Memoirs of a Radius, Pt. 2

February 6, 2022
Cast-off Day!

This was the day I’d been waiting for, the moment my arm would be released from its rigid fiberglass and gauze binding and entrusted with a cozy removable one. Technically a splint, my new accessory was soft, secure, wrapped in Velcro and straps, and best of all, black. If I squinted a little, I could pretend it was a jaunty and fierce gauntlet more than a medical device. (In some ways, maybe it was.)

My new freedom came with a warning: in essence, don’t get cocky. I could remove it to shower (thank God!), but I must still keep the wrist immobilized. No using it, no leaning on it or twisting, and most of all, no falling. I laughed breezily with my doctor as he recited these basic and obvious rules, then skipped (in spirit only) to the car and on to my work day. I couldn’t wait to get home and finally scrub my arm and hand free of the dry skin and imagined layers of debris that had accumulated during these weeks of encapsulation.

Then a funny thing happened. I came home from work, ate a quick dinner, and…nothing. I watched TV more than anything. I started to get up to go to the shower more than once, but each time retreated and simply stared at the screen. I couldn’t do it.

I am familiar with struggling to take a shower during depressive episodes, but this wasn’t that. It was a paralysis born not of my usual brain chemicals but from a new threat I hadn’t known to watch out for: PTSD.

In my less aware days, I have been known to joke about having PTSD or OCD or schizophrenia as a way of describing personality traits or funny moments, but it turns out that breaking a bone is a real trauma and not only the bone, but also the brain needs time and compassionate care to recover from it. So while conscious me wanted desperately to shower, my traumatized and overprotective brain wouldn’t allow it, convinced something would happen in the process to hurt me further.

Adding to the fun, I began to have what I call “daymares” – like a nightmare except fully awake – in which I could vividly see and sometimes even feel myself falling while performing routine activities: exiting the car, stepping onto a curb, getting out of bed, and yes, showering. To my brain, the first fall had happened doing something relatively basic, so didn’t that mean everything could be dangerous now?

The truth I had to reconcile, of course, is that literally everything I do every day – walking, driving, exercising, building and breaking relationships, and even avoiding all of those things – has risks. There are no sure safeguards, no magic spells or herbs or Bible verses or smoothies to prevent ever experiencing pain, only help to navigate it and to heal responsibly as I am able.

In the immortal words of Robert Frost, “The best way out is always through.”

Thankfully, for me it only took a couple days before I was able to attempt my first shower. I wish I could say it was glorious, but alas. It was hard and scary and my nerves thrummed painfully on high alert the whole time. I’m sure I was in and out in less than 5 minutes, and I didn’t feel any peace until my arm was fully cocooned again.

You know what was glorious, though? Weeks later, when I was completing full showers regularly, adrenalin-free. The first time I went from morning to bedtime with no daymares. Being able to perform a full sun salutation routine with no twinges in my properly healed bone. All these tiny miracles were made possible only by giving myself grace and going through the fears one at a time – which I did not do perfectly or even consistently, and certainly not alone. I had lots of help from family, friends, books, music, podcasts, pets, and so many more places. But step by step, fear by fear, pain by pain, I made it.

To celebrate, my daughter and I purposely recreated our original picnic in the park, complete with Taco Bell and even a light rain. I never so much as stumbled. It was a beautiful day.

Note: If you are experiencing pain or problems that won’t go away, in your body or in your thought life, please reach out to someone who can listen and/or help. If you can’t think of anyone, dialing 988 (Lifeline) could be a good place to start.