Hands

I take my hands for granted most days. They do my work (writing, sorting out Olivia, cooking, cleaning, gesturing, even talking online), they're just there.

Until there's pain and you start to notice them fully.

I have a blister on my middle finger, left hand. There's a scrape on the thumb of that hand thanks to choke-manipulation on the Landy. The latter caused me a restless night this weekend every time I turned in the bed and brushed it against something. The former has turned into a real pain in the .. well.. finger. Doing anything with my left hand seems to involve that particular spot!

But there's more too.

I have an unexplained ache in my hands - deep down beneath the surface it feels like the skin is cracked, dried out, tearing apart. My hands are still soft and supple on the outside, but inside they feel old and worn. A hint of the kind of heat you get when you are very cold and warm them up suddenly. Sore-hot. There's no real reason for it, they just are.

My gran had terrible arthritis before she died. She could no longer do the crochet work she loved, nor much of anything. My mom dealt with a reaction to chemotherapy that had her hands split open, her nails fall off. When you can't use the parts you have taken for granted for years, you end up frustrated and upset.

Mine are really not that bad.. but today I notice them. Today I realize that if I were to lose the use of my hands I'd have it tough. I like my long fingers, my good-looking nails, the strength and suppleness from a lifetime of piano playing, the dexterity that enables them to get into tight spots, the sensitivity that can feel the lightest touch. I can't imagine losing that.

Perhaps today I simply need to be grateful that I can still feel it hurt when I move, that I can still move.