As it turns out, my whole right hand is pretty much M.I.A. I even hadn’t factored in the voluminous wrap of elasticized wrap on top of that nasty little splint. Having one enormous finger is less “handy” than you might have guessed. When Flopsy and I met, I was mainly focused on the loss of spring gardening, painting and writing. Well, didn’t these simple passions turn out to be the tip of the iceberg.
For the sake of brevity, I shall just mention a few daily jobs I can no longer perform:
Feed myself
Clean myself
Clean the house
It turns out that, as the realtors trumpet, it’s a matter of "Location, location, location" Had Flopsy been spared and her mirror image sister taken the hit, I would hardly have noticed. I mean, who but ambidextrous lefties like Jon and Mom really uses a left hand much? The whole situation feels like a capriciously cruel and unusual punishment for not having been dropped, as they had, on my head as a child.
My own left hand has never been anything more that a a place to park my wedding ring. My trusty right hand now hurts if I try to use the second finger, which I guess is the point. To add insult to injury it also takes up three times the space it used to.
Trying and failing to convey food to my mouth with that hand was the first hint of the gaping holes in my life preparations. Let’s just say that there’ve been lots of laundry. While I did manage to finish a crossword with my left hand, I made the mistake of showing it to Jon. He was unimpressed. An artist friend suggested that I try painting with my left hand. I referred her to Jon.
BTW: Don’t believe those who would assure you that rubber gloves solve anything in these circumstances. I now have a substantial collection of such, none of which will accept the fat finger. Or if they do, trying to remove the glove threatens to take the cursed splint with it. On the other hand, if you’re planning to inseminate a mare, I have a charming red pair which reaches almost to the elbow, bears the inscription “Not just a scrubber!” and features a rhinestone. Just ask.
For the sake of brevity, I shall just mention a few daily jobs I can no longer perform:
Feed myself
Clean myself
Clean the house
It turns out that, as the realtors trumpet, it’s a matter of "Location, location, location" Had Flopsy been spared and her mirror image sister taken the hit, I would hardly have noticed. I mean, who but ambidextrous lefties like Jon and Mom really uses a left hand much? The whole situation feels like a capriciously cruel and unusual punishment for not having been dropped, as they had, on my head as a child.
My own left hand has never been anything more that a a place to park my wedding ring. My trusty right hand now hurts if I try to use the second finger, which I guess is the point. To add insult to injury it also takes up three times the space it used to.
Trying and failing to convey food to my mouth with that hand was the first hint of the gaping holes in my life preparations. Let’s just say that there’ve been lots of laundry. While I did manage to finish a crossword with my left hand, I made the mistake of showing it to Jon. He was unimpressed. An artist friend suggested that I try painting with my left hand. I referred her to Jon.
BTW: Don’t believe those who would assure you that rubber gloves solve anything in these circumstances. I now have a substantial collection of such, none of which will accept the fat finger. Or if they do, trying to remove the glove threatens to take the cursed splint with it. On the other hand, if you’re planning to inseminate a mare, I have a charming red pair which reaches almost to the elbow, bears the inscription “Not just a scrubber!” and features a rhinestone. Just ask.
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