As if things couldn’t get any worse I am now writing one handed.
Of course I feel sorry for myself, and for himself and for the dawter who is trying to live her life while everything around her swims into double vision.
On last Wednesday I baby stepped to my car, rain lashing my glasses
Trepidatiously, cautiously and as carefully as a tightrope walker over a crocodile infested river I got to my car, before you could say fuck me there’s a mud slick I was on the ground.
My left foot went under me and I landed on my left shoulder with a thwack.
I slid around in the mud barely able to stand,
‘ooooo’ I lamented.
Got into the drivers seat, the rain pelting down, but couldn’t use my arm. I tried to put the gear stick into first – nothing.
I called the old git who was still snoozing, it wasn’t eight o’clock yet.
Ten minutes later he arrived.
He can’t drive, so we slid our way home,
999 and a bunch of questions. Two hot water bottles and a call to the dialysis unit.
‘I think I’ve broken my arm’
The ambulance arrived they took details and suggested I may have done this or that, so to the hospital we drove.
Doctor Hamza looked at me.
‘Not again’ he said.
We are now on intimate speaking terms I’ve been hospitalised so many times
Into x ray.
‘My bad.my bad’ said the radiographer.
She wanted me to undress when she realised I wasn’t who she thought I was.
‘It’s a simple fracture of the shoulder.’
On went a collar and cuff neck brace stabilised by Velcro.
‘6 weeks should do it’, said Dr. H cheerily.’Painful though.’
Two hours later I was lying in the dialysis room being drained.
Now a week later and my arm sits painfully in a sling.
I’ve had to have a CT scan because the x-rays weren’t clear enough. I await the results.
I can clench my fist – which is handy the way I feel- but I can’t raise my arm higher than a match stick.
I can’t cook.
Clean.
Wash.
Play the piano
Travel on the train
Drive.
Dance.
Swim.
Garden.
Scratch my right armpit.
Or sleep in my own bed.
I’ve taken residence on the sofa dowhstairs. Three hot water bottles and a head full of spitting serpents.
I’m sick and tired literally and have to think about everything I do from rising from the armchair to putting my socks on.
The neighbours are creating a rota of drivers to get me back and forth from the dry cleaners. Friends are helping and I’m calling on the angels to give me patience.
My sense of humour has taken a nose dive and I’m about as much company as a barrel of pickled cucumbers.
I have little slips of paper, the dawter gave me, with the names of my drivers who are being so kind I can’t say thank you enough.
I don’t sleep so I call my chum in L.A.
He has a go at me for turning my life into a pity party, although he concedes crying is good.
I howl.
I rock backwards and forwards and hear myself sobbing, like its someone else. I don’t recognise the cackle of my tears.
Interestingly throughout my drama world events still have the capacity to shock me. The orange cock wobbler with his beautiful battle ships and fascist ice-men. They cometh in the face of increasing anger, I fantasise that Potus will slip on the ice and die. Or fall down airforce one’s steps and damage his body irreparably.
So deep has been my malcontent that I can’t remember my life before health issues.
I know I travelled and ate. I walked nimbly and took coffee daily.
On Monday I was asked whether my spirituality had abandoned me by one of my devoted drivers.
Well no it hasn’t but I would like to land one on my guardian angel’s jaw. A right hook and an upper cut just to remind them/they/it that lessons don’t have to happen so brutally.
Enough already. what more do I have to learn?
Ok Patience.
Gratitude.
Acceptance.
The whole kit and caboodle of the self help movement.
But give me a fucking break.
If I create the good in my life then ipso facto I create the bad,
but FFS enough already.
Nothing positive ever came out of negative thinking. I know I know, but for just a minute can I be allowed to kick and scream and eat cold custard out of the tin.
Sometimes its hard to believe that my life will go swimmingly again and I’ll be back in my own bed and washing my own hair.
Right now I’m pissed of with whatever karmic journey I’m on. I can’t blame anybody but I want to.
So I blame The Reform Party for introducing the racist playbook.
I blame Suella Braverman for being ugly.
I blame Kemi Badenoch for being dim.
I blame Trump for being a kunt.
I blame too much raIn and South East Water for making life tricky
I blame all the arseholes who make me mad,
I blame myself for living a reckless life and turning my old age into a fucking nightmare.
And then I take a breath.
I did have a life and there is more to come.
A deep, deep breath and realise that this is but a phase and all will be well.
I must truly believe deep down that this too will pass.
That me and the rest of them will come to our senses.
That fractured shoulders will mend and the likes of Trump will be deposed and 2026 will smell or orange blossom.
There is no choice but to ride the waves of discontent, go with the flow, and believe in all that New Age psycho bollox after all what else is there?