Sam's Backup Page

wintercreek has discovered that scientists have combined two of my favourite things, monkeys and robot arms.

Someday bionic monkeys will rule us all.

*ahem* Scientific testing on animals is a hot debate topic and if you are against it I respect your belief that monkeys should not be interfaced with robots. I'm sorry it's just -- monkeys! And robots!

OW fucking what the HELL is this shit? My left wrist is throbbing and cramped and no way I bend it feels good. I'm still doing my exercises and everything, even though the doctor said I was healed, because it's still sore when I go like this. *goes like this* So this comes right the hell out of the blue.

I am not down with the sudden shooting pain. Son of a bitch, if I have rebroken my wrist I am going to have some WORDS for the universe. I am not spending another six weeks with robot arm.

THIS IS MY PATHETIC FACE. *pathetic face* OW.

Sometimes I am just so done with my life. *sighs* And no, that's not a cry for help, and yes, I will sleep with the brace on tonight and if it feels like I need to strap up the wrist by Tuesday I'll go see the doctor.

YARGH.

I have just come from my doctor's office. He says I am healed.

Healed!

No more physical therapy outside of the normal range of uses to which I put my left hand, no more splint, no more weight restrictions on lifting. My bones are knit and my tendons are reconditioned. The only sign I was ever in a cast is the mark on the back of my hand where they burned me, cutting the cast off. I'm very much persuaded to worry at it until it's a permanent scar; I feel like I want a marker of the past eight weeks. The doctor joked that he was sure he'd be hearing from my lawyer about it, but I said very seriously, no. Thank you for healing me.

It has been a long process and I've spent a lot of time complaining and contemplating, especially on this journal. I'm very proud that, except in quite dark moments of depression, I'm able to look at whatever's going on in my life and take something away from it -- humour or insight or strength. Being in a cast could have been a complete wash, with nothing to show for it, but I spent a lot of time thinking and did take away some lessons from it.

( What I Learned From My Broken Left Wrist, by Sam Starbuck, Age 28 and 1/2. )

All told, it's not so large a thing; a broken arm happens to plenty of people, happens to children all the time, and much worse happens to much better people than I am, every day. I've had other injuries that were much more psychologically traumatic, if less physically damaging. But it is a defined period in my life, from the moment I fell to the moment when the doctor said, You're healed, and like all experiences it helps to define who I am.

I want the scar.

So, the cast is off, I'm stiff and sore and inna splint, and yesterday had a rampaging headache. Ow. Today is better though! It's casual Friday so I get to wear jeans, and I discovered that if I smile at the sandwich lady in the building canteen she will custom-prepare a grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough for me and even give me a cup of honey mustard for dipping. Lunch is win.

Also I got a copy of The Testament of Dr. Mabuse in the mail from a good friend and found my copy of Fritz Lang's M, so tonight is German Expressionist Movie Night. I've been restricted to watching DVDs on my computer since when I moved in we had only just been gifted a secondhand DVD player by M The Former Coworker, not to be confused with the above M By Fritz Lang. We never hooked it up, me because I had no idea how our TV-cable-DVR thing was set up and R because he needs a driving motivation to make any kind of change. Which led to the following conversation two days ago:

R: Does your computer have a DVD player?
(this is Rspeak. Rspeak also includes "Do you want some steak?" as a code for "Will you cook this steak?" and "What do you think of this carpet?" as code for "Wanna help me move some furniture?")
Sam: Yeah.
R: Do you have an S-video hookup?
Sam: Umm, I'm pretty sure.
R: Do you want to watch a movie? I bought some bootlegs in Chinatown.
Sam: Install the DVD player, R, I'm using my computer.

God love him, but honestly. Still, to his credit, it only took him about three minutes to get the DVD player up and running.

There is buttered popcorn and subtitled noir in my future. Maybe even a beer.

FIFTEEN HOURS AND THIRTY THREE MINUTES

I have bitched about my arm plenty, but I haven't talked much, I don't think, about the emotional impact of losing contact with one's body. It's better now that the full-arm cast is off, but the short-arm cast is still problematic.

I don't want to paint myself as some kind of wilting flower, but it is hard, not being able to access my own arm. At night especially, I'll start to panic because the cast won't come off, I can't bend my wrist, I can't touch my palm. I have to keep my mind on other things during the day because if I think too much about it I'll try to claw the damn thing off with my fingers. I can't imagine losing the use of one of my arms permanently; I think I'd cope better losing the use of my legs, but the idea still terrifies me.

I'm not claustrophobic; I've done fine in MRI machines and narrow bunks before and I've spent a lot of time under a stage, but I have nightmares about being stuck in a tiny tunnel or between two large blocks of stone, unable to move. It's like that with the cast, and sometimes it makes me insane. If they'd put me in a cast for six months, I would have needed Valium. As it is, this last week seems incredibly, painfully long. If they tell me I still need another cast on the twenty-first, I might scream.

Part of even talking about it is that I'm exhausted and restless tonight, and should probably just go to bed. R, bless him, tried to make dinner and failed miserably, but I'm almost secretly glad because I haven't any appetite, either.

Right then. Napping on the couch till my stomach wakes me up; no work tomorrow, and nothing to do but buy groceries and do the laundry.

All right, my bonny readers and patrons. Having written until I was nearly out of paper and then sent for more paper, I am able to post new installments of Jack & Ellis, but in a very steampunky fashion.

The conclusion of chapter 22 is handwritten in my digital notebook, so unfortunately you may have to plow through my handwriting to read it. It's posted as a series of images below the earlier-posted text in chapter 22, and along with some text I'd typed a few weeks ago, in chapter 23.

If anyone has the time and inclination, please feel free to transcribe to text in comments; just comment before you start to let people know, so that three people don't try to transcribe all at once. :D

Thank you for bearing with me. :)

OMG so cold out. I walked to the bodega and got an ice-ceam headache just inhaling. I would have worn my LiveJournal hat but I couldn't put it on because I can't touch my head with my left hand.

On the way back I ran into M who dragged me up to her flat (they live next door) and fussed over my arm with B. M had me draw a rune from her rune bag and then burst out laughing. Apparently I drew the rune for "wholeness".

So now, though I do not have the full runes for "this sucks balls" -- I'm looking at you, twirlynoodle -- I do have a moon, sun, and the rune for wholeness high up on my arm where it won't be seen, right above the kanji characters for "to heal". I looked them up but might have mangled them a little. Now it probably says something like "Dumb fuck who doesn't speak Japanese". :D

R must be the most bored man in the universe right now. He hasn't gone a day without calling me. Today he called me twice; the first time he got my voicemail so he played thirty second of harmonica into it, and the second time he got hold of me and told me that he'd ordered another copy of the video game I'm sending him, because he was so impatient for it to arrive. Apparently, Empire Earth is the closest thing to an orgasm it's possible to get from a computer (at least, without special attachments).

Mum went to the doctor today because she doesn't like the "band-aid" feel of Xanax and the addictive properties made her nervous, so he put her on Lexapro. Yes, I gave her chapter and verse on the side effects, don't fret. It's probably just as well she's getting something long-term; she's coping with Bernard leaving by telling herself he's eventually going to come home, but she's also grieving at the same time, which is a lot of emotion for one person. I couldn't care less if he drops dead and rots in the bush, but then I've read his journal.

And yes, I am going to the orthopedic specialist, as soon as I can make an appointment. Dad, who used to work in the biz, says that they probably want to make sure the break's not going to run up the length of my bone. If they think it might, they'll put a pin in it. Trying to look on the bright side, maybe I'll get better phone reception afterwards.

In the meantime, I've made beef stroganoff. It seemed the thing to do.

CANNOT:
Use a hand-operated can opener.

CAN:
Flash my splint and get a seat on the bus.

Well, it is legitimately hard to carry a laptop bag and hold onto the stand-bar at the same time.

I have decided, lest I go insane, that for every thing I discover I cannot do with a broken wrist, I will discover one thing that I CAN do that I could not before. This is part of the Sulk No More programme. FOR EZAMPLE:

Cannot:
Open a juice bottle.

Can:
Flail with more colour than previously.

Cannot:
Do up a belt or watchband.

Can:
Poke people!

Cannot:
Wash dishes competently.

Can:
PRETEND I HAVE A ROBOTIC ARM.