Sliced Again

I’m going in next week to be sliced again. This time it will be my right hand. Less of a big deal for playing the guitar, but a bigger deal for everything else because I’m right handed. So I’ve been practicing doing things with my left hand that I normally do with my right.

It’s not fun.

But I’m actually looking forward to getting this done and over with. The carpal tunnel surgery on my left hand has made my hand stronger and more sensitive. With some more time I’ll be playing better than ever, and I’m hoping to get back on the drums sometime in December or January after my right hand is fully healed. It takes a long time.

I’ve found this whole experience kind of challenging because there are things I simply can’t do while I’m healing from the surgery. I have to rely on others to do things, which I’m mostly okay with, but I feel a certain guilt about it all. Like I’m not pulling my weight. To my way of thinking, there’s a very fine line between taking care of yourself and being lazy and selfish. Taking care of yourself is healthy and important to do, but I think it can easily become an excuse to be self centered. I guess I’m not sure about where those lines are. I am often accused of not taking care of myself. I’m probably guilty of that too. And I have no response to the accusation. I’m not sure what to think.

Anyway. If you pray, pray that all goes well. It’s pretty minor surgery, comparatively speaking, but sliced is sliced. They knock you out. They do secret things to you while you’re in La La Land. It’s all rather discombobulating.

Sorry. I just wanted to write down the word discombobulating. I’m not even exactly sure what it means. But it feels right.


Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2011

First Cut Is The Deepest

I have a rendezvous with a knife wielding medical professional in about a week. They’re trying to wake my hands up. Just when they were starting to get some real sleep. You’d think the sight of the knives alone would make my hands jump up and say, "I'm awake, I'm awake!," but my hands are stupid.

The doctor is making me come in this week for an hour or so to rub it in my face before the actual surgery. They want to tell me what time I have to be at the hospital and talk through what to expect and all that. I imagine he’ll pull his knives out from some shiny black leather sheath, sit them on the table to gleam in the grisly doctor lights, and talk to me about his favorite slicer, which he has probably named something like, “Mack” or “Betty.” He’ll pet it for a moment, whispering, “my precious,” and then pack it away with a look of love.

Actually, the guy cutting my hands is popular with sports people. He’s apparently some famous hand surgeon who has done work on lots of hockey players from all over the country. Hockey, as a way of making a living, is tough on the hands and wrists, or so it seems. The doctor’s walls are lined with photos of these athletes, in full dress action poses, all hand signed, thanking him for making their hands better without accidentally slicing them off.

I was thinking, after the surgery, I could provide an action shot of myself sitting at my computer, writing things.

Or not.



Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2011