Diary – Day 18 in the cast
Date: Mid-summer, 34°C. Mood: exhausted, flushed, resigned.
I still can't quite believe I'm actually in this. Fully. From my hips all the way up to my chin—and beyond. My arms are free, technically, but that doesn’t mean I feel free. The rest of me is sealed inside this hot, heavy shell.
It took me almost half an hour just to get out of bed this morning. I don't rush anymore. I know the rest of the day will unfold just like the last seventeen: slow, sweaty, still. The cast weighs down on my shoulders even though it doesn't cover them—just supports my upper back all the way to my neck.
My neck is completely encased. The plaster rises under my chin like a firm cradle, locking my jawline in place. I can’t turn my head. I always face straight ahead. Sometimes I hear voices behind me, but I can’t look to see who it is. If I want to glance out the window, I have to turn my whole body—and that’s no small task, considering I’m essentially a stone cylinder from the waist up.
The cast curves up behind my head, over the base of my skull. It forms a kind of hump—almost like a helmet. When I lean back, I feel it there, pressing against my occiput, like someone’s constantly supporting my head. Sometimes I instinctively try to lower my head, and the chin brace immediately stops me. Like a leash.
My skin itches. Everywhere. Especially between my shoulder blades and along the back of my neck. I can’t reach it—not with a stick, not with a hairdryer. The plaster isn’t white anymore—it’s grey and blotchy near the bottom. I don’t know if others notice, but I feel it. Even the smell of the cast has changed—no longer fresh, but dusty, body-warm, and a bit stale.
The strangest part is breathing. I can’t take deep breaths. My chest only moves as much as the cast allows, which isn’t much. My breathing is always shallow. I can talk, but sometimes even that takes effort. And since I can’t tilt my chin down, I can’t see my chest or stomach properly. Just the ceiling, or straight ahead.
People stare when I go outside. Some look at me with pity, others with discomfort. For me, it’s become normal—being stiff, slow, and sometimes feeling like I’m not in control of my body. Like I’m just a passenger inside it. The cast is in charge now.
There are still five more weeks to go. At least. Sometimes it feels like I’ll be trapped forever. And other times... I’m not sure I want to leave it. It’s become a part of me.
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
areudirty
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
izzy806
andulkaphoto
