My Right Hand Man

This evening I lay in the near dark of the orangish, inappropriately named “Blue Shade” feature that is to my eyes what I suppose earplugs are to my old rock and roller's tired eardrums- a sensory relief. And after decades of all the mind-bending anti epileptic medication and their insidious side effects my eyes can use all the relief they can get. It's getting to the point where I almost need Sophie to be my seeing-eye dog as well. Unfortunately Sophie's eyes are pretty shot, too. I wonder what would happen if I actually had a seizure anytime soon. She'd have to find my convulsing form by smell rather than sight. Otherwise she'd just go sit and wait next to the nearest unmoving body and wait for it to regain awareness. Well, Sophie needn't have the superior sniffing powers of an airport dog to find me given that I can't recall the date of my most recent shower. For once that sad fact is good, as I'd hate to think my seizure dog might mistake me for a festering hunk of roadkill or worse, some other smelly old guy. Either way, it'd look bad for us both.

As you might conclude by its name, this post is a tribute to my right hand. It's a beautiful form, everything I'd hope my hand would ever be. It's such a strong hand that it can-and must- do the work of two. And I don't mean only the heavy lifting. Hell, my hands, back when I still had both were all about grunt work. Weight room, bicycle handlebars, lawn mower, ski boot buckles, road bike ratchet clips, Velcro, you name it, my hands have always been there for me. In fact, one of my hands-my entire arm, really- sacrificed its entire lifetime of service to my body so that the rest of me might live. That's how dedicated my body parts are to me and hopefully your body parts share the same commitment to you as well.

Laying here at 9:30 p.m., my hand shakily pecking out each letter on this tablet's miniscule display-keyboard I can finally just focus on the sight of my backlit hand. What I see is a work of art; now, as the rest of my body prepares to call it a day my hand is still hard at work, possibly its most difficult sort of task for a visually impaired amputee whose vestibuper shortcomings are the stuff of legends- work requiring fine motor skills.

But it does so without question and without missing a beat. Perhaps more astonishing is that my right hand, in the absence of its opposing counterpart, the yin to its yang, the flip to its flop, the sun to its moon, day to its night, dark to its light, left to its right.

On and on goes my hand, toiling away for there's always something more that needs doing. Opens the fridge door, grabs what it can and totes the ten feet to the sink. Milk, eggs, cheese and, in observance of the season, eggnog. Some mornings that ten feet can feel like ten yards. But it no longer registers as the insurmountable challenge it once was. It's no longer a daunting challenge, tough to do, tough sometimes, or even tough at all; it just is. Level of difficulty is not how my hand quantifies is workload.

Rather, its workload is its life and its life is its workload. It's as if my hand is a separate, helpful being unto itself there, working away, doing whatever needs to be done as always until called upon for active duty. It can scramble eggs, make coffee, give Sophie food, water and treats and more, all on its own.

Only certain tasks still require direct supervision and this only momentarily. Cracking the eggs, slicing this or snipping that, pouring water and lighting the stove for example all require the same momentary but critical glance to assure safety and accuracy in getting everything done while still half asleep.

For all the exposure to da her my hand has it's rare that I injure it. Even the slightest nick throws my already imbalanced system even further off kilter, and to the extent it's possible time off must be taken to heal my hand so that the delicate balance may safely be reset. Trying to resume working too soon and the risk of further injury increases and, with it, the recovery time.

Life with one hand is not for the impatient, that's for sure. Perhaps that's why I indulge in an odd sort of functional dissociation with my hand; looking upon it as a separate entity allows my mind the freedom, if you will, to not micromanage the hand but to let it work unhindered by my watchful eye.

Everyone who's ever walked and chewed gum or brushed their teeth while sitting on the potty, and cut their food with a knife and fork while talking away with others at dinner knows precisely what I mean. They're basic motor skills which I, by necessity have adapted and honed to the point where one hand, not two must crack the egg, peel the banana, open and also pour the milk, and peck out each word you're reading here, letter by letter.

Perhaps most astounding of all is that my hand labors nonstop with nary a moment lost in sorrow or self pity to survivor's guilt. After all, having fatefully been made the surviving hand, it doesn't wonder “Oh God, why me?” in finding itself singlehandedly responsible for now shouldering all the legwork ordinarily handled by two hands (some tongue-in-cheek humer, there (sic)!)

Of course my right hand doesn't grieve the loss of my left, for it is my brain that controls the entire show that is my body, for better or worse as it currently is. My brain, then, is where the grief at the loss of a limb would exist. In this regard, I've had surprisingly little grief at the loss of my arm.

Instead, I've felt loss in terms of the inability to engage in activities that once brought me such joy and that fostered such positive mental well being, like cycling.

But I've also found solace in reminding myself that I lost my arm while doing that one thing I so loved. Having lost the ability to ride as I did might, in some way leave me truly aggrieved, for I might have considered the absence of taking that “one last ride” a terrible injustice given the lifetime of physical and emotional energy cycling has always entailed.

Just as surely as I no longer worry about how I'll do X or Y “with only one hand” I know that the sudden return of my left arm would be not only a miracle of sorts but a terrible inner conflict for me, too.

By now I've long since adapted my thinking to how I'll get things done as I am today, not five or more years ago. As I've told people who've asked me if my left arm were to return tomorrow it would just be in the way.

That's not to say it wouldn't be welcome, I'd simply have to adapt my thinking yet again, this time to accommodate the presence of a left arm again.

This notion is moot, not just for the obvious reasons, but because being able to put closure on the useful lifespan that my left arm so wonderfully gave me was completed upon my decision to amputate the limb. It was a decision I'd made long before the surgery actually occurred, for the pain of lugging around an unusable arm was fearsome. Further, I often used my right arm to hold up my chronically agonizing left arm, effectively leaving me with no useful arms.

The amputation of my left arm was a tremendous relief and it opened the door into my life as I know it now, one which I've made the most of living the best I can. And I'm still building on this model.

One thing's for certain: Just as I sacrificed my left arm for that of the greater good in August, 2012, I am committed to doing everything I bodily can-and must- to preserving my remaining arm.

With each passing day my right arm grows stronger and more agile, taking with it an ever growing reservoir of confidence, patience and perseverance I'd not have guessed myself capable of prior to that date. After all, it's been hours since I began pecking away at this post and, nearing midnight, I'm only now finishing it.

So, perhaps to the world at large, and even to me I am, indeed disabled. But I'd be remiss if, for all practical purposes I didn't consider myself differently abled as well.