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.
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.
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.
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