As I type this, seven weeks and two days after I broke my wrist, it still hurts.
It hurts when I move it, which is unfortunate, since I am supposed to keep it moving as much as possible. Nerves and muscles, rendered lazy by six weeks in a cast, protest with the least encouragement.
To recap; on the day in question, I was hiking up to First Pump on Mt. Seymour. I borrowed a pair of snowshoes, since I refuse to own the beastly contraptions myself. Have I mentioned I hate snowshoes? They remind me that I seem to be too old to back country ski anymore. I love micro spiking: fast and quiet. However, on the day in question, there was enough new snow to require snowshoes, a rarity on the north shore.
I stopped short of the top. I was playing it safe. I didn’t want to get caught in an avalanche. Been there, done that. I wanted to come home and be able to hike again, which it turned out I was able to do, after a few weeks.
Snowshoes on my feet were driving me crazy. It wasn’t slippery, so I tied them to my backpack and skipped happily down the trail, spirits soaring with the blue birds (it was a Blue Bird day…on my day off even!). Then I slipped and fell with my weight on my outstretched arm, and the metal edge of a snowshoe under my wrist. Did I mention I hate snowshoes?
Now I do exercises for my wrist and forearm. They hurt. The past seven weeks and two days have been painful. I look forward to the day when I can painlessly move my wrist.
I played it safe, for that I am grateful (good work, self!). I have already been back in the mountains, pain notwithstanding. I am back up and running too, after not running for seven weeks. Soon I will go back to work.
There will be more Blue Bird days, on my days off, so I will keep smiling!
