My manky arm

Finally, my arm has been freed.  6.5 weeks in a cast, and I was going a little crazy.  And it was starting to smell.  Every time my right hand was anywhere remotely near my face, a horrible smell wafted to my nose.  Ick.  I could only imagine what my arm looked like under that cast….

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The nurse/doctor/whatever she was, took the rather scary looking, but won’t actually hurt you cast cutting saw, and worked her magic.  Twice.  The first magic didn’t work so well.  Then she had to cut the other side too.  And then use scissors.  Silly cast wanted to take my arm hostage forever.

My arm and hand looked disgusting. There appeared to be caked-on dirt all over it.

They let me use the sink to scrub at my arm.  The brown wouldn’t come off.  Luckily the smell did.  Ick.

On closer examination, the brown was actually dry disgusting skin, still half clinging to my arm.  Ick.  It wouldn’t come off.  My arm looked like something from an f-grade horror movie.  And my wrist didn’t want to move.  I guess being immobile for 6.5 weeks does that to a person.

After inspecting my arm at home, I realised the hair on my arm was a man-ish black colour.  Not so pretty if you know what I mean.  Not only that, but the back of my hand seems to have decided that it wanted to grow some hair too.  Some man-ish black hair.

I suppose my other hand has a little bit of hair too, but it’s light coloured peach-fuzz type hair. And there isn’t very much of it.  It seems that being covered up made my arm hair thick, dark, and multiplying.

And then there’s the underside of my arm.  That pretty much looks like a giant clump of small volcanoes.  All of the hair (extra hair, remember, I got extra hair while in the cast…) that tried to grow couldn’t quite get out.  So now it’s all ingrown. Ick.

Looks like I’m going to resemble sasquatch for a little while.  Hopefully just a little while. Excess thick black hair is not the sort of battle scar I want….

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It’s hard being a lefty

Right before the citizenship ceremony. Too bad I couldn’t find a pink Aussie shirt over a size 10. A KIDS size 10.

Guess What? I’m an Aussie now. A full-blown, official, can-get-a-passport, Australian. At nearly 29 years old, I can vote for the first time in my life.  On the 26th of January, Australia Day, I got my citizenship.  The Mayor of the town I live in (which will remain anonymous, for our privacy) presented it to me himself.  And then he asked me what happened to my arm. Sigh.

“I broke my wrist.” I told him.

“How did you do that?” He asked me.

“Taekwondo.”

“Well, that’s a much better story than falling over.”

I must have looked an interesting site.  Everyone else was all dressed up, looking sleek and well presented.  Then there was me, thongs, too-short singlet, sparkly belt (because sparkles are clearly awesome) and useless arm in a cast.  I was dressed like an Aussie.  Come on people, it was AUSTRALIA Day!

Everyone asks me what happened to my arm.

I get some strange looks from people when I push the pram with my left hand and right elbow, my purple cast sticking up in the air like some sort of demented flag. You’d think I could use my fingers at least. They are mostly free of the cast, and my thumb is half free, but I can’t.  I broke one of the little bones in my wrist just under my thumb, so using any of my digits hurts.  And I’m not supposed to do anything that hurts or it won’t heal.

So as you can imagine, doing pretty much anything is hard.  I can only use my left hand and I’m not even remotely left-handed.  When the mayor gave me my certificate, I awkwardly held out my right hand (my left was occupied holding Hannah’s hand) and he had to stick the paper between my thumb and first finger. That’s pretty much the limit of function my right hand has right now.

It takes me ages to button my pants. At least I can actually put on my own pants, not like when I broke my leg and had a cast from my toes to the top of my thigh.  But that’s another story for another day.

I would love to be wearing my breastfeeding singlets to limit my awkward non-stealthy breast feeding.  But they have a bra clasp at the back and I can’t do it up with one hand. I’m not that swift. Instead, I wear a normal maternity bra (which I can fasten in front of me then turn to the back) under a shirt. When feeding time comes, there is no more putting Danny’s head in the general area and then pulling up the shirt, not showing any boob in the process.  Nope, now I have one useful hand, so it’s pull shirt up, free the boob for all to see, then position baby at boob. Hello indiscretion!

Have you ever tried to put your hair up with one hand? Hard. Impossible actually.  So while my boob is out for all to see and I’m trying to get Daniel in position, he’s grabbing huge clumps of my wild, non-restrained hair, which I can’t pull from his extremely tight baby grasp as I’m holding him with my one good hand and freeing my hair would result in a Daniel floor face plant.

Straight after the citizenship ceremony, we went on holidays to the beach (because it’s summer here…). My new cast  (I had to get a water proof cast.  After 2 days, the other cast had baby food, spit up, and what very well may have been baby poop on it.  I needed something washable…) may be water proof, but it’s not supposed to get sand or salt water in there.  If it did, it could irritate the skin under my cast, get infected, and then fester under there. Ick.

Bag arm. Note: someone else put my hair up for me.

And so I donned the plastic bag secured with packing tape. Stylish. It’s hard to make sure a newly sitting and sometimes forgets to hold himself up baby stays sitting up and keeps the sand out of his hungry little mouth with just one hand. Danny boy managed to eat handful after handful of the stuff.  Even when I laid him down, he sucked the sand off the towel. His nappieswere full of it.

Brown Medical SEAL-TIGHT Original Cast and Bandage Protector, Adult Long Arm

Daniel the sand monster

Changing a nappy with one hand is hard too.  Especially Danny’s.

As soon as those little tabs are unfastened, he thinks it’s kick-like-your-life-depends-on-it time.  Usually I hold  said kicky feet with one hand and remove the nappy with the other.  Can’t do that now. Kicky feet kick up a storm, of course going straight into the poop.  But then they still kick.  Baby poop is runny….You get my drift here people.  It’s not a pretty site.

I’m not allowed to drive with a cast on my arm, so I have to ride the bus everywhere. That’s fine, but when it’s raining I can’t hold an umbrella and push the pram, so I become a little drowned rat or get stranded places.  The kids are fine, they have a rain cover.

Oh well, at least it’s an adventure. 2 weeks down, 4 to go. Sigh.

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