Classic Content: The Broken Hand

I didn’t think you wanted to see my swollen wrist, so I used this instead. Illustration via Pixabay/geralt

A little over 10 years ago, I broke my hand while playing music. (No, really.) Last week, I slipped on icy steps, fell and ended up with bruised ribs and a badly sprained wrist. I’m essentially reliving the account I wrote about the broken hand, presented here in its original form. Wish me luck in healing, please!

* * *

I fell off a stage while playing music last weekend. I saw it happening in slow motion, in fact, like an action sequence in a low-budget 1970s TV cop show. One minute I’m playing bass and singing about hippies, and the next, I’m in freefall.

As I hurtled forward, forced to embrace the inevitability of my fate, my immediate instinct was the obvious one: Protect my bass guitar.

That’s sort of how I ended up with a broken right hand, what feels like a mildly hyper-extended right hip socket (just a guess), and multiple bruises of all sizes, shapes and colors. It is also how I ended up with a brand-new appreciation for being a relatively healthy guy. Why? Because I can’t write now. Tying my shoes is suddenly a major challenge (first time I can remember ever having a shoelace in my mouth). And I curse myself for getting the big 15-pound bag of dog food.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I would give my right arm to have my right hand back.

But the constant pain is truly alarming. I’ve never been hit by a car before, but based on how it felt upon impact and how it continues to feel, I would guess my experience was maybe similar to being struck in the right side by a car moving about 15 mph or so. In my case, however, the car was made of solid concrete and was roughly the same size and shape as planet Earth.

But what I keep coming back to in my mind (if not in my purple right thumb) is that so many people live with this kind of pain and limitation every day. Some experience much, much worse. People have accidents that disable them for life. Some are simply born with a disability. And those of us who walk around with relatively healthy bodies and minds take that privilege for granted.

According to the latest U.S. Census (2010), approximately 56.7 million people in the U.S. had some kind of disability. This accounted for 18.7 percent of the 303.9 million people surveyed that year.

That’s nearly one-fifth of the freaking population.

Meanwhile, I’m here in Louisville, Ky., trying to figure out why, when you stop squeezing, the damn toothpaste sucks back inside the tube before can get your toothbrush under it. You need two hands for this, people – two hands. Maddening.

Here’s another example: On day one after my fall, while struggling in the bathroom to remove my pants, two coins fell from my pocket. It took me maybe two seconds to decide to just leave them there because it hurt my hip and leg too much to try and bend over. They’re still there; I figure I’ll pick them up in June. So, if you want to score an easy 26 cents, just ask to use my bathroom. The money will be waiting for you.

On day three, I saw a hand specialist whose last name I can’t seem to spell when I’m typing left-handed, so I’ll leave it out. He told me that several times a day I should remove my broken hand from the splint and practice making a fist, to help strengthen my hand and protect it from stiffening up. I figured, hey, I’ve also been meaning to catch up on my screaming practice, so this will serve dual purposes.

I tell the doc I’m a writer. If I can make a fist, I can type, right?

“No,” he says emphatically, telling me to keep the hand wrapped and splinted during any other activity. “The exercises are to protect your hand. The splint is to protect your hand from you.”

Then I ask him if I should also avoid high-fiving people.

“Turn it around and high five with the back,” he says without a pause. I laugh, and he says, “I’m a hand specialist; I’ve heard all these questions before.”

On this same day, I begin craving sushi. It is my comfort food, so I decide to cheer myself up and distract myself from my pain and temporary disability with dinner. And then I remember yet another activity I take for granted with my normally healthy right hand: using chopsticks.

At dinner, I start fumbling left-handed with my twin, green plastic sticks and immediately look like a complete idiot. Sushi is expensive, so trying to eat it left-handed puts the old five-second rule into effect – as the 15- to 20-second rule. I was dropping rice and fish everywhere, and I was not ashamed to fetch it off the table and eat it. I’m sure the other people at the restaurant thought I was a complete noob.

Before long, the sushi chef presents me with a pair of rubber-band-guided kids’ beginner chopsticks to use. It goes a little better. A bit later, she hands me a fork. Yes, I admit it: I ate sushi with a fork that day. I really had no choice. I could get my left hand to manipulate the chopsticks just fine at one moment, and then the next I would look like I’d never even seen chopsticks before, let alone used them.

How can this be? It’s the same dynamic, just as a mirror opposite. But nope. Let me tell you, re-learning what seems like a simple, basic skill is no walk in the park. It is downright frustrating. In fact, it is humbling. And I will note that, as I type this left-handed, my hand and wrist grow tired, even numb. I have to stop soon to rest, which says a lot considering this is what I do for a living.

I still have weeks of healing ahead of me. It will be painful and frustrating, but every day I will fight to get a little better. And every day, I am going to remind myself to appreciate all the parts of my body that do work properly – and to appreciate that at least my injuries will heal – my “disability” is temporary. Because, for all too many people, the 26 cents on their bathroom floors are there forever.

Limping a few steps in their shoes will make me revere those people more than ever before.

Kevin Gibson

Writer/author based in Louisville, Ky.

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