Actually two small breaks, the orthopedist told us. Off with the splint, on with the cast. (But I liked the splint. I could take it off when I had to.)
He wanted to cast the whole hand but I cannot, cannot, sorry, I tried, do the ileostomy thing one-handed, so he left three fingers free. (What on earth do people do who are worse off than me?)
Which is still a pain. But: I didn’t break my left hand. I can hold the cane that needs to be on my left side to counter the balance damage from the ’00 car accident, where it has to be, and so I can walk. A little carefully, given that I go by visual and tactile feedback to keep up and down figured out and that there’s a constant distracting storm of input from my right hand–that cast is tight.
I can manage.
As long as you don’t ask me to open any screw top lids (almost went next door but gave up) or to plant that new amaryllis bulb that’s sprouting like crazy in the toasty warm house. (To self: toldja you should have done them all the moment they arrived.)
The funny part is that last Thursday the endocrinologist went over my bone scan at my annual appointment and told me that if I fall, to fall on my hand. Hips are much harder to heal, hands are a lot faster. Put my hand out to catch my fall.
And I thought, like anyone has a choice in the moment it’s happening?
So there you go: I was just following doctor’s orders.