Double Challenge: Blindness and Right Arm Fracture
A story of injury, adaptation, and hope
“Injuries give you perspective. They teach you to cherish the moments that I might have taken for granted before.”
— Ali Krieger
On November 10th, 2024, my husband and I entertained our friends J and J for a post-lunch dessert at our house: baklava, brownies, and flowering strawberry tea. After three cups of tea, I excused myself for a trip to our downstairs restroom. My descent down the two sets of stairs, a routine I’d followed for sixteen years, did not go as planned.
I lay crumpled at the foot of these slate gray stairs without any awareness of what had happened. I cried out in pain and Ted and our guests instantly asked, “Kathy, are you okay?”
The top of my head and right arm screamed in pain. Ted helped me to my feet, guiding me with my left side, while I grasped the handrail, which I had missed during my fall.
J and J hugged me gingerly goodbye, uncertain of the extent of my injuries and wanting to avoid causing me any more pain. Without hesitation, Ted and I gathered our ID and car keys and ascended the stairs, heading straight for the local ER.
The ten-minute drive to the ER felt like an eternity. Each movement brought a fresh wave of pain, and I apologized to Ted for the added trouble. As we navigated from the car to the ER, I stumbled again, colliding with an elevation change in the parking lot, injuring my right lower leg this time. A parking lot assistant helped Ted get me upright.
As we made our way toward the ER, I felt a mix of shame and embarrassment over my clumsiness and the double fall. By the time we arrived at the ER around 5 PM, I never imagined I would still be there past midnight — long after my usual bedtime.
The triage staff greeted me and transferred me to a waiting room wheelchair. I sat there for the next two and a half hours, waiting patiently for the next steps — assessment, diagnosis, and treatment. Ted, ever my advocate, checked for updates on when I would be seen, but no satisfactory answers were given, so we continued to wait.
When I was finally moved into a curtained exam room, I was positioned on a gurney, and soon my doctor arrived, bringing a much-needed sense of relief. I explained the details of my fall, emphasizing the impact of the hard gray stairs on the top of my head, right arm, and right lower leg. She conducted a partial physical exam.
Her skilled hands pinpointed the areas of pain, and to my surprise, she found my left hip to be tender as well. Although I had considered requesting a variety of diagnostic tests based on my retired nursing background, the doctor immediately decided to order a CAT scan due to my age and the severity of the fall. She also ordered X-rays for my left hip, right arm, left index finger and thumb, and right lower leg.
Before I was wheeled off to the radiation department, a silent but unfriendly nurse inserted an IV, through which I received Tylenol. Looking back, I see this as an inadequate analgesia for the degree of pain I felt — especially since I have no history of substance abuse.
The staff in the X-ray department distracted me with their stories and interactions as I shifted from gurney to exam table, positioning my limbs as requested. I wish I had felt more like a Gumby figure with more flexibility and less pain, but my body refused to cooperate. When I returned to the ER, I found that my room had been downgraded to a smaller one, though the background noises of the various monitoring devices kept me alert.
As the hours dragged on, one of the brightest moments was when my doctor returned with the results of my scans. Gratefully, the cranial CAT scan was negative, meaning there was no concussion or subdural hematoma — my biggest concern. My left hip and thumb X-rays were also negative. However, my right leg was swollen, bruised, and almost 50% larger than my left; fortunately, the right leg tibia and fibula showed no fractures. Most concerning was my right arm, which showed a radial head fracture near the elbow.
While the doctor reassured me that the fracture was minor and non-displaced, she ordered an immobilization splint, which extended from my hand almost to my shoulder and was tightly wrapped with an Ace bandage. I was fitted with a lightweight sling, instructed to wear it most of the day, and advised to use ice packs for ten minutes every hour. I also scheduled an orthopedic consult for November 20th to assess whether further treatment would be needed.
After my release, just before midnight, I struggled to put on my black elastic-waist skirt and short-sleeve cardigan. For a blind woman who had never dressed herself using only her left hand, this posed a Herculean challenge. Fortunately, Ted helped with the task, and I hoped that, over time, I would regain more independence.
When we reached the car seven hours later, I opened the door with my left hand and awkwardly positioned myself into the seat, strapping myself in with only my left hand. This was difficult, given that I’m right hand dominant. As we processed the night’s events, I felt the weight of my injury and the increasing need for Ted’s help.
Lying down in bed, I cursed the unwieldy splint, which posed as a huge obstacle from achieving a good night’s sleep. I slept fitfully, only on my back, and with a soft pillow beneath my arm.
Over the next ten days, I adapted to using my left hand for everything, from positioning ice packs to managing basic tasks. When my daughters learned of my inability to shower, they teased me about the possible noxious effects of body odor potentially creating distance between my husband and me.
We managed to find a solution: an Amazon purchase of a cast cover allowed me to shower with Ted’s help.
My daughters visited, friends brought meals, and I stayed connected through my phone, though navigating it with swollen right fingers proved tricky. I relied on Siri and VoiceOver to manage, though using my left hand was still the most effective option.
Navigating stairs became a daily challenge, especially when I couldn’t use the rail with my right hand. So, I adapted by going backward down the stairs, counting each step as I descended.
This involved counting to seven, then hitting the landing, then eight additional steps. These steps were carpeted, which felt less treacherous while moving backwards.
Sometimes my husband expressed concern with this reverse descent. But to me it felt safer, and after a while, I felt more confident.
Eating was another task I had to adapt to. My left hand became my only option for holding utensils, and Ted helped with cutting meat. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t do the dishes or load the dishwasher, but I trusted Ted to handle those tasks.
To join many of my traveling friends (Detroit, South Pacific, Florida, to Portugal), I sent an email detailing my “Recent Three Trips,” along with a photo of my splint. I humorously described my three falls: down the stairs at home, in the parking lot on the way to the ER, and the seven hours spent in the ER.
Dear friends and family, here is photo evidence of my fall down the stairs, and the resultant treatment from the ER. My trips included a fall down three sets of stairs on my way to the bathroom, another trip en route from the parking lot to the ER, and my third seven-hour trip in the ER.
The pain is minimal now, but I feel so bad that I cannot help out more. I will receive more medical information from my orthopedic appointment next Wednesday. Otherwise, I must stay in a sling and cast for six weeks, which by my calculation, ends on December 22nd. Here is to a Happy Thanksgiving to all as we experience time with our friends and family.”
By November 20th, my orthopedic consult brought good news: the range of motion in my arm and wrist was better than expected. I graduated from the splint to a sling and resumed some function of my right hand, as long as I didn’t lift more than two pounds. However, this favorable news did not include his prescription for me to return to swimming! Although I could return to the jacuzzi.
This improvement was timely, as Thanksgiving was approaching, and I could finally contribute to the meal preparations.
Since I have often dubbed myself as the “Laundry Queen” and incorporate those tasks lovingly into my day, nothing was lost in the clean laundry department. I had to rely upon Ted to fold the sheets and/or make the bed, since our foam/coil mattress far exceeded my two-pound limits. Nonetheless, I was grateful to be able to help in the kitchen again.
This freedom helped me participate more fully in Thanksgiving meal preparation, dishwashing, and taking walks outside with my husband. Since my left arm links to his right elbow as a sighted guide, I felt much safer being able to swing my right arm and he helped me position myself while walking.
In addition to my newfound freedom from the splint and sling, I felt a new joy when entering the hot tub for the first time. The hot tub represented to me a Nirvana and social gathering place! The only difference over these three to four recovery weeks was that Ted swam for thirty to forty minutes while I relaxed solo. This hot tubbing experience differed from my many others as I felt a limit as to how long I could remain immersed. Ultimately I chose to abandon my beloved hot tub because the heat became intolerable.
My ultimate joy arrived on December 12th, when my orthopedist gave me his medical blessing to return to swimming. My activity that had been temporarily lost now resurfaced as an almost effervescent experience to me, with my husband in the next lane.
This experience provided many teaching moments to me, reminding me of how important the body’s unity is. As with my entry into blindness, my body and soul were called into action, helping me maintain my dignity and sense of purpose. I’m deeply grateful to my husband, my daughters, and my friends for their unwavering love and support during my recovery.
