Chocolate is on the same octave as a rainbow...

I had some vegan chocolate cake from my coworkers for my birthday today. Well, my birthday wasn't technically today, but I ate the cake anyway. It's not fair to chocolate to let it go to waste. I've been secretly going into the salon for half days the past three Saturdays. Well, not a secret to my coworkers, or BH (who drives me there), or my friends. Just a secret to my doctors. I'm not sure how to ease myself into a normal routine, and this has been a particularly sore spot in the household.

I have a whole staff of advisors. There's BH (my man-friend), Dr. Sharma (my surgeon), Missy and Sarah (my two physical therapists), Dr. Linda (my awesome shrink), Mom, Dad(s), sister Jenna, my coworkers, my boss, the dog, etc. It truly takes a village. When I was in the hospital, there were at least 100 different people coming into my recovery room, taking my blood pressure, temperature, blood samples, and generally making sure I never had a chance to actually recover.

While I certainly appreciated the constant attention during the first couple of weeks after the accident, I'm now getting pulled in 50 different directions. Some say I need to get my life back to normal as quickly as possible, and others say I need to take this time to rest and focus on healing. I wish I could do both simultaneously. Maybe I'll get a magic lamp and ask the genie inside for help. You know the secret to genies is to wish for more wishes.

If you ask me what I really want to do right now? I want to focus on physical therapy, do my exercises all day, try to avoid having a second surgery, take a nap, and eat cake. My pain level is at a constant 2-3 with spikes in the 7-8 range when doing the exercises. When I wear the vice of death at night, and attempt to sleep in it, my level is about 6 even after a couple Vicodin. I'm lucky to get 4 hours of sleep a night. Hence the naps. The cats taught me that little trick.

I guess that's all for now. I want to write about the events leading up to now, and I haven't figured out whether to back-date everything or just flashback.  Guess we'll just have to wait for the next thrilling installment to find out!

A Dramedy in Three Acts

Welcome to The Spaghetti Wrist Show!

I'm not going to try to explain in one post the complexities of this show. I'm writing this for myself. I don't want to have to think of the audience every time I compose a sentence. It's hard enough getting correct capitalization and spelling while typing with one hand. I'll try to write this as a comedy, but I don't want to have to be funny all the time. Sometimes not being funny is funnier than being funny. I learned that in a correspondence course at the learning annex. Ok, that was a lie, not even a funny lie.

How do I turn something so tragic into something people can laugh at? Will the photos gross everyone out... not in a good way? Crap, there I go again, thinking about the audience. Let's just say that I pledge to be funny at least 45% of the time, and you know what? There are plenty of gross pictures on the internet.

I'll try to get the dates right, but I'll take poetic license on occasion, since this isn't a trial, dammit, it's a blog about my life since the accident. And if my whining and complaining bothers you too much, there are plenty of other blogs in the sea.

Ok, pop some popcorn, and please silence your cell phone. Enjoy the show!