Hoist by my own petard.

Tuesday January 31, 2017

I have always loved that expression; Shakespeare's, not mine. Hamlet Act 3, Scene 4 it means injured by the device that you intended to use to injure others; although I have always thought it meant "caught out by the falsehoods by which you surround yourself" and it is really with that understanding I offer this Blog.

Famously, my very first Blog addressed my need to score 0% on the Test, as this allowed me scope to put on a Social face, a more acceptable façade, behind which few folk ever penetrated deeply enough to realise just how suicidally depressed I really am most of the time.

Then, about 4 weeks ago now, I broke my wrist. Following brain surgery 5 years ago to remove a small but inconvenient tumour, the surgeon also removed both the hearing and the balance on my left side. He said at the time I wasn't to worry; the brain is such a clever organ, in next to no time it would compensate for my lack of balance, and All Would Be Well. That hasn't happened. Rather, over the years, I've developed a technique of falling without causing too much damage, and I get around with two elbow crutches and a wonderful life enhancing mobility scooter.

All that changed when I fell in an unexpected way, in an unexpected place, and broke my wrist badly in two places. I needed surgery to correct it.

Crumbling around me like a pack of cards (like the Test) came the edifice which was my life. Social face? Vanished. Sunny, happy disposition? Vanished. The "Oh you are such an asset to our village"? Vanished. Any hope of independent living. Vanished.

I am reduced utterly. I am dependent utterly on the kindness of strangers (Tennessee Williams) and the amazing forbearance of my civil partner (CP); I cannot put on my own clothes without help. I cannot do up the seatbelt in the car without help. I cannot add pepper to my food (pepper mill) without help – my food has to be cut up for me.

I have had to retreat to my wheelchair; hated and despised object, it is now my only hope of getting to go anywhere. I can wobble on one elbow crutch, but terror falling again restricts my movements.

And all I do is grumble. And moan. There is no graciousness in me; no acceptance of my lot; no gosh, others are so much worse off than me. No. I am the focus of my attention. Me. And I cannot, right now, do any more than growl.

In the fullness of time, I hope I will regain the use of my wrist; that sunshine will fill my heart and I will once more assume my smiling façade.

But right now, the folk I come up against are proving to be pretty shocked by the growling, snarling beast that is me without my social face... will I ever be able to hurl my nice petard again, now I have been hoisted by it?

Your thoughts and comments are always welcome... and I will try, really hard, not to growl my responses to you!


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