Well, I have been relieved of the cast on my right arm, thank various and sundry gods.
The amount of atrophy in my right hand, wrist and forearm is ... staggering.
I had anticipated that six weeks of not being able to move my little and ring finger was going to have unpleasant effects once the cast was off, but I really hadn't planned on it affecting as far up my arm as it obviously is.
When the tech cut the cast off, she ambled off to get the doctor, leaving me to my own devices -- probably not a good thing, come to think.
Anyhoo, I had my right hand flat on the table, left hand on the knuckles and leaning my weight in as I twisted my shoulder -- because I wanted my bloody fingers to straighten out, damn it, that's why -- when I looked up to see the doctor and a stranger in the doorway.
The doctor heaves the mighty sigh of one beset by the tribulations of a cruel and not-very-smart world, turns to the lady beside him and says, "Physical therapy?"
She offers one rather un-lady-like snort, and opines, "Why? There's nothing I can do to him that he's not already topping."
I am prescribed a brace to be worn for the next four weeks, take it off to sleep, to shower and three times a day to squeeze a ball. Final evaluation two weeks after that.
Ah, well. At least the sodding cast is off.