Life in a Cast : Bathing

Wavy dripping, droplets falling, the cool breeze blowing, and the sun is beaming. The mirrors are fogged up from the steam. Frank Ocean’s smooth voice softly plays in my bathroom. Exhale.

I look at my right arm, once imprisoned in a heavy mache cast to protect my wrist.

You know you don’t really appreciate showering and/or bathing until that privilege is taken away from you. Yes, being able to stay hygienic is a privilege.

When you have a cast, your only concern is to make sure your trash bag is securely protecting your cast so that it does not get wet thus, preventing mold or any unnecessary infection to ensue which also prevents you from dealing with the fact that you’ll smell like rotting flesh until the damn torture device is sawed off you.

I know when I was trying to wash my face, it was a pain to just put cleanser in my palms because the Neutrogena bottle will topple over on its side or call into the sink. Then I would have to fish for the plastic bottle without getting frustrated that my left arm is sore and can’t really rotate more than 45 degrees.

Exfoliating was a pain because once the squeeze tube got down to it’s last bits of creamy bursting beads, I’d have to wrestle with the tube and figure out a way to get the remaining product out without getting my casted right hand wet or making a mess in the bathroom. I legitimately felt like a baby or baby animal that gets to experience “bath time” for the first. The only thing that’s going through your mind is, ” What is this?! what are you doing?! WHY CRUEL WORLD, WHY?! ” then that mentality calms down to “Okay, this ain’t too bad. As long as I don’t get anything in my eyes. or nose. or mouth. I’m good!

It gets worse trying to open jars with those beautiful creams that promise you that they are your mini fountains of youth.

I’m quite low maintenance. My body is not so much. If I don’t moisturize my face and body then it will start flaking like winter in Nebraska. It’s not fun. Then it’ll become so dry that it looks like the terrains of Death Valley. Yes, it’s not fun. Don’t even get me started on my hair because that’s a whole different monster on its own. I also tried to keep my healthy eating habits while I was restricted so I knew it wasn’t my diet.

Shampooing, conditioning, de-tangling, deep conditioning all become extreme pains in the ass.

I got one hand that’s just sore all the time and the other hand is being protected by a thin, plastic garbage bag that you are praying to some higher power that it doesn’t rip in the shower.

Forget trying the days where you can sing your heart out in the shower.

Forget being able to lather up your colorful puff and lather yourself with your favorite smelling body wash.

Forget shaving.


I’m just glad I have my hands back and I take full advantage of it.

I piss my grandmother and my younger sister off since I purposely take long ass showers. And I tell them.

“Your hand wasn’t in a nasty smelling, constricting, heavy, hard cast for 8 weeks.”

Then they just leave me alone.



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