… Zoomtard returns.

On December 20th I broke my left scaphoid bone while running. On December 24th I devastated my right radius bone bringing a wheelie-bin in from the kerb. After reconstructive surgeries on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I returned home to recuperate. I couldn’t shave. I couldn’t shower or bathe without help. Nor could I use the loo. I couldn’t slice bread, butter bread or indeed break bread (except in the spiritual sense). I couldn’t handle any trousers that weren’t elasticated or any shoes that had laces. I lacked the confidence to go outside without a total thaw. I suffered pretty manky pain about three times a day. And I still haven’t begun to describe what my wife’s life was like since she had to do everything for me.

I sat around my kitchen half heartedly reading and watching old episodes of favourite tv shows on the internet.

Me, New Years 2010

As healing went, mine was about as perfect as you can hope for. My left cast was removed on January 29th and my disgustingly scabby atrophied arm gained strength quite rapidly.

Sexiest arms shots ever

I was now able to go to the loo on my own and wear grown up clothes. I have a friend who had very serious surgery once and says that he was almost speaking in tongues the first time he went to the toilet unaccompanied. That ecstasy is much under-appreciated.

On February 5th I had my right cast removed and the pins were pulled with as little dramatic yelping as I could manage.

Arm with no pins

I am currently the owner of two fully functioning hands. With ongoing physiotherapy I will have two hands that function better than ever. The goal is to be back in the gym by the end of February and to somehow arrange it so that my nemesis, Gravity, can never corner me with that most elusive of his weaponry, ice, ever again.

Colmmacc had a similar incident before Christmas.

And I can largely agree with everything he has to say. Medicine is exceptionally cool. My healing would be considered miraculous in an earlier age. I would not have died from my injuries and my bones would have re-fused, but mis-shapen. I would be worthless. A drain on my extended family and unable even to write. But the application of quick drying fibreglass, some magnificently ugly metal pins and admitedly dirty psuedo-opiates, I am now fully well again. And the medical care that I received was shared with me as a matter of course, the staff seemingly unaware of how they were saving my livelihood, if not quite my life. At every step of the way, medicine was at its finest.

Colmmacc puts it better than I could:

Over that same century we’ve progressed from a naive understanding of “Röntgen radiation” as mysterious emanations from a vacuum tube, to a complex quantum-mechanical model of X-Ray interactions that allows us to record these highly-ionising photon jet-streams on a semi-conductor, convert the impression into a digital image and then have it pop up on my clinicians desktop. Right now, reading a random blog on the internet, you can see inside my body – as easily as you might look out the window.

And as he also points out, this medical magnificence was simply the supporting act. My body was the star. It metabolised the food I ate and drew on stores it had prepared and where integrity had been ripped apart it coolly and without fuss restored the structure.

But where the real wonder comes in for me over my healing process has been the bit that so rarely gets mentioned. Like the light around us by which we see great things, it gets passed over because it is always the means by which we perceive wonder. It is other people.

I was driven to the hospital the first night by a co-worker and friend and my wife. I was collected by another couple. I was driven to the hospital the second time by my parents and collected by another couple again. I was ferried to and fro where I needed to go by friends who had other things to do. It was Christmas! I was texted constantly, emailed and rung up. People dropped by to say hello. They brought classic movies and books on Jean Cauvin and even whiskey. One friend brought me tracksuit bottoms and trainers that velcroed shut. An 11 year old girl kept me stocked up in chocolate chip cookies. My wife got really sick and people brought around food. Loads of it. More lasagne than all of Umbria. Children put their arms on my casts and prayed for my healing. One chap sat in a barbershop for about two hours waiting for me to get a shave. My boss told me to go take a holiday when the casts came off. I put a freaking status message on Facebook and about 40 people pushed the “I like this” button. My dad sourced special plastic bags that perfectly fit your forearms. I could waste five more minutes of your avoiding-work-time with more listings of the essential kindnesses that actually allowed me to get better.

The real mystery and miracle I encountered when I handicapped myself was not X-Rays or DNA but community. Man cannot live alone. It is a truth that is easily passed over because man often lives surrounded by people. But living in the midst of others is the key.

Your Correspondent, Will pay none of those fools back for their generosities.

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