swirlsofpurple

The pain begins suddenly, spiralling out from fingers to wrist, from elbow to shoulder. Like tree branches trying to grow, ripping through flesh and sinew and skin. There are tests and braces and painkillers. And the answer: it will fix itself; it’s a just a matter of physio and waiting. She has to wait, a long- drawn out- two years.

The pain ebbs relatively quickly, settling into a dull ache in the bones. But a glass of water trembles in her hand, straining muscles like she’s trying to lift a car. And her shoulder joint can barely move. She tries to put her arm behind her back but barely reaches her butt. She never realised how much she used her shoulder until she couldn’t.

Here’s the thing though, she never realised how much she could use an elbow until it’s the only working arm joint she has. It’s enough to move around, almost seamlessly, it’s enough to fake it. To pretend everything’s fine. She’s fine, she doesn’t need anyone’s help.

The door handle may be a herculean weight beneath her fingers, but she pauses, oh so casually, as though it’s just a bookend to the conversation, and braces herself for the task. She plants a smile on her face and yanks the door open like it’s nothing. And no one notices.

Getting undressed is difficult. But she soon finds a way to twist herself around, pushing and pulling until the clothes comply.

Standing in her underwear, failing to unhook her bra, is the moment the dam breaks. She’s never been particularly feminine, and yet somehow it feels like she’s been un-womanned; that she can no longer undo the clasp from behind her back feels like something has been taken from her. And she knows it’s ridiculous. The ability to remove a bra one-handed has nothing to do with how much of a woman a person is. But she can’t help the feelings. It’s a culmination, another loss on the pile. It’s all too much. It shouldn’t be; it’s not like she doesn’t still have workable functionality. And yet, it somehow is. She’s never been very good at adversity, if this can even be called that.

And all she fucking wants is a fucking bath. Just to sink down into the water and let everything melt away.

She doesn’t even remember how she used to get in and out of the tub. Surely three fully working limbs and a half-working one should be sufficient. Instead it’s an inexplicable melee of limbs and water.

Someone asks if she can help with something and she follows to find a room full of chairs to be moved.

She mentions that she maybe shouldn’t help, she has an arm thing. But she doesn’t want it to be a big deal, she doesn’t want to seem like she’s making a fuss when she can move the chairs. And so she does.

It’s not so painful anymore, which means there’s nothing to stop her. And if it means her arm works less later- well that’s just one of those things.

The progress is too slow and she knows she has to stop over-working the wretched limb.

But someone hands over a pile of plates; almost dropping them into her hands, like her taking them is expected, like there would be no reason to refuse. And she catches them because she must, because it’s the natural flow of things. It feels like there’s no air for argument, no breaths between the joined actions. And she doesn’t wince because it doesn’t really hurt. But she can feel months squandered with a handful of seconds and porcelain.

And she smiles anyway, like the weight she holds is normal, carefully careless.

But she’s angry.

Someone asks her to carry the bags of milk bottles to the fridges. And she says she has a bad arm.

They protest, thinking she’s being difficult and lazy. They’ve seen her carry things with it. They’ve seen her carry on.

She’s pretended too well.

They will think what they will.

She says, “No.”