Well, we've hit the three-week mark. That's halfway to being able to chew again and having my pins out (which means serious physiotherapy begins). The origins of the story are old news now, and get mentioned in better detail below anyway. When the physical pain passes, and for the most part it has, you have to do something with your time. My mind is wandering a lot of the time, and it goes through phases.
The first is the helpless or self-pity, and it's awfully stupid but addictive. It says, "Now I can't do anything for myself, I need help, I ought to be the centre of attention and sympathy." In truth, most of what I can't do involves opening stuff. Piano is just entertainment, carrying stuff just takes longer, and typing is... uh, well it's less error-prone. I need help in two things: being driven places and learning how to heal my hand without permanent side effects. I've always needed the first, and I'm getting both anyway. As for attention and sympathy, ask my friends or family - they're giving it by the bucketload. And the kicker? None of this damage (probably) will even be with me in a year; it'll be scars at most. And between now and then I'm getting a lot of free lunches.
The second phase is regret.
It's hard to get around regret, because it was just so darn stupid how it happened. Before I went, my dad stopped me to talk to me and said, "You should fix your bike's front tire; your brother's has bad brakes and it's raining. If you had to, you might not be able to brake." I gotta say, if there is a clearer warning from the heavens, I don't know what it is. What did I reply? "No, I don't feel like fixing mine right now, and Mom's bike's seat is too low, and I have to go on this bike ride now."
Oh, come on! I "have" to? Mistake #1. Either that was just plain old hubris or fate got a fork stuck in its eye. At any rate it was a bad move. I even remember how I felt that day: as I was biking down Mountainview, I felt like the bike ride had been in vain, a waste of time. I didn't enjoy it. I thought I'd go on down to Norval and then just head home and admit to myself that going on a bike ride at that particular moment had not been imperative. When the car pulled up to the sidewalk and failed to look, that's what I was thinking about; I didn't notice her face, or I might have realized she didn't see me. Mistake #2.
Then I saw that I was going to hit the car, and at an angle that it was plowing into me. With the busy road to my right, I had three choices: ditch the bike, swerve to the left onto the grass, or try to brake in the couple meters I had. I didn't have time to think. I chose to brake real hard. There are skid marks. Mistake #3: no brakes could have stopped the bike, or at least not without me flying forward off it, least of all those brakes.
When I hit that car, I released my right hand from the handlebar. The handlebar was crushed under the wheel of the car. My left hand was on it, gripping the brakes. Mistake #4. But that one was just cuz I was in shock.
I've been beating myself up about that, because at any one of those times I could have made a tiny change and saved myself a ton of pain, past and to come. I guess blaming myself makes a nice balance for the pity. It evens it out.
The third phase is phantom pain. I'm pretty sure it's psychosomatic (where what happens in your mind affects you physically). Sometimes I swear I can feel the pins in my hand, and there are six of them through my palm and fingers now, holding the bone in place. I want to tell you the story of the anaesthetic from my second surgery, because it was one of the most weird and horrible times of my life and it feels like it's behind a lot of the waking up in the middle of the night that I do these days, during which times of wakefulness these "phantom pains" appear.
Okay, so we're at the hospital eating an Aero bar, me and my mom. Six hours later, a doctor is saying "HOLY CRAP YOUR HAND IS BAD HOW DID THEY MISS THAT HOLY YOU NEED SURGERY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GOGOGO GO GOOOOOOO." And an hour after that, a doctor is saying "I'm going to put you under now; ah, have you eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours?"
I had eaten an Aero bar.
The next thirty minutes were spent over about five hours. Doesn't make sense? Okay, fifteen minutes conscious before the surgery and the next conscious fifteen happened immediately five hours later. I was conscious while they slowly moved a long plastic tube down my throat and back up five times to empty my stupid stomach until I could finally be put to sleep, and right from there to a horrible loud bawling in the recovery ward that, hint hint, was from me. The pain wasn't even that bad, and my throat was explainably sore.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I begged as I regained consciousness and tears streamed down my face, "I'm so sorry..."
"You're not crying, don't worry, it's just the waking up," said the nurse.
By the way, last time I woke up it was fun.
Also, I'm sure I wasn't apologizing for the crying. So for what?
Is this just insanity, stubbornness, ignorance, or is there something behind it? Either way, it's been bothering me, and when I think about it, I'm back on the stretcher, choking on a long plastic tube scraping somewhere deep inside me, and on my own vomit.
The final phase my mind drifts through is philosophical thinking, but I don't trust it because 1. a few hours later the great insights I had are gone and 2. it's usually after taking pain pills. The hours of pain pills follow a pattern; the first hour is drowsy, the second is nauseous (though I'm often napping by then), the third is philosophical and the fourth is dizzy, during which my head is cleared of the previous while.
That's not so much the issue, that I have the philosophical times. I enjoy them. I feel like I'm being very productive. I accept who I am and what state I'm in. Heck, I'm in one right now. What I don't like is afterward when I can't remember why I waste every moment of my day doing nothing but sleeping, healing, playing games, checking the mailbox, annoying everyone by playing only the right hands of songs on the piano. It makes me wonder, when I'm on pain pills, if it's easy enough to be happy in regular life.
Masochism?
Anyway, I've been very glad to unload all this rambling, and I chose the word "thinkset" instead of "mindset" because... I can? In summary, my problems nicely cancel each other out:
--Pity for self.
--NOPE! Blame myself.
--Mind in agony at specific times.
--NOPE! Lovely temporary cushion.
The thing is, I hate it.
Three more weeks. Halfway. Till serious physiotherapy.
Reminder to self: God is merciful. I could be dead!
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