Oops! Not Again!

Firstly, yes, I’m okay. It probably looks worse than it is. As I plummet towards the end of my sixtieth year, I’m beginning to think that ageing isn’t the process of developing wisdom and experience over many years, but instead a series of obstacles, accidents and illnesses you have to survive and, if you do, you are then rewarded with the prize of still being here. By the end, however, you may or may not be completely intact…

So, what happened? Well, being the young fit sprightly gardener that I am, I decided to trim some of the trees in my garden. Things were looking a bit scraggly. A few branches needed cutting so the rest of the tree could thrive. Most of my trees love a little trim every so often. It doesn’t take long for them to sprout new leaves and even produce abundant fruit. Dad used to say that smacking a tree with the flat side of an axe will scare it into producing fruit, but I’ve found if I trim a few dead branches and lovingly guide the tree into production, it has the same effect without the threat of arboristic violence.

While trimming said branches, one large rotten branch split and fell onto my wrist. Initially, I didn’t really feel it. I was filled with adrenaline and chopping into the tree with my sharpened machete. Focused, I had a job to finish and a pot of bean soup on the stove to enjoy for lunch when the work was done. It wasn’t until the following day I realized it was really sore. This, on top of the previously unremarkable accident when I tripped over a black cat in a dark room and landed on the same wrist a couple of weeks earlier, made for a painful experience.

At first, I thought nothing of it. Just a bruise. It will heal in no time. It didn’t. Actually, it got progressively worse. I didn’t think it was broken because I could use all my fingers and there was free movement in my wrist, albeit slightly painful. After a few weeks of continuous and increasing discomfort, I considered the possibility that there may be a hairline fracture. This in mind, I went to the clinic and got an order for an x-ray. They told me to wait for the call to get an appointment at the public hospital in Muisne. Health care is free, but you have to wait. A week later, no one had called. I was in pain. In Esmeraldas doing some shopping one day, I decided to get an x-ray from a private clinic. I still had the x-ray order from the doctor in my bag. Easy peasy.

After registering and paying $35, I waited five minutes. The technician was quick and efficient. He took two x-rays from two different angles. I was asked to wait again. Ten minutes later, he called out to show me the x-ray on the light box. There were no fractures of any description in any of the wrist bones. It’s definitely the tendon, he told me. The thing sticking out of my skin that feels as hard as bone is a damaged tendon. Tendonitis. Great. Armed with this diagnosis, I got on the bus and went home with a neoprene wrist brace for compression and protection.

The tech had suggested RICE treatment. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. Rest is challenging. I run a restaurant. I can’t afford to turn clients away. I rest when my business is quiet. Switching between hot and cold compresses, some of the pain has been relieved, but there’s still a weird thing sticking out of my skin. I wear my wrist brace daily, especially when I’m out and about just in case someone wants to shake my hand. It happens often. I ask them to be gentle. Most comply with a fist bump. That works. But I’m still not sure it counts as elevation.

Some swelling and bruising, and some nerve pain, are causing complications. There’s nothing quite like feeling as though your thumb has been shot off while you are performing simple tasks such as washing your face or putting on pants. One wrong move, and the nerve screams blue murder. The sensation is like a cross between a hot bullet and an electric shock. It’s breathtakingly unnerving. The thumb wasn’t even part of the original injury. I have no idea why it’s poking its nose into the sore wrist business now. Rest is the hardest part of the treatment, but it’s a necessary evil whenever possible because, as it turns out, typing on a phone or a laptop also feels like someone is doing an Irish jig on my arm…