Remember Your Roots and Keep Them Colored

Round two with a broken wrist

By Trena Eiden
Posted 10/8/20

Consider this round two of me whining about my broken wrist. It’s a massive inconvenience and I find myself avoiding public places due to everyone asking me what I did. What “I” …

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Remember Your Roots and Keep Them Colored

Round two with a broken wrist

Posted

Consider this round two of me whining about my broken wrist. It’s a massive inconvenience and I find myself avoiding public places due to everyone asking me what I did. What “I” did, like I did this to me. Wearying of the saga, I’ve started quipping, “I was testing my cat-like reflexes and found I don’t have any.”

For the record, I got no sympathy from my offspring. It’s gut wrenching that I carried these ungrateful little sots in my womb for nine months, causing bodily changes I never quite recovered from. Then I nursed them from my perky breasts, which due to that nurturing activity, are now measured in length, not girth. You’d think due to my loving care, my children would be calling hourly to check on my sad state but nope. One called a couple weeks after the incident and when I told him I was elevating my arm, he moaned, “Oh, please, you’re not still complaining about that I hope.”

He laughed, but I didn’t. Instead, I reminded the jester of the time he’d run away and I’d found him in the willows with Ritz crackers and his teddy bear. I said, “I could have left you to the grizzlies.” He scoffed, “We lived in town.” Ignoring him, I went on, “I saw the doctor today and he told me to keep being amazing. You, know, it’s not as easy as I make it look.” He murmured. “Yeah.” I said, “Was that sweet or mean?” He said, “Yeah.”

Another child mentioned, “When you said you fell trying to get away from a bark beetle, I thought you were joking. You’re not afraid of anything but snakes. Besides, I remember growing up, seeing you smash bark beetles bare handed. And for the record, none of us have ever been bitten by one and we don’t know anyone who has.”

I sniffed, “No one ever died from a shark, till that one day …” I must have sounded pathetic because she sent flowers. OK then, that’s what I’m talking about.

Doing things one-handed is not as much fun as you’d think. I have one hand that works like a magical appendage and one that can’t lift a napkin to wipe my mustache without assistance. Speaking of mustaches, I usually keep mine waxed but haven’t and it shows. When I took the truck in for service yesterday, the teenager behind the counter announced, “Mr. Eiden, just so you know, we’re running a special on tires.”

Gar hasn’t been much different than usual. Sure, he carries my plate while I tote my glass, or he rubs lotion on my shoulder, but one evening I noticed him eating strawberries. The next day when he got home, I asked if he’d dropped some. He said, “No, why?” I said, “I had to get down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor because it was sticky.” He agreed, “Yeah, I noticed that this morning.”

One-handed, I’ve run the weed-eater, mowed the lawn, cleaned, cooked and baked. The garden hose has continuously caught on corners and nearly jerked me off my feet, I made sticky buns last week and as a first in my lifetime, they ran over in the oven. I had to scrub it before turning on the self-clean due to possibly starting the house on fire. I’m being plotted against.

To open, hold, turn, change or repair things, I’ve learned to use my teeth, elbows, stomach, knees and feet. In fact, if having your floors wiped by a towel wadded under my toes sounds enchanting, I’m the gal for you.

I’m grateful my right arm is the healthy one because it’s always been in charge. It’s a little bossy, and kind of a know-it-all big sister to the left, saying impatiently, “Oh my gosh, just give me the comb, you’re so slow.”

Doing my hair with one hand is not a good look. The first time I made an attempt, Gar offered to help me blow dry my hair, but being stubborn, I turned him down. When I came out of the bathroom, he stared at me, then asked, “What look were you going for?” I answered, “Spooky.” He deadpanned, “I think you nailed it.”

It could be I’ve been a little cranky. I told Gar I met a gal celebrating 49 years of marriage who’d asked her husband if it seemed that long? He’d replied, “It seems like five  minutes … under water.”

Gar smiled weakly and silently nodded.

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