(no subject)
Lately I've been feeling like writing, probably a legacy of my profession and past. I've been admiring the way friends, acquaintances and even perfect strangers select words, turn phrases, and create clarity. Oh what delight cleverly spun sentences brings.
So here it is, my triumphant return to the blogosphere. I do apologize for the absence, but I took a hiatus when my my arm was in a cast and, as often the case with hiatuses, it lingered until I had forgotten about the very habit I was taking a break from. I consoled myself with emails and verbal consultations, but alas, nothing is quite the same as some focused wanderings of the mind.
First let me address the broken finger. For almost a month, I wore a dorsal splint which prevented me from using my dominant hand and rendered my typing skills into that of a non-technology dependent 50 year old. That is, while I could muster semi-normal use with my left hand, right handed keystrokes required jumping the keyboard. A schizophrenic keyboard dance.
After the cast came a phantom of opera type mask for my hand, which gave me the freedom to use two digits and, since it was removable, showers. Nothing quite makes you appreciate the human body and simple everyday tasks like removing the ability to do them. Texting, showering, eating, all became a delicate balance mostly dominated by the left hand. Not to mention being benched from my [then] usual skiing, biking, and rock climbing.
It did give me some sympathy at work though.
I can still remember that day when they decided to graduate me from plaster. My hand, a disgusting shade of flaky white, was still swollen and stiff. When the doctor asked me to clasp it fully, I could only bend it half way. This, somehow, was impressive to them. Apparently, most people can't even move. Oh I would be fine, they said with smiles. So then came physical therapy. Hand exercises 6 times an hour. Putties. The tiniest massages ever (done with the back of a pencil). Hot to cold hand bathes. I did them religiously. Every week I returned, the occupational therapist was more than impressed. Of course I wasn't. I wanted my hand completely back to normal- 100%. I remember the day he told me that would never be possible and I should be happy with the progress I was making. And he was right, even today when I clasp my hand in various position, it hurts. I'll never be a jar opening hero again. But I can't complain, his horror stories of people never being able to make a fist again puts me in the solidly sold section. Of surgeries upon surgeries in hopes of the finger regaining its natural rotation. The true meaning of pins and needles.
And I'll never forget the first time I biked to physical therapy. The San Francisco streets mine again. Open skies, potholes, and what do you know, the biggest smile a girl can plaster.
So here it is, my triumphant return to the blogosphere. I do apologize for the absence, but I took a hiatus when my my arm was in a cast and, as often the case with hiatuses, it lingered until I had forgotten about the very habit I was taking a break from. I consoled myself with emails and verbal consultations, but alas, nothing is quite the same as some focused wanderings of the mind.
First let me address the broken finger. For almost a month, I wore a dorsal splint which prevented me from using my dominant hand and rendered my typing skills into that of a non-technology dependent 50 year old. That is, while I could muster semi-normal use with my left hand, right handed keystrokes required jumping the keyboard. A schizophrenic keyboard dance.
After the cast came a phantom of opera type mask for my hand, which gave me the freedom to use two digits and, since it was removable, showers. Nothing quite makes you appreciate the human body and simple everyday tasks like removing the ability to do them. Texting, showering, eating, all became a delicate balance mostly dominated by the left hand. Not to mention being benched from my [then] usual skiing, biking, and rock climbing.
It did give me some sympathy at work though.
I can still remember that day when they decided to graduate me from plaster. My hand, a disgusting shade of flaky white, was still swollen and stiff. When the doctor asked me to clasp it fully, I could only bend it half way. This, somehow, was impressive to them. Apparently, most people can't even move. Oh I would be fine, they said with smiles. So then came physical therapy. Hand exercises 6 times an hour. Putties. The tiniest massages ever (done with the back of a pencil). Hot to cold hand bathes. I did them religiously. Every week I returned, the occupational therapist was more than impressed. Of course I wasn't. I wanted my hand completely back to normal- 100%. I remember the day he told me that would never be possible and I should be happy with the progress I was making. And he was right, even today when I clasp my hand in various position, it hurts. I'll never be a jar opening hero again. But I can't complain, his horror stories of people never being able to make a fist again puts me in the solidly sold section. Of surgeries upon surgeries in hopes of the finger regaining its natural rotation. The true meaning of pins and needles.
And I'll never forget the first time I biked to physical therapy. The San Francisco streets mine again. Open skies, potholes, and what do you know, the biggest smile a girl can plaster.