dailynewsnblog
I.
I entered the outpatient surgical clinic at 5 AM three days after I broke both my wrists — my little delicate wrists. I had tripped on a loose sidewalk block just four doors down from my house. My hands were useless during those days as I waited for the swelling to go down enough for the surgery.
My sister-in-law drove me to the clinic before the sun rose that July morning. Two women sat behind the desk in the otherwise empty room. “I’m LuAnne Holder here for my six o’clock surgery with Dr. Keel.”
One woman slid a clip board toward me without looking up. “Sign everywhere there’s a red X.”
Anne pulled it toward her. “It’s just permission forms.”
I lifted my bandaged right arm. “I can’t use my hand.” The woman finally looked up.
“Use the other one.”
“I can’t use it either.” I lifted my left arm.
“A scribble will be OK.”
I tried to pick up the pen she pushed toward me, but I was unable to grasp it. “I can’t even hold the pen. I can’t sign.”
“We have to have your signature.”
Anne tried to guide my hand, her palm over mine, but the mark we made wasn’t a signature. My wrist began to hurt.
“And sign this one, too,” the woman said.
“How many forms are there?” Anne asked, irritation clearly in her voice.
“Just three more.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just let me sign them.”
The lady behind the desk did not respond; she just pursed her lips. Anne grabbed the forms. Our names were very similar. I’m LuAnne Holder. She’s Anne Holder. So, Anne signed for me and we were escorted to the prep room.
Three hours later I left the clinic with two soft casts and two black slings that criss crossed at my neck. My hands were useless and Anne or my husband had to do everything for me for about a week until I gradually started getting some use of them.
I only noticed the blessings my hands carried until they could no longer carry anything at all.
II.
My hands can jive on seated thighs,
they dance on bongo drums
hands scratch my nose
put on sunscreen
shake hands with another
My hands brush tangles from my hair
they scoop out ice cream, pet the cat
open doors, tap out rhythms
mix watercolor paints
They knead some dough
chop red onions, wipe away my tears
cheer good times by clinking
glasses of pinot grigio
They brush my teeth
floss sometimes!
stir big pots of soup
throw a Frisbee, open windows
touch in namaste
But best of all these hands of mine
hug my sweetie in the morning
hug throughout the day
hug him late before I sleep
and drift into our dreams
III.
And to widen the frame, below is a link to a video of Sicilian working hands — carrying their own quiet blessings.
A journey through Sicily, told through the power of hand movements
(2:13 minutes)
Photo by Eugene Chystiakov courtesy of Unsplash
