No pain, no gain

It's time to get my broken wrist into rehab.

The hand therapist removes the brace, revealing an object that looks like a prop for a horror movie.

My hand is blocky, swollen, misshapen.  It isn't really hand-shaped at all.  The site where the plate was inserted is neat and smooth.  But the opposite site looks broken and lumpy.  There's lots of fluid on the joint.

He massages my wrist with some soothing cream.

Next, he takes hold of my hand and presses it forward from the wrist with a firm pressure.  Very firm - ouch!  I feel something yield inside the wrist.

I guess this demonstrates that it can be moved without causing damage.

Then he asks me to bend my hand forward and back, measuring the angles I can achieve.  There is not much movement.

He shows me the exercises I must do each day - pushing forwards and backwards, and rotating inwards and outwards.  Hold each position for ten seconds, and do five repetitions.  It should be uncomfortable, he says.  Actually, the message I'm getting from him is to find the spot where it hurts, and hold it till you cry.

I have to attend his clinic once a week until...some later time.

Ideally I should do these exercises four times a day, he says.  But if I can't manage four, three is OK.

This instruction has the effect he probably intends.  It sounds like a dare.  Hah!  I can do four times a day.  What kind of wimp can do only three?  I need to get this hand working properly.  And how long do I want to keep spending money on physiotherapy and taxis?

I will do what's necessary to zap it, now.

No pain, no gain.

Em-braced

A week after my surgery, I taxi to the X-ray service, and after an hour and a half my results are ready to take to the surgeon, whose office is across the road.  He declares the fix to be good, removes the dressing and fits my forearm with a black brace.  I must gradually leave this off over the next two weeks, and gradually start to mobilise my wrist.  They make an appointment for me to see the hand therapist the following week.

From there, I jump in a taxi and head to a city hotel where I am speaking at a law seminar.  My presentation was prepared only the day before - until then I had not felt well enough to work on it.

Then my friend Victoria collects me and we go to a shopping mall for coffee, a long chat and some poking around the shops.  I can't try anything on without removing the brace, so I just look around, and resolve to come back when I'm wearing easier clothes.

The brace feels very comfortable.  It gives a wonderful feeling of stability, and it enables me to move my arm a little more.

Who knows when I'll be able to drive again?  I'm happy to pay my hairdresser for a twice-a-week wash and blow-dry (I can't hold a hairdryer at the moment), but I'm less happy to pay for taxis to get there.  I decide to start walking.  It will be good for my health and I'll burn some calories.  If I can get there within 45 minutes, I'll walk.

It only takes twenty minutes to reach the hairdresser.

I walk to the shopping centre and buy one of the dresses I'd looked at.  Hah!  Pleased with myself.

My son drops me at the gym or at my Portuguese class, and I walk home.  Happy to be a bit independent again.


And finally, I feel like singing again.  I resume my lessons and my teacher helps me regain my confidence.

At the weekend, we go out to the Cabaret Festival.  I'm determined to dress up, even if it is a bit difficult - I'm sick of wearing tracksuit pants and loose shirts.  Don't care about the brace - maybe I could get a matching one for the other hand?  My dress is bright red velvet, with matching necklace and earrings, stockings and heels.  I booked for this show months ago.  We're on Table 1, right near the stage.  I sip a crisp white wine and let the wonderful Brazilian music course through my veins.

Unbreak my arm

The day after returning home I go to hospital for advice about my broken wrist.  I have more X-rays and see an Orthopaedic surgeon.

He says the bone is slightly misaligned.  I should have surgery to insert a plate and screw.  It's Friday afternoon.  He will add me to his list on Tuesday.

I ask him if I'll be able to travel to Brazil in a couple of months. He thinks it will be all right by then.

I need this surgery.  My arm isn't getting any better.  I can't do anything - not even unpack from our trip.

It will be painful, but at least it will be "forwards" pain that will move me towards recovery, not the pointless sideways, drifting, directionless pain I'm experiencing at the moment.

On Tuesday morning my husband takes me to the hospital and my mother arrives, as she lives across the road.

My room is spacious. I get into the bed and they conduct some tests on me, including an ECG because of my prior heart surgery.

During the afternoon I get sleepy and drift off. My mother returns, thinking I will have had the operation, but I'm still waiting and there is no news I can give her. She brings me a nice magazine about France.

Finally, in the evening, they come to let me know it's my turn. I have to walk down to theatre, wearing a hospital gown and robe, and little paper slippers.

The anaesthetist asks me what I'd like. I can have a general anaesthetic, or a block to my arm, or both. I don't think I'd like to have this done under only local anaesthetic. I opt for both.

She gives me an injection and continues to chat to me.  I lie quietly with my arms by my sides.  But when I look to the left, I am surprised to see my arm outstretched. They are removing the cast and I hadn't even noticed.

One of the nurses is Lisa, a friend of my sister.  It's lovely to see a familiar face.

Then the lights go out for me.

When I come to, I don't feel any pain. I remain in post-op for a while, then they take me back to my room, where my husband is waiting. He has brought flowers.  I drift off to sleep.

During the night I wake up.

I have no idea where I am.

Someone is gripping my right calf muscle with both hands.

My left arm has disappeared.

My foggy brain sets about unravelling these three mysteries. I take in the surrounds of my hospital room.  Around my lower legs are calf massagers; these auto-inflate like blood pressure cuffs, to stop blood clots from developing.  Finally, I locate my arm.  It is hanging up alongside my bed. They have folded a pillow slip lengthwise and pinned it to form a long, thin bag.  It now contains my elbow and forearm, is tied at the top and is hanging from a hook. My arm has no feeling at all. It's like a piece of meat hanging up to become dry aged beef.

I press the call bell and the nurse comes. I want to go to the toilet. She brings down my lifeless limb and passes to me, suggesting I support it at the forearm.  It's like a sausage that you would put under the door to keep out a cold draught.

Back in bed, with my dead arm hanging up once again, I'm awake and hungry. She brings me a cup of tea, a sandwich and a cake. I scoff the lot, then I turn on the television.

I come across a French movie and decide to watch it. A pregnant woman is a recovering drug addict. She is very beautiful, though - her appearance has not been ravaged by her addiction.  Her partner has died and she is now having a relationship with his brother.  He in turn is having a relationship with her male friend. She gives birth to a baby girl and the dead partner's brother comes to visit. She asks him for a cigarette, goes outside to smoke it, and keeps going. She gets on a train and leaves him to bring up his baby niece.

I'm glad I didn't pay to see this at the cinema.

Next morning, my arm still has no feeling. I tell this to the nurse, then:

"Hang on, I'm getting some tingling in the fingers"

She says "That's because I'm playing with them. Can you tell which one I'm touching?"

The hospital wants me to vacate my room. They want me to have a shower but I don't feel confident. I still have no control over my arm.

When the numbness goes, the pain kicks in. With a vengeance. I have had a metal contraption attached to my bones.  But the new bandage is lighter and more flexible than the plaster cast.

Finally I'm ready to go home. My mother arrives and signals to my uncle to bring his car around.

On the way home I drop in to the pharmacy and collect the pain relievers prescribed for me.

At least now I'm on the mend.

The show will go on.

Dis-armed

This is the first time I've broken a limb, and I had never realised how inconvenient it is to have only one arm.  My arm is encased in plaster, making every little thing more difficult to do.

During the remainder of our holiday, my husband has to cut up my food and help me get dressed.  He wheels my suitcase and cabin bag along with his his own.  The cast has to be covered with a plastic bag while I shower.  I can't get my contact lenses out, so I decide to leave them in until I get home and can see my Optometrist.  I make do with dry-shampooing my hair.

I count my blessings - at least it's the left wrist; it could have been an ankle, or both arms, or a head injury.

My arm is bruised and swollen.  From time to time the fingers go numb and throb painfully, making me cry out.

The flight home is gruelling.  The long journey from Europe to Australia is very broken up, and none of the legs are long enough for sleeping.  My husband, travelling for work, is in Business Class, whilst I'm in Economy.  Each time we board, I point to my husband with the Business boarding pass, my broken arm and my own Silver status with the airline.  At no stage do I get upgraded.

It's very hard to eat an airline meal with one hand.  Most of your food is sealed in plastic packets which are difficult to open when you have no power in your fingers.  Plaintively I seek assistance from the flight attendants.  On one leg, a kindly Russian woman next to me plays Mother.  She also arranges my noise-cancelling earphones on my head, after witnessing my clumsy and ineffectual attempts to get them on.

During the flight there is a lot of time to think.  Anxieties come to visit.  I broke my wrist.  Is old age around the corner?  Will I be well enough to go to Brazil in  couple of months?  Will I be OK while I'm there?  I picture myself falling again or being randomly run over.

Arriving in Melbourne, there is a six-hour wait for the final flight to Adelaide.  We check in to an airport hotel, lie in bed for a few sleepless hours, then check out and bus back to the airport.

By the time we get home I'm truly wrecked.

I feel really daggy with my ugly, mummified right arm.  Some of the swelling has gone down, loosening the cast, so I feel the jarring of bones rattling around.  Sleeves won't fit over the cast.  I dress in whatever is easy to pull on and off, and stick with these same clothes, even if they are dirty.

I feel like an old lady.

I can't exercise.

I've collected a cough and can't sing.

My Cabaret show opens in three weeks.

A little trip

Mid-May, 2015

With arrangements for my show in the June Cabaret Fringe in place, we head to Portugal, where my husband will attend a conference.  It's just a short trip, but very exciting as it's our first visit there.

While he's at the conference, I explore the steep, narrow, cobbled streets of Oporto, with their colourful houses, shops and bars.

After a morning's sightseeing, I decide to have lunch at one of the open-air restaurants overlooking the river, so I walk across a large square, towards the road I need to take.

Suddenly, my feet slide out from under me, and I'm airborne, doing a slow-motion dance.  I'm not holding a bag, so my hands are free, but there's nothing to grab onto.  As I fall backwards, I put my hand out behind me, to lessen the impact.

I sit there for a moment, trying to process what just happened.  I can feel that my watch has popped open.  It no longer seems to fit me, and my wrist looks blackened and misshapen.

A girl comes and gives me a hand to help me get up, but my feet slide around on the ground and can't get a grip, despite the fact I'm wearing new sneakers with a deep tread.  A man comes and supports my other elbow, and finally I get to my feet.

I'm only five minutes from the hotel, so I make my way there.  Part-way there I have to stop and steady myself by leaning against a bollard.  I ask the desk staff to help me find a doctor.  They advise me to go to the hospital, which is ten minutes away by car.  The clerk is about to call a taxi, when someone says I should go by ambulance, as I'll get in to the hospital quicker that way.

The ambulance arrives, and they gently splint my broken wrist.  A hotel employee comes with me in the ambulance.  By now the blood is draining from my head; I'm in shock.

Arriving at the hospital they seat me in a wheelchair and Suzanna wheels me into a triage area.  I wonder how many hours I will have to wait here.  My husband doesn't know where I am.

In fact, I'm second in the queue, and before long I'm ready to have X-rays.  Suzanne works off my wedding ring; it takes her fifteen minutes because my fingers are swelling.

Next stop is the Orthopaedic department.  The doctor douses four sheets of white-powdered fabric in water and slaps the whole package onto my arm.  He warns me that this will hurt - he says he has sent Suzanna out of the room so she won't be traumatized by it.  He takes my arm and hand and yanks the two bits of bone back together.

He's right - it hurts.  Then they gently wind bandages around my hand and arm to secure the plaster cast in position, and give me a sling made of gauze.

Now I must go for more X-rays to see if the closed reduction has been successful.  If not, I'll need surgery.  To pass the time I engage Suzanna in conversation about her hobby of snowboarding.

The X-rays show that the bone is in the correct position, but I must seek medical attention within the next 7-10 days.  I assure the doctors that  I'll be back home by then.

We've been at the hospital for three hours.  Suzanna helps me to check out.  The hospital only takes cash, so we pool our Euros.  She calls a taxi to take us back to the hotel.

When I return to the room, tea and cakes are being delivered on a trolley, to the surprise of my husband who has just returned from his lectures.  That night we attend the conference dinner, at one of the wineries where Port wine is produced.  We tour the cellars and have drinks on the terrace overlooking the city.  One of the delegates entertains us with songs after dinner.  I'm uncomfortable, but I'm there.

We continue our trip, visiting Lisbon for a couple of days.  I let my husband set the agenda and navigate the city for both of us.  I feel very grateful that I'm not travelling alone.

Keeping up Appearances

After the effort of bringing the guitarist from Brazil, and producing and performing our show in the Festival Fringe during February, the prospect of creating a new show for the June Cabaret Fringe feels very overwhelming.

So when a friend posts a message on Facebook asking if anyone would like to join with him in a collaborative show, I begin to think that sounds like a good idea.

It's important to perform regularly, in order to maintain your stage presence, and not lose your nerve.

I message James, saying I'm interested, and suggesting that we might find a third person.  We could then each do a twenty minute segment, following a format that La Boheme introduced a few years ago.  Between three of us we can make a one-hour show.

In fact, two other people come forward, and we decide to do two shows.  James and I will do both, and Julie and Heidi will do one each.

We can all invite our family and friends.

I contact the owner of La Boheme, and he says he'd be happy for us to reprise the format, called Kabarett.

This feels like a great solution.  I can be in the Cabaret Fringe without the pressure of having to carry a whole show, and without the frenetic marketing effort that is needed to fill the room single-handed.

We organise for a pianist to accompany us.  I register the show, and we're in business.

I request dates for the second half of June, because I'm going on holidays to Portugal, returning at the end of May.  I don't want to perform with jet lag, or with the cold that I will inevitably catch on the plane on the way home.

I decide to sing a set of French songs.  It is very romantic music, and I'm a bit concerned that the segment will be too "sweet" or "bland".  So I decide to balance it with a story about some of the less-than-romantic things that have happened to me while travelling in France.

Before heading off to Portugal, I manage to fit in a couple of rehearsals, and the show is nearly ready to roll.

If you're in Adelaide and would like to see the show, here's the link to buy tickets:

http://www.cabaretfringefestival.com/kabarett/