Gnáthamh na Maidine

Everyday is groundhog day.

Wake up. Pain. Muffling of radio sounds. Pain. Blackness outside. Pain.

I'm fairly accustomed to the routine at this stage. I need to sit up but I know I will become incredibly uncomfortable. Before doing so, I run a mental body check from my feet to my head. All is normal - clicking ankles, knackered knees, stiff back. Usual wear and tear. Except my collarbone still hasn't repaired itself. I'm afraid to attempt to move my left shoulder or arm as doing so will send shots of pain through my body. This takes some getting used to.

I'm grumpy, tired, cantankerous and blue. I am being mentally beaten up and I have lost the courage to rise to my feet. The physical side of injury is tolerable. You can learn to live with physical pain, adapt to the imperfection and learn to respect it. Mental pain is different. It requires discipline, determination and patience.

Every morning I contemplate lying here and just doing nothing. Just staying as I am. I'm not gong to be meeting anybody in the next ten hours. I have ten hours to kill. What one could achieve in ten hours? What do people do in the final ten hours of their lives? What harm will staying in bed until somebody else arrives home in approximately ten hours do to me?

It takes me a few minutes to convince myself to sit up. It's torture having to swing and drag my body into an upright position. I am immediately attacked by a stinging sensation in the left side of my neck, shoulder, chest and upper arm. I think I have strained my neck over the past few days due to the weight of my left arm hanging from it in my support sling.

I have no energy, feel pathetic and my motivation to get better is low. I also need a haircut and a shave. I am useless.

Showering is challenging. My left arm is basically lifeless and the warm water drizzling down from the shower-head is soothing and offers temporary relief. A shower now lasts me approximately twenty minutes.

The reality of my injury once again whacks me when I have to leave the shower cubicle. Apart from my legs, stomach, chest and face, I can't dry myself properly with a towel. I find this to be both humiliating and embarrassing. I require assistance from one of my parents in drying myself.

The next challenge is dressing myself. I am confined to wearing nothing but tracksuits as I can't button and unbutton shirts and trousers. Connecting zips are difficult to master using one hand. I have worn the same navy tracksuit bottoms, white sports runners and navy hoody since Sunday. What's the point in changing into anything different? These items are loose on my body and easier to pull on and off than my usual fitted attire. They offer the most elasticity and comfort when being pulled over and onto my left shoulder. I can hook on my underwear and tracksuit bottoms. That's it. It's too much of a struggle with sharp pain to dress myself independently.

I can't put on a t-shirt, I can't get on my stockings, I can't tie my laces, I can't zip my jacket. I am a baby again. I hate my over sized t-shirts that make me feel fat, ugly and unhealthy.

The one thing I can do is make my porridge one handed. That's some bit of independence. However, my mother decided today to try and make it for me. Which is kind and thoughtful of her but made me angry inside.  I know that my parents are hurting too seeing me as miserable as I am. I shouldn't be so grouchy but I'm fed up of being stuck in this body that I'm not accustomed to operating.

Once I am dressed, my mother leaves for work.....and that's it.  This is when the real battle begins. I desire being given a chance at freedom, to return to the life I understood but underappreciated. Now I brood alone in my boredom of repetitiveness. Everyday I am left alone to ponder and shape my day in the best way I can. I could do infinite things. I have a plentiful supply of unread books that I could tackle and engage my imagination. I could binge on television, sandwiches and social media. I could write or complete some jigsaws. The possibilities of creativity are endless. But I'm lonely and trapped. Everybody else is working. I want to go to work. I can't be who I want to be in the state I am. I can't exercise. I can't drive.

It's dark, wet and uninviting outside. I sit at the kitchen table for a few minutes staring into the abyss of my mind. It's not yet nine o'clock and I decide that the best course of action is to return to bed.

What else is there to do? At least I'm not broken in my dreams.

Briste

...If you think you may be pregnant, please tell the radiographer before you have your X-ray...

I'm slouched here in this empty cubicle staring at a poster featuring an unborn child in the womb clinging onto an umbilical cord for attention. It's a cute looking cartoon figure, innocent and ready to tackle to world. I've seen this poster too many times before yet this is the first time that I notice that there are eighteen different languages featured on it, of which Irish Gaelic isn't one. However there is Scots Gaelic present which interests me for a number of seconds and is a nice distraction to the reality of the Doomsday-like-scenario I find myself in again.

Inhale...

Aon...Dó...Trí....

Exhale.....

A blanket of inner emptiness surrounds and begins to overwhelm me. I feel like crying but I can't. I feel like questioning God but I haven't got the energy or courage to challenge his path laid out for me. I'm plonked here wondering how have I managed to return to a mess like this. This is the pits. My slumped and lifeless posture tells the story of a broken man. I've been here far too many times in my life of twenty nine years, six months and three days and I know the score. Somehow all roads have lead me to this point despite this location not being listed on the map. This is not part of the plan. I don't want to be here. Surely I can't be here again? This isn't fun. Release me from the cast iron chains of my broken body and let me gallop giddily and wildly with the team of other horses.

In the lobby, my father is frantically trying to obtain a strong phone connection with my mother and of course, there is none available inside this building of door codes, bleach smells and lifeless white walls. There couldn't be phone reception in here. In fact I don't want there to be. I want to feel miserable and any form of positive communication is forbidden from my presence right now. Having an ability to speak to my mother and reassure her that I'm actually fine despite my unplanned visit to the hospital would greatly reduce the high stress, frustration, anger and anxiety levels that I acknowledge are best suited to feel awful about myself and my existence. Functioning just wouldn't fit in with the script. It's my party and I'll be awkward and miserable if I want to be.

I have performed the lead role in this low budget, grim stage production before and I practically know the routine all too well for my own sanity at this stage. Oh, how I want to be free!

Inhale.....

Aon....Dó...Trí...

Exhale....

The chief investigator enters the bright room with two female assistant interpreters at his sides. There's no fooling this guy. He's friendly and sympathetic but displays no hesitancy in the completion of his work. I like him and understand that he holds the keys to my immediate next move. He can provide the knowledge and guidance that'll I'll require to restart the motor engine and get back in the race.

He immediately ruins my clothing, cutting up through the blue sleeve of my jersey and fold down neck collar. The clothing garment flaps over to reveal my chest, shoulder. and left arm. The damage is now on show to observe. I'm concerned that the fine item of clothing I was wearing was now destroyed and useless to future wear. This would be fine if it was my own property but it isn't. I was only borrowing it and the thought of having to explain the destruction of such an invaluable uniform piece to its rightful owners doesn't appeal to me.

"What happened?"
"Can I touch you?"
"Would you like some painkillers?"
"Are you a drug addict?"
"Okay, let's get ready for x-ray."

I can't rise to my feet without support and the pain generated in the left hand side of my body is excruciating. It races from my chest through my shoulder then travels into my elbow joint before heading into my hand before residing in my fingers. I imagine that the stinging pain I'm experiencing is how being stabbed repeatedly in a dark alley by a heartless fiend with a jagged hunting knife must feel like. This is not pleasurable in any way. It's wonderful really how the human body can communicate with the captain of the vessel to stop, reassess and change course when it senses danger. I'm paralyzed by the power and force of the magnificent lightening bolt travelling through me. I can't move without holding my breath, gritting my teeth, grunting, groaning, wrinkling my already deeply wrinkled forehead and reassuring myself that this is all part of the healing process of becoming broken in order to rebuild. I don't have many better options right now and I don't think I can escape from my situation unscratched. The destruction derby did what the punters came to see. 

All the time, I feel a terribly discomforting sense of shame and embarrassment that I have once again pushed my luck too far. Played too many card hands in a stacked poker match. Have I learned anything from previous experiences? Perhaps it's time to remove the mask, pass upon the game of charades and leave the drinks' reception unannounced. I could slip away without interfering with anybody. I'd do it during the smarmy speeches when nobody would notice. Yet I still don't have the strength to rise and carry on with my raiméis.

"Other than tablets, what else could I use?"
"Oxygen."

Administering oxygen would mean me lying on my back. Perhaps I should as I'm feeling down and my resistance is low. However, I am not interested in the sucking of oxygen in order to stand on my two feet, particularly as it would make me dizzy. Right now I am useless to life and the celebration of living. My vessel has been vandalized, I have no purpose. I'd consider retiring to the scrapheap and live a simple life of rotting but that's not fair to those who have invested time and energy in me. I can't remain stagnant and stay where I am. I'll have to make a decision soon because staying put isn't going to achieve anything. Right now, I feel like I am at a crossroads with three of the four options blocked off to traffic in both directions.

Inhale.

Aon....Dó.....Trí....

"Look, I'll try the pills."

Exhale....

More silence as time subsides. It pains me to be here in this state. My egocentric self  believes that I'm indestructible, indispensable and eternal. This misery act is doing no good for inner confidence and charisma. I'm in too much discomfort and distress to think of anything but obtaining relief. Alas, I bleakly accept that I am not the man I want to be. It hurts to know that I'm breakable, tangible and imperfect in my design. Right now, I'm weak, vulnerable and pathetic with all my failings on display.

Inhale

Aon...Do....Trí....

"....just a little more to the left..."

No problem good doctor! Would you like me to suck on an imaginary popsicle, tilt my head, hyper extend my hip?

...Slow exhalation....

I shouldn't be so self-centered. This poor man has plenty of other things to do with his life than take revealing photographs of me that definitely will not feature on any in-flight complimentary magazine two page spread. I bet he's not exactly exhilarated to be focusing his lens on such a joke. I know that this man doesn't really care who I am, he doesn't know me, my injury will not be affecting his sleeping pattern. Why should it? He owes me nothing! He's got plenty of other chores and activities to perform in his life today before he can return to being his true self. What makes me so important that he, or anybody else should give a damn? He did not apply his knowledge in perfecting his radiology to arrive at this point either. To him, I am nothing but a ticket in the queue. Good luck to him. I'm jealous of his skill and intact body.

"Mind yourself"

A sound man.

More time passes. The ward is completely empty. There is no sound. I know what's coming ahead of me. I hold out with no hope. Once upon a time, I would have recited prayers and gripped my St. Christopher's medallion in begging for forgiveness for whatever sin has lead me here but as a more experienced and imperfect garsún, I know that the chances of minor suffering are nil. The verdict is in, sentence has been handed down.....Broken clavicle....I've served that penance before. I must accept who I am, that I am physically broken...but mentally too?

Am I really as worthless as I believe I am?

Has the dream come to an abrupt end?

Do I have the mental capacity combined with the inner desire to recover and learn from another setback?

What will I do with my life now?

Do I know of a life outside of who I think I am?

Have I ever opened up my mind and stepped inside?

Do I cling on for more?

How long will I have to continue waiting before coming to a decision?

Have I had my final dance?

Please, someone fix me - The show must go on!