drive myself.)
My self-diagnosis from the way I felt was that I had broken my right shoulder, but fairly quick X-rays in the emergency room that were read by the on-duty doctor who happened to be an orthopedics person out of Springfield revealed that there was a straight break across the arm bone just below the shoulder. I was fitted-up with a cloth sling and sent home in an Uber.
Late the next day I visited the local orthopedic clinic where I was told to expect a nine-month recovery period - but not much else. The doctor and a physical therapist wrapped me in a contraption that they called a "girdle" which immobilized my right arm near the shoulder and near the wrist - and then they told me to come back in two-and-a-half weeks. In the interim I have visited my personal physician twice, once by video and once in his office, but he was only able to provide some general reassurances - like the reason my upper arm had turned coal black was due to "a lot" of internal bleeding, and that it would slowly return to normal. He also worst-cased the matter - at my insistence - and let me know that if things went south during the recovery period I could face some truly awful surgeries.
So I am home with a firm resolve to be very careful and follow all doctors orders.
One of my first "learnings" after getting home was that there are many things that I can no longer do on my own - particularly with regard to personal grooming. My son lives with me and is very helpful with outside chores - like mowing, and taking care of the dogs and cats and chickens, as well as meal preparation, but I am not comfortable in asking him to help with acts of personal grooming. I did try to procure the services of a home health aide but learned quickly that it would be an out-of-pocket expense because Medicare and my private insurer - Blue Cross-Blue Shield - do not regard good hygiene as a medical necessity.
(I will hire a home health aide if it gets to the point of necessity, but meanwhile I am trying to learn to cope as best I can on my own and with the help of my son.)
I shower every morning but am not able to reach everywhere. I bought a special long brush over the Internet to scrub my feet. Some parts of me get soaped, and others have to get by with just a daily rinse. Brushing my teeth is also an adventure in frustration. Left-handed brushing is slow and cumbersome, and I never feel as though I have done an adequate job. I use mouthwash after each brushing, so that provides some extra protection to supplement the new normal.
And hair care? Forget about it! I do manage to shampoo fairly well with my left hand as I shower each morning - but every day it takes more time as more and more hair accumulates on my aging head. Even dragging a comb through my increasingly ragged mane is a major chore. (I have not had a haircut since early February due to the pandemic - and where once I looked like an elder small town businessman, now I am more apt to remind people of an aging roadie for a Cheech and Chong reunion tour!)
Facial hair is also a new concern. Shaving with my left hand is not possible, which means I haven't had a razor slide across my face since the last day of May. I had a mustache for many years but finally outgrew that phase of life about three decades ago. Now, of course, it is back, along with a short white beard that gets a little thicker, a little longer, and a little more pronounced with each passing day.
(Part of my morning routine has become looking in the mirror and asking myself: "Who the hell is that?")
My beard is at a point now that, if I could trim it, I might look like a more distinguished roadie for Cheech and Chong, but a careful personal trimming is also not an option - and I will not present my tired old body at a barber shop during the on-going pandemic. If things continue unchanged for nine long months as I recover the use of my right arm, I suspect that my senile old head will have morphed into that of Gabby Hayes!
It's been seventeen days (and nights) since my grand indignity and I am feeling better. My arm no longer shoots bolts of pain as I lay down in bed or get up, though the dull pain of the break is still persistent. I no longer take pain pills, except occasionally one as a sleep aid - but most nights I sleep well on my back and securely wrapped in my restraint girdle.
Hopefully by this time next year I will no longer be trying to get food to my mouth on a fork using my left hand - and I will have the ability to put on my own socks when my feet are cold, and I will be able to drive myself to town whenever I take the notion to go.
Look for me putting up and down Porter Wagoner Boulevard. I will be the old coot at the wheel of an antique Saturn Vue and sporting a full Gabby!
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