Barring unforeseen circumstances I’ll undergo surgery next week on my right wrist. My dominant hand will be unusable for six weeks. Six miserable weeks! Every movement, each purposeful act, will be done with a left hand that is recalcitrant, untrained and uncooperative, at best. I’ll be quite helpless for these coming weeks; I’ll be unable to dress, cut my food, wash my hair … I could go on, but you get the picture.
With this next surgery, I’ll have nearly as many scars as did Evil Kneivel, without the thrill of jumping over cars and canyons on a tricked-out motorcycle.
I told Dan this is my last surgery. No more! Not again! At least until it’s needed, that is. And so I write:
I am opened.
I am mindful.
My bones exposed, they hear words spoken over them.
Music sings to my blood.
I am stitched.
I lay closed.
Dan tells me it will be fine. Yeah, well, he doesn’t have to manage the bathroom with only his left hand.