Cork woman: Accident gave me a new outlook on life

I RECENTLY decided that the list of the seven deadly sins needs to be extended, to include our inherent tendency to ‘take things for granted’. We are all guilty, to some extent, but I have now realised it could be my own biggest failing…. to date.

The fragility of our health, and of the complacent way we have lived our lives, has hit us all mercilessly, of late, in light of the pandemic.

We had, for instance, jetted to and fro across the globe, willie-nillie, as if our freedom to do so was sacrosanct ... sitting squeezed together, like sardines in a tin, knees pushed up against the seat in front, and giving very little thought to what now, in retrospect, seems to be a very strange and unwise phenomena, the air that we breathed being recycled and shared amongst 200 passengers, our fellow-travellers from all around the globe.

As an antidote to the pandemic, and to other such stresses and worries, the practice of mindfulness is said to be a great healer, bringing with it tranquility and a deeper awareness, both of our fellow-men, and of the wonders of life we can see all around us, but which we sometimes fail to appreciate.

Lying on a yoga mat is, physically, very enjoyable, blissful in fact, but, while the tired body lies still and replete, the butterfly mind can be reluctant to cooperate, as shopping lists, cooking , and phone calls to be made hover tauntingly above us, filling our heads and hijacking our quiet time.

I often start the day by listing the jobs I plan to do. I’m proud of my lists, especially as I work my way down, crossing out each task as soon as it’s done. If something gets done unexpectedly, it is added to the list, then wiped out with extra gusto.

Sometimes my list lies forgotten, even before the breakfast dishes have hit the sink, and then it has to wait, to be picked up the next day and placed in better view, with another day’s jobs added to it.

Once in action, I go at things “like a bull at a gate”, as my dear mum used to say, God bless her! I am, admittedly, a bit slip-shod, tending to rush into each job with one eye on the next, and with just a touch of resentment peppering my elbow grease, the vague notion being that, when I reach the end of my list, a new-found sense of freedom and peace of mind will descend. Then, and only then, will I be able to relax... and “be in the moment”, the very one we hear so much about.

Until, a while ago, on a sunny morning, I was crossing our garden at a pace when… WHAM! My runner skidded on a narrow piece of timber edging and I was brought down, heavily, in a split second. 

There was no three seconds of “Oh my... I’m going to fall... where am I to land?”

My right arm was dealt a swift hammer-blow, like the fall of a guilllotine, as it landed below my right thigh, trapped hard against the narrow strip of wood. Surprisingly there was no pain, but one glimpse at my twisted hand told me all. As I sat there, shakily assuring my ashen-faced best pal that I really was OK, I tried in vain to remember all the signs to look for in a broken bone. I could only recall one... ‘mis-shapen’ - that was enough!

Long story short, I remained relatively pain-free, thanks to medical expertise and modern anaesthesia. The initial attempt to set the bone, at the wrist, was not quite perfect, so an operation to insert a plate was planned. I surprised myself by my lack of apprehension and managed to keep a cool head until D-Day, when I was wheeled, complete with super green socks and dinner ladies’ cap, into theatre, where maroon-clothed bodies bustled about in earnest, whilst the huge daunting lights shone down, just to remind me where I actually was. My kindly surgeon managed a smiley face, and patched me up perfectly.

A week later, and, blessedly, still pain-free, I dwelt on my misfortune. I had the strange but welcome sense of being re-born. Life had taken a very interesting turn, for the better.

With my dominant hand rendered useless for several weeks, I felt I’d been thrown back into early childhood, to the first stages of learning how to dress...how to handle tools. It was quite pleasant and enlightening. I had to find new ways to do the simplest of things. Ingenuity and concentration were paramount in the process.

I was like a two-year old, trying to fathom a toy. Miraculously, the need to rush from job to job vanished! I was, at last, in the moment!

Necessity truly is the mother of invention. Two knees provide a perfect vice when opening a screw top jar with one hand. Teeth can provide a pincer grip to flip off plastic lids, while toothpaste is best left messily uncapped. When spreading butter, a warm knife saves strife.

Slowing down the pace of living enhances everything we do. 

Our daily chores become interesting achievements, absorbing even. I was now taking pride in all the abilities I had long taken for granted. Tasks that were once a burden now offered a pleasant challenge.

The thought of chopping veg for our constitutional five-a-day soup was a daunting prospect, but as daytime TV has limited appeal, and balancing a book with one hand depletes the motivation to read, any work which is at all do-able was suddenly welcome.

So I cleared lots of space, before laying out a wide selection of knives, a colourful array of veggies and a big sturdy chopping board. My injured hand was able to hold the peeler quite still, while my good hand slid the veg across the blade. First prep was completed, now for some chopping.

Carrots could be a problem, and dangerous. They tended to jettison themselves far and wide around the kitchen, under cupboards or into the compost bin, even travel upwards to hit you in the face. Celery, garlic and peppers were well-behaved, but the sight of a big round onion had me hollering for help. Happily, my huge pot was soon bubbling away.

A week’s supply of soup sorted, I now needed ideas for easier dinners, seasoned with a bit of variety. Oven chips had only recently become an addition to our freezer, now colourful packs of frozen vegetables were finding their way into my shopping trolley. Googling, I was reassured to find they are nutritious and delicious to boot. Frozen veg was now in close second place to the Sat-nav within my heart.

Sitting down to a meal with one arm in a sling requires careful planning, unconventional eating tools and a fair amount of concentration.

I wondered if pelican bibs were still around, as my patient hubby painstakingly cut my food into manageable pieces. But my beloved tubs of yogurt became impossible to tackle, dancing around the table as soon as they caught sight of the teaspoon.

A well-earned bonus was that the sink has become a no-go area for me. I had no responsibilities at all for cleaning-up, and our newly-installed living-room stove now had a new master each morning. My hands were lily-white and lady-like, at long last.

Keeping myself smelling sweet was problematic. Shower floors can be slippy at any time, and I did not relish the prospect of having to return to A& E to explain why their expert manipulations needed to be re-done.

With a plastic garden chair placed in the shower cubicle, I made my first attempt, calling for help to wash my neck. But I soon discovered that, while masculine hands may be welcome for the massaging of sore backs, when they are applied to neck-washing they can be quite alarming. The fear of being throttled accidentally brought me to call out: “It’s OK, “I think I can manage, thanks. “

I had imagined that trying to use a pen would be frustrating, second only to my needing a chauffeur every time I wanted to post a letter, but writing with my left hand proved to be strangely enjoyable, albeit slow.

I watched in awe as the joined-up letters formed, and suddenly I was seven years old again, taking delight in those beautiful shapes.

My powers of concentration led me to feel my tongue poking out, caressing my teeth, as we see so often in busy young children.

Whilst good old-fashioned nutrition and keeping fit and healthy had always been my priorities, vacuuming, dusting and polishing lingered only at the back of my ostrich mind while I was recuperating.

These duties resurfaced dutifully when there were rumours of visitors approaching. We heaved-to then, as a pair; the place was spotless in no time.

Without the pressure to get things done as fast as possible, I was happy to tackle jobs that were previously nothing but a begrudged nuisance. My lists were gone, for the time- being.

I‘d been re-born. Long may it last!