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

Behind the Seams

You wouldn’t know it, but this is an amazing one handed post!

Welcome to the continuing saga of having my hand sliced open. I know, it’s edge of your seat stuff. Pins and needles. I’m going to have to beat readers away with a stick.

Understand: this is a maddeningly slow process getting this post up. And I’m not allowed to twist, pull or stretch my wrist in any way. If I do that I can mess something or other up REALLY BAD under the slice. Which I apparently don’t want to do because it would be REALLY BAD! So I'm typing with my right hand while my left hand watches, feeling a little smug because it has a good excuse for doing nothing.

I got a good look at the slice this morning as they cut off the old cast and put on a new, smaller one. The slice wasn’t as far down on the wrist as I thought it would be. It’s at the base of the hand above the wrist. But it is definitely Frankensteinish, with black thread holding the seam together, which is kind of cool.

Here’s something you don’t hear very often: “The nerve looks pretty good.”

That’s what the doc said to my wife right after the surgery.

She said, “But I thought there was nerve damage.”

The doc paused for a second and said, “Yeah. I’m going to have to write a paper about that.

This guy is really cool. He looks a little nerdy, but don’t be fooled: he knows his business. He glows with competence. But he seems to be one of those people who are so smart they can have a hard time in the world. You know, trying to relate and such. At the same time, he also has an almost childlike sense of wonder and humor about him.

I like him, and I like having a doctor I like.



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

Knives In My Future

Right now, typing this, my hands are falling asleep.

Because of this phenomenon, at the end of the month, I have to get my left hand sliced open, my muscles spliced apart, my nerves moved around, then have it all sewn back together. And a few weeks later, I get to go through it all over again with my other hand.

I will have Frankenstein hands. Which is the only part of the whole thing I have any excitement about.

Here’s the problem with medical problems: Most of the time you don’t really know what to expect. How long will it take to heal? Will I be able to get my work done? Will the doctor secretly implant remote control devices in my body so that I can be manipulated into some evil scheme?

The doctor laughed at me at the consult. He said I had not asked “the question.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Finally, he told me. The question I had not asked was this:

“Will it hurt?”

Never crossed my mind. Until he brought it up.

Health problems force you into troubling questions and situations. You have to take advice, you’re kind of forced into making quick decisions about crazy things. “Yes sir. Please slice open my hands and move things around in there.” Who in their right mind would say such things? And it’s kind of like having a baby. Everyone has an opinion on it. Pros and cons. Dos and don’ts. Which is kind of fun as long as people don’t get all righteous about their opinions.

I have this pair of great friends (the marvelous C&J) who have been trying to help. I have to admit I love being loved. They bought me some cod liver oil, which I think really works to reduce symptoms, and the wife of the pair made special tea out of some scary stuff in a jar (it sort of looks like a placenta from an off world creature to me) that I am now drinking. You have a little of it each day and see what happens. It may be implanting off world creatures within my body, but it tastes kind of like apple cider, so what the hey.

I still have to go under the knife.

And I don’t want to.

But I’m going to.



Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2011