It's been a month and two days since I sliced through my right hand's ring and pinkie finger, and twenty-three days since the reconstructive tendon and nerve surgery. I'm into the second week of physical therapy, which is excruciating and each time I present my hand to Sam for a Dark Ages session, I can't quite believe that it's me in the chair running my feet in place, pressing the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to disassociate myself from the pain. The truth is, it is me and I want a do-over. Who doesn't? I would have made the casserole earlier, would have never tried to cut that red pepper, would have said "why don't you ride you that horse to Hell!", out loud. But I did and I didn't, so here I am. Even so, a do-over is a great idea, (although not terribly original). Think of all the pain and suffering that could be allieviated by hitting the rewind or undo button. The film The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind has already explored this idea. If you haven't seen it, check it out. Kate Winslet and Jim Carey are superb and their characters remind us that many times it's the dark places that temper and soften.
Ros, my cranial sacral therapist never lets me get away with anything. Her b.s. detector is dead-on, so I don't even try to dissemble, deflect, or dodge. I've been afraid of going to see her since I hurt my hand, mainly because I knew she'd ask and I'd tell her, and of course I did. I told her almost everything. Almost. She said it looked like all of my organs were trying to move up under my ribcage for cover, and this made me laugh. Since the accident, I've been a wee bit of a hypochondriac. I've always felt impenetrable, bullet proof, but lately I've been absolutely certain that the dull pain above my heart, the little glossy bump on my pointer finger is a portent of doom.
The sky really has been falling lately for a lot of people I love, but I've always thought that's just how life is. Enter injury: "Hey, the sky is falling everybody! Take cover! I really felt like Chicken Little. I didn't want to leave the house or drive or cook or go back to work or even read a book. This past Saturday is the first day I've felt like me.
Ros said that I looked clear, much clearer than I have, and asked me exactly which day I knew, which day I made the decision, (the one I've been dodging and also have been trying to make for forever). I told her I'm pretty certain it was Christmas Day in transit to my sister's house.
The right hand is the ability to give. The pinkie finger represents details.
I found this poem today:
Hands
Siv Cedering
I
When I fall asleep
my hands leave me.
They pick up pens
and draw creatures
with five feathers
on each wing.
The creatures multiply.
They say: "We are large
like your father's
hands."
They say: "We have
your mother's
knuckles."
I speak to them:
"If you are hands,
why don't you
touch?"
And the wings beat
the air, clapping.
They fly
high above elbows
and wrists.
They open windows
and leave
rooms.
They perch in treetops
and hide under bushes
biting
their nails. "Hands,"
I call them.
But it is fall
and all creatures
with wings
prepare to fly
South.
II
When I sleep
the shadows of my hands
come to me.
They are softer than feathers
and warm as creatures
who have been close
to the sun.
They say: "We are the giver,"
and tell of oranges
growing on trees.
They say: "We are the vessel,"
and tell of journeys
through water.
They say: "We are the cup."
And I stir in my sleep.
Hands pull triggers
and cut
trees. But
the shadows of my hands
tuck their heads
under wings
waiting
for morning,
when I will wake
braiding
three strands of hair
into one.
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