St Zoë

It’s thirteen days since my brain decided that instead of hands and wrists I should have two very rigid shadow puppets. The night my hands first locked up I described them as an elephant and a swan. Right now I think they’re more killer whale and rooster.

Over the last few days strong muscle relaxants have given me back a little movement in my right hand and have helped with the pain, but otherwise both hands are pretty much as they were thirteen days ago. But I’m largely more perky and upbeat than I was, with only the odd moment or two of whining thrown in for good measure.

Right now my hands are very sore and I decided to go to bed to make myself more comfortable. Zoë, my support worker, helped me get organised. She brought my computer in and put it on my bed with the charger plugged in. But as I lumped myself onto the bed I jerked it out of place.

I let out a defeated sigh and said:
‘Putting that back in seems as daunting as resurfacing the A40 alone.’
Zoë put it back in.

I looked at my phone and saw it needed plugging in as well. I said:
‘The thought of doing that is more off-putting than a sponge bath with Ribena by Bill Oddie’.
Zoë put it on to charge

I looked at my carefully made bed, desperate to climb inside, but the sheets looked heavy. I said:
‘Pulling that back is probably the equivalent of carrying a house to Epping’.
Zoë pulled my covers back and I climbed in.

Then I looked at the pile of covers that needed to be pulled back up over me and likened it to climbing Everest naked.
Zoë tucked me in and said goodnight to me, to my killer whale and to my rooster.

I said, ‘I’m sorry for being so pathetic.’
Zoë said ‘You’re not’.

Right now, to me Zoë is more wonderful, comforting and precious than the Great Wall of China, hot chocolate with marshmallows, and the Arsenal Team all put together.

Now I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow I’m heading back to the hospital to see a specialist and hopefully to have some Botox in my puppets to ease the pain.

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