I’m dying here…
I am typing, ever…so…slowly, with my left hand. And my left hand only. This not because my right hand is off doing something fun and squishy. No, it’s wrapped in a splint and kinesiotape, and elevated on a pad on my desk. I am forced to hunt and pack, southpaw-style, because my righty hurts so much that even thinking about using it makes it swell up. And I suck at this left-handed stuff.
(see, that took twenty minutes to type, especially the word “squishy.”)
My impatience with my situation knows no bounds. I’m lost without my pen or keyboard for comfort. I can’t write about how it feels to have your voice splinted out of commission; how the pain makes me crazy and evil and wish for dark, poisonous things.
I can’t even tell you silly bits like how much, to my utter surprise, I loved Anchorman; I can’t tell you about Cthulhu the Chihuahua; I can’t tell you about my fears and joys in meeting the gals at The Midwest Fatso Gabster Retreat; I cant tell you how wonderful my Derek has been throughout my little ordeal, though this should be a surprise to no one.
But, I’ll get my hand back, someday, I will. And I get to see Maryland, soon, on the company’s dime. And I have love, if not total health, and great cats and a sweet face…and strength.
Thanks for weathering a moment of weakness with me. I’ll be okay.