It was pure comedy gold when my face kissed the sidewalk on Chambers St in front of an audience the size of an equity waiver house. How did you simply fall face first, you might ask? I’d say none of your business. But through that week, the minor nose and lip scrapes gave way to the EDM throbbing of my right elbow, which got so loud I had to see a doc. He took one look, grim, said “You tore your tricep.”
The surgery was ten days ago. They reattached my muscle to the tendon to the bone. The first things that I remember when I woke from my propofol Neverland were the soothing lights and an anvil attached to my right arm. I looked down at the armpit-to-fingertip plaster cast. It weighed eight pounds. I know. I weighed myself later when I got home, groggy and itchy-faced from narcotics.
I swam in and out of consciousness for four days on so much dope that I couldn’t follow the plot of House Hunters. A lighter, yet still unforgiving rigid plastic brace is now my constant companion, extended into a casually bent position, a little McCain-ish, although he seemed to have more mobility. It’s almost jaunty, if actually I knew what that word meant. And only seven more weeks!
I’ve learned that I have the dumbest left hand in the world. Simple things–brushing my teeth, pulling on pants, bringing a fork to my mouth–are slapstick. I now eat in shame as food is always at arm’s length and when my wobbly leftie brings a bite toward my mouth, my food flops to the floor or onto my lap.
I should be put in a striped tent with a hood over my head, traveling from town to town, my handler selling tickets to watch me. Instead, I’m taking my act to Rome for a few days.
Pain’s gone. Just constant annoyance, so no fun sock-pic-on-the-footrest today. Just this. Arm.
