The Sling: Day One

I see that I neglected to mention that my left arm is in a sling, though you may have already assumed that. Well, I wish like hell that they had invented an invisible one because apparently seeing one sparks a Pavlovian response in people. "Maura! What haaaapened?"

This is followed by the Pit-Bullian response, wherein they aren't satisfied with the answer "I fractured my shoulder," (or, to break the monotony, "I broke my shoulder" -- couldn't decide which sounded less bad, so I alternated) or the answer to the inevitable follow-up question, "How?" which was "I fell." One person asked "Where?" and I don't think he was pleased by my answer of "On the ground."

Oh, no, they want the gory details or, as I think of it, the NOY(F)B details. So they start guessing. I got "Did you get into a fight?" (Seriously. Got that one twice.) "Did someone push you?" "Rock climbing?" "Did you fall down some stairs?" "A little too much [insert hand motion indicating drinking]...?" Sheesh.

I know they mean well and it's their way of expressing concern, but I also think they'd know by now that I'm only going to tell them as much as I want to tell them, and that they more they pry, the more I'm only going to stymie them. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that I can be contrary, and I especially get that way when I feel pushed. To me, prying = pushing.

But I got through the day, with only one invite to arm wrestle, and aside from all the questions the hardest part was working on the computer. Being on the keyboard so much, I've become a speedy typist, and being limited to only one hand was (and is) making me nuts. My hands work in concert like fine instruments so automatically that it is a huge effort to keep my left one from reaching up to play its part. And my right hand isn't exactly enjoying being a suddenly solo act.

Finally I took one of those squeeze balls, which the doctor had encouraged me to use once in a while so the arm doesn't get too weak, and just kept it clutched in my left hand so it couldn't touch the keys. But damned if I didn't look up once in a while and find it sitting on the desk, with no memory of having placed it there, and my left index finger manning the Shift button! Sneaky damned impulses.

Well, Mr. Vicodin is telling me that it's time to get some sleep, so I'll bid you goodnight. This weekend is the San Jose Grand Prix, some of which I'll be attending, so hopefully I'll have some interesting observations to share from there.

That is, if being shoulder-to-shoulder with a couple thousand people while nursing a broken shoulder doesn't prove to be a bad combination.