I could show you a picture of my newly naked arm. The consultant pronounced my healing stitches beautiful, which was enough to let me know I wouldn’t be asking him for art exhibition recommendations. I hope and expect it’ll look more pleasant in time. I scar fairly easily, so I anticipate a visible line down my arm for the rest of my days.
So instead, here’s a photo of tulips and ceanothus from the hospital grounds.
London has moved on from cherry blossom to ceanothus and lilac. The shrubs and trees in their glorious blues, mauves and white obtrude prolifically across pavements and brighten the dullest corners.It is incredible how, in such a short space of time, leafless trees are thickly green and abundant; roses have burst into bloom; the cherries are already forming as the blossom petals still carpet the grass. Spring is my favourite season; the embodiment of hope and possibility. Funny to say so when the first anniversary of Mother’s death is only a week away, and I hope it presages a new acceptance, and a shift to good memories infusing the future.
It was quiet when I arrived at the fracture clinic, but by the time I returned from x-ray the place was heaving. Broken legs easily outnumbered broken arms, and it would have been fairly easy to come a cropper and return to Go by tripping over an extended crutch, or a swinging wheelchair footplate. Fortunately that didn’t happen, and an hour and a half later I emerged into the spring sunshine with a new clutch of exercises, two new appointments in my diary, and the promise of a letter from the physiotherapy department inviting me to the hand clinic. This last is held first thing in the morning. I didn’t like to ask if it doubled as a breakfast club, but I am hoping there’ll be good coffee and freshly baked croissants.
For outdoor wear, or if I am tired, I have a light hand splint to wear. I saw Nurse Ruth again. She gave me some knitted cotton tubing to wear underneath the splint. I have continued to wear it as, despite washing my arm several times, the dead skin is still flaking off in abundance. It’s rather unnerving. I wear a lot of navy, and the dead skin looks like an extreme case of dandruff.
Back on the bus, I noticed an immediate loss of compassion. My bright blue arm has been a passport to seats and consideration. A splint left a large man completely and literally unmoved. He remained firmly in his seat by the aisle, blocking my path to one by the window. I asked if I could sit down, and, unsmilingly, he moved his legs to the side. I’ll have to hope the exercises improve my grip pretty quickly.