Back into the old apartment…

Posted: September 17, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , ,

I know I’ve been MIA like a green beret in Cambodia, however I’ve been reveling in my re-found freedom.  Yes, Jill is recovering at a decent clip, but that’s not why I’ve been shirking my rightful duties to you– my readers.  Anyway, back to bagging on myself, and my recovery.

So I’ve had three PT appointments this past week, and holy mother of God is it painful.  First things first, Rosie is by far the stronger of the hands.   If she were to get into a squeezing contest with Jill, Jill’s reconstructed wrist would hamper her by roughly 90%.  That’s the measurements from Monday 9/12/11, I have about 10% grip in my right hand.  Couple that with about 40% range of mobility, and I’ve got, as my therapist has put it, my “work cut out for me.”   Throw into the mix the fact that I still can’t straighten the damn elbow, and I’m a perpetually hurting unit (one tasked with constantly stretching and exercising joints that have been par-frozen by atrophy).  This means one thing:  yours truly is shitfaced on Norco more often now than I was when the good doctor took the proverbial scalpel to Jill.  Why yes, I’m also drinking, thank you for wondering!

Anyway.

The therapist has given me a ton of exercises, and a throwback to something that hails from many childhoods– silly freaking putty.   I’m not joking, and the best part is– my therapist actually got insulted when I called it by its true name.  Considering her level of indignation, you’d think the stuff was the bastard child of Rumpelstiltskin.  Naturally, I was even more thoroughly amused.

Silly putty, no matter what the color, is still silly putty.

A toy or a therapy aid, no matter what the color-- you can still copy comics with it, and bounce it off the wall! Best. Laugh. Therapy. Ever.

No, according to my therapist (geez, I sound more like a headcase than a basement-dwelling loser now… is that an upgrade?), this stuff’s therapy putty, not silly putty, because it comes in various “resistances.”  Are you freaking kidding me?  I’ve noticed one difference between the blue egg of “silly” putty that I had as a kid, and the green canister of “therapy” putty that I have now.  The only difference is the quantity and color (and I’ve got way more therapy putty).  Garfield’s face is sill a warp-able commodity!

However, all of these goofy ass exercises aside–  I’ve taken to one thing for therapy above all others: cleaning.   I was told to do my exercises twice a day, and I have been doing them as often as possible to speed recovery.  However, during the month and a half that I was away, the short stints I did spend at the pad accumulated a collegiate level of mess.  I mean Hell, I only had one hand that I could use, so why not use it to justify indulging in a cardinal level of sloth?  Man’s gotta keep sane somehow, and it’s not like the prescription/booze connection was doing it for me…

To say that the pad looked like a bomb hit it would be an understatement, however I’ve made a damn good amount of headway.  I’ve made myself a bit more work because I refuse to put dishes in the dishwasher.  Yes, I’m trying to (unsuccessfully) con myself into thinking that cleaning is therapy, especially since I’ve got my hands constantly in hot water.  You’d think I’d be worried about dishpan hands.

Who am I kidding?

Yeah. Right. I'll settle for copious amounts of lotion, thank you very much.

 

Oh well, I’ll do my best to keep as updated on the blog as I was when I was a lazy quasi-invalid.  In other news, I’ve lost 10lbs in 10 days with the Kamikaze Diet.  I haven’t even gotten into a regular exercise regimen yet, either.  Oh well, I’ll try to put more goodness up tomorrow.

Unplug.

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Comments
  1. […] me back to being my friends’ go-to guy for Z Day.  Considering that I am still dealing with rehab, this means one thing, and that’s gaming (now that I can freaking aim).  I don’t […]

  2. […] It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0. […]

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