I am Titanium

The Lycra Ligament and Muscle Brigade has been summoned into service to get my arm, wrist, and hand back into shape.

These tiny fierce trainers dress in sleek black Lycra body suits and with calm upbeat voices instruct me in tendon gliding, wrist bending down and back, palm turning, thumb circling, touching the tip of my thumb to the tip of each finger.

Karen, the kind PT at the Hand Physical Therapy Center of Marin, steps me through an exercise routine, taking measurements of my shocking limitations. Who knew all the things a second hand does until it doesn’t. Buttoning, wiping, twisting, opening, chopping, typing, texting, combing out tangles, tying — coming to grips (or a lack there of) with this disability continues to challenge me.

I take my physical abilities and high activity level as a given; this is the most limited I have been from an injury, ever. And the pain is exquisite. Shattering a bone and recovering from surgery has taken my mind off the recent death of my mom. I thought I would be in an altered state, grieving, but not coaxing a dead limb back to life. I had no idea.

I assure Karen that I will take the PT workout seriously though I undermine my credibility when I tell her about the Bone Menders and describe my new partners from the Brigade.

Dr. Hillary Redlln, at our post surgical appointment, talked me through my latest x-ray showing me the titanium plate now embedded in my arm where my radial wrist bone once lived. The spiderlike metal plate gIves me the heebie jeebies and it didn't help matters to glimpse the Frankenstein-esque stitches on my inner wrist.

But Dr. Hillary reported that the Bone Menders had been doing a great job; she gave me a removable black splint, and encouraged me to line up other resources to join my healing team.

In addition to scheduling Hand PT sessions twice a week for the next month, I called Marie Ongaro, my acupuncturist, and she saw me today, summoning the needle bearers and energy movers to do their eastern Magic on my injury.

There’s a lot of work to be done. Swollen and stiff, aching deeply especially at nighttime, this right hand does not feel connected to my body. I am trying to accept this temporary dysfunction, knowing that if listen to my inner helpers and outer healers,  do my exercises and take my vitamins and bone supplements,  it will in six weeks or so be better.

But the day-to-day progress, and the baseline from where I am starting this rehab give me pause. I can’t make a fist, turn my palms to the sky, or bear any weight on the wrist. When the PT told me not to lift anything heavier than a piece of paper, I looked at her like she was nuts.

This weekend as I watched the formidable 37-year-old Serena Williams lose to a Canadian 17-year-old in the finals of the US Open, I thought about recovery and rehab. Serena, with a number of health challenges, including coming back after almost dying giving birth, continues to dominate her world. But the amount of work this woman has put in to recondition her body to play at the top of her game is just extraordinary.

To be sure I am motivated to get my right arm, wrist, and hand back in good working condition so that I can return to two handed keyboarding, cooking, and of course playing Pickleball. I am humbled in the presence of the Lycra Ligament and Muscle Brigade, the Bone Menders, and the Needle Bearers and Energy Movers, as well as my team of female medical professionals.  

And to quote the Sia song, Titanium:

I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose

Fire away, fire away

Ricochet, you take your aim

Fire away, fire away

You shoot me down but I won't fall

I am titanium

You shoot me down but I won't fall

I am titanium

I am titanium

The Bone Menders

I envision a small workforce of Bone Menders,  busy inside my wrist, repairing my shattered radius bone. They dress in white coveralls, and wear  white soft booties. They carry small buckets filled with marrow and cells, and they cheerfully plaster around the silver titanium plate; they fill in fractures in the crevices of bone, using tiny shovels that look like pie spatchulas.

Eccentric little artisans, the Bone Menders like to sing as they work, but often the mean background hum of pain pressure drowns out their voices.  When I tell my wife and daughter about these creatures, which I do at least daily, they both respond, ”And how much CBD did you take today?”.

Granted, I am getting stoned to offset this pain, but this image of the Bone Menders is part of the conscious healing regimen I have launched since my surgery a week ago.

I am taking a bone healing protocol from my naturopath, that includes supplements with names such as osteo5x  (hydrolyzed collagen), and Osteo Minis (some for For Am and pm that contain magnesium, copper, selenium, calcium, and Vitamins D and K and K1. ) I drink down drops of Vitamin  A, B-12s, and D’s, and a dropper full of a brown liquid remedy called Bone Knit.

Hum, I may have to supply my Bone Menders with some knitting needles and yarn.  I am bravely trying to adjust to this surprisingly potent disability and when not in relentless discomfort, relax into my new routines.

I’m drinking cups of bone marrow broth, and trying to eat small meals, to keep my stomach in tact from the medications. I’m monitoring my self pity levels to ensure that I do not plunge off the deep end.

I’m icing, limiting myself to one long walk a day (although not long enough since the Dogsitter does not go as far as I go), and spending not too much time on devices.  

To function in my new little world, I must move much slower, and deliberate first, act second. I’ve been mostly homebound, which thankfully limits my exposure to the entitled people of Marin, whom I find terribly annoying when in a weakened state.

Today an older white man who did not have his scruffy little dog on leash, yelled at Patricia,  my dog walker that ”your dog is a monster!” when Sadie growled and bared her teeth at his approaching dog.

It just took a moment to remediate the situation between the dogs, but the man wouldn’t stop his invective.  “You are just unkind,” I told him as he refused to move on both literally and figuratively. As we walked away I couldn’t help myself. “You are a mean bastard.”

On the other hand,  let’s call it my good hand, my friends have stepped up, coming by to share a meal, and to help me take the dogs out at night. They bring by Special CBD lotion, flowers, cards, and takeout, and provide me with much needed distraction.

But honestly, I’m still shell shocked. It’s been just over  a week since my mom died and I broke my wrist. My routine is disrupted and I am a creature of routine.  i haven’t driven my car, Pat and Soph are in Boston and I’m on my own, no demented mom to worry about or attend to.  But I’m feeling this numb dumb pain in my hand that appears to have a life of its own, even though it is almost completely immobilized in plaster and white mesh.

Still, I meet with my students, editing with one finger, and getting them excited about finding and writing their stories for college applications. I walk the dogs on our street, hyper aware of keeping them under control. Just one lizard, and things could end badly.

It’s exhausting. Today has been my most pain free day. It’s a five. On the morning dog walk we saw the nasty man again. He started up with me and from 20 feet away, I told him i would be happy to talk about our interaction yesterday, but that I didn’t want his negativity. This gave him pause and he finally stopped yelling at me. I ended the encounter by wishing him a good day.

Watching the teenagers play their hearts out at the US Open, I will rest on my sofa, and resume my icing. Gotta keep those Bone Menders well hydrated and busy. They have lots on their platelets.