Seven months is a long time

Did you ever keep a journal or diary when you were younger? I did. Every year on the 1st of January I would start a new diary, and invariably by the end of the week, I would have already forgotten to write in there. By the end of the month, the diary, that was going to be written in with my innermost secrets every single day was now non-existant (but I always kept them, and I actually still have some of these one month diaries from 25 years ago). I never really thought that my blog would one day go down those lines, but here I sit, nearly 7 months since my last post, thinking, hmm where do I start?

I could possibly start with a recap of the last few months, or I could start with the very obvious lack of archives. After much soul searching, I have decided to scrap the old blog and start again. I feel as if I am in a new chapter of my life now, and having just read back over so many of my posts over the last few days, I started to get all depressed and realise how self suffering I sounded and how self destructive I was being to myself and I quite frankly do not wish to be reminded of that time anymore. So therefore, THIS is a new beginning. (With a couple of posts left over from the previous Tina, because they set the scene from where I will be coming from now on).

So the next question… To make this a short post, or a long post, detailing the last few months? Well I will see just how much I can type before my wrist dies on me. Which really brings me back to 8 months ago, and to what I now refer to as the wrist incident. Quite possibly this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, not even quite possibly, but definitely the worst thing. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that there are people out there who are a LOT worse off than I am, people who hurt themselves, 1000% times more than I have, but to put it into perspective for myself, well this was the worst thing I had ever done, and the most pain I had ever been in. All because I tripped over a piece of loose concrete outside my unit, while heading off to my 5th day of work at my new job. I may have mentioned in one of the earlier posts just how excited I was about this job, how it was the most perfect job I had ever had, how I loved everything about it. Well I didn’t get to see that job for another 2 months. 4 days on the job, then 2 months off, and unbelievably they kept the job open for me, and were only ever good to me.

The thing I still struggle to come to terms with, is just how much impact this whole thing had on my life. At first, when I broke my wrist, I was thinking, okay, not good, bad way to start off my second week at a new job, but I will get it put in plaster, and go back to work tomorrow. I remember, in my drugged up haze, coming out of the surgery to have the plate put in my wrist, on the wrist incident day, looking at my surgeon, after he explained what they had done, none of it registering in my head, but blurting out, “okay but can I go back to work tomorrow”? He just looked at me, and he had this smirk on his face when he said, “sure thing. IF you feel up to it”. No problems I was thinking, one day off isn’t so bad. I will be fine. Well. That didn’t go to plan did it? Nope. I got wheeled out of recovery, into my very own room (and can I just say, that was the only good thing about hospital, being in a private room), went to sleep and then got woken every four hours, pumped up with more drugs, until I didn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha.

My mum, bless her, was my rock that day. I can say that day made me appreciate her so much more. I don’t think I will ever be able to live without her. As much as I wanted Mr Squooshy there with me, more importantly I wanted my mum, and kept badgering the nurses when I first came in if they had called her yet, and where was she. I am not too proud to admit, that I was a big sook and I cried. I cried a lot. And not even for the loss of anything yet, I was just crying from the pain at that time.

The next morning, the surgeon came in, looked at my wrist and asked if I was going to work today, with that same smirk he had on his face the day before. Okay okay, so he knows more about breaks than I did. Not my fault, I’d never broken my wrist before. It was all a new game for me, damnit. He did say that I could go back as soon as I felt able to, but that I was not to rush it. Trust me, by that point, I’d realised that there would be no rushing. All the painkillers were wearing off by then, and the pain was setting back in. Then I was released. Just like that. Okay, you’re good to go home. Come back in 2 weeks and we will take a look at you then. Umm can I have some more painkillers is what I was thinking, and they were thinking, get her out and herd in the next victim.

Mr Squooshy – bless him – came and picked me up from the hospital, and took me to the doctor to get painkillers and that is pretty much the last I remember of that time. The next week or so is a big blur. I didn’t get back to work, I lived on Codeine tablets, and believe me, they will NEVER again be entering my system. Codeine and I are not the best of friends. Apparently I was a bit of a zombie, and Mr Squooshy kindly informs me that I rambled a lot at that time, and repeated everything I said, again and again and again. However, my couch and I did became best of friends, and now I know THE most comfortable spots to sleep in on that thing.

Okay wrist giving out. Part 2 to come later.


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