WARNING: ICKY PHOTOS THAT PEOPLE MAY NOT LIKE IN THIS POST.
Two years ago today I broke my wrist. It was a Monday morning, and I had just started a new job the Tuesday before, so I set out nice and early, totally excited about going to work – it was (at the time) the job of my dreams. I went outside, stepped on a piece of concrete, tripped over it and fell. Onto my wrist. At first I didn’t feel anything, didn’t realise I had done anything. I remember sitting back on my heels and feeling my hand droop and when I looked at it, the whole wrist just looked wrong. That was when I started screaming. And the screaming didn’t stop for a while, because that was when the pain set in.
I had a really long post written out about that day. About how I had to have surgery and I now have a plate in my wrist, about how I have permanent scarring on my wrist where they had to put the plate in, about how the recovery was at times almost as painful as the break itself. I wrote about how I got pneumonia a week after after my wrist broke and ended back up in hospital, but the whole post sounded so whingey. So I scrapped it and just condensed it to this.
What I really want to say is this. My wrist, in the scheme of things is not a major injury. It’s certainly not as bad as some of the terrible things that happen to people – good people, but to me this was the worst thing that had ever happened. It still continues to give me pain and grief on a daily basis and there are still things that I can’t do. Never take yourself for granted. Do everything that you want to do, today, because you never know when the choice might be taken away from you. I spent nearly two years getting back to being able to cut material out again, and to hold a pair of scissors and cut again, and I still can’t really cut a straight line.