Ninety Seconds, Maybe Less. One Hand, Maybe More. Seventeen Days, a Lifetime.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally, a specialist. Finally, an answer. Finally, a reassuring remark. And it only took 90 seconds, maybe less. Well, five months and 90 seconds.

But I’m relieved. And in another five weeks (of waiting), there will be a test to confirm and then… well, I don’t know what.

Treatment, physical therapy, who knows.

*

Why is our healthcare system so hit-or-miss? Why are there crazy waits and clueless staffers in one part of the city and competence and kindness in another? Why is one pill affordable if you open your wallet and flash a little plastic card and another is out of reach with or without the use of your hands?

*

Today, I’m delighted. I’m starting the day delighted. I’m hanging on to my sense of delight for as many hours as I can.

I’m delighted to know that a smiling woman in a blue jacket with a “Doctor” before her name knew — immediately — what was happening with my buzzy, aching, stabbing, jabbing, partially numb mystery hand. A leftover from my holiday adventure at the ER.

*

One hand. You can manage with one hand and be grateful; there are people who manage with no hands and are grateful.

*

An old friend calls to chat. I’m in a good mood. I have an answer. I have another wait, but an affirming answer is happy news. Our conversation is very pleasant. And then I ask: “Have I changed in the past few years? Am I more negative, more difficult, more maintenance?”

She laughs. “You sound the same to me,” she says.

“Well that’s not encouraging!” I say, and she laughs again.

“I don’t want to be negative. I want to appreciate where I am, what I have, even through the challenges.”

“You’ve had a lot of hard years,” she says.

“I’ve lost my sense of humor,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We often find what we think is lost.”

I wriggle the fingers on my left hand. They’re hot, hurting, buzzing. But my right is nimble, cooperative, enthusiastic.

*

There is a classic 1946 film, The Best Years of Our Lives, a masterpiece if you ask me. It is an ode to our common humanity, our uncommon insistence on loving each other, our recognition that war is wretched, that coming home is a war of another sort.

Homer is a young sailor who comes home with no hands.

We are struck by his hubris, his humility, his heart.

We fall in love with Homer.

*

The worst of it was the week or so when a fall left me cut, bruised, with a badly sprained right wrist — the right is my dominant hand — furious at myself for not paying attention. My right was completely out of commission, while the left’s jivey gibberish continued to perturb.

Throughout the day I would wrap and unwrap and rewrap the right with the aid of my chin, then tie and tuck the bandage end as best I could with my loopy left fingers. Persistence and patience and humor can manage most tasks. And let’s hear it for elbows, armpits, forearms! Why not try a fork-leaning technique to feed myself? Not my best solution ever, but good for dropping a few pounds.

*

I will not discuss the creative contortions required of other taken-for-granted self-care activities, but I’m appreciative of Chanel and its spritzer, and a fully functional left palm.

Once the Ace bandage came off the right hand for good, I was a new woman.

Even one hand is a marvel.

*

When I return from the specialist’s office, I scan the news. I am captivated by a remarkable story. Physical therapist and yoga instructor Amanda Eller, 35 years old, was rescued from a Hawaiian jungle after 17 days. Seventeen days! A seasoned hiker, she survived through smarts, a bit of luck, and what she referred to as a guiding voice. She survived through an incredible will to hang on, to stay safe, to keep going. She explained her ordeal as “opportunity.”

“I chose life,” she is reported to have said.

Following her release from the hospital, she speaks at a news conference, expressing her sense that those terrible days and nights were purposeful, spiritual, that she is still here not only to love each moment of her own life but to help — help all of us — to live fuller, happier lives. To appreciate our lives.

Seventeen days. Seventeen days and nights in the jungle — injured, badly sunburned, eating insects and plants, taking refuge in wild boar caves, drinking river water. When she was found, many hands helped.

Seventeen days. A lifetime.

*

It’s all so fast! In 90 seconds, maybe less, a skilled physician takes my left hand in hers, pings my elbow, pokes my forearm, palpates my palm, bends my wrist, and squeezes a spot that shoots a jolt of juice right through me. Her fingers know my hand. Her smile suggests that whatever the trouble is — I already forgot the name she gives it — eventually she will shoo it away.

*

With one hand, I was able to write (albeit slowly), hunt and peck on the laptop keyboard (dictating into a device was faster), wash and dress (slowly), feed myself (slowly).

With two hands — these days, one “good” hand and the other still buzzy and aching — I can’t do everything I normally would, but I can do a fair amount. I’m grateful for what I can do. In a few months, with the help of other hands, I hope I can do more.

*

Hands. They are powerful in their capacity. Breathtaking in their subtlety. Extraordinary in their usefulness. They gift us tenderness, pleasure, compassion, pain relief; they offer an early warning system when we are in danger of extremes in temperature, sharp objects, unhealthy substances. They serve as tools, teachers, language, healers.

Hands lace tiny shoes, paint new worlds, make music of sticks and string. Hands fill our bellies, point the way, embrace our loved ones.

Image of Amanda Eller, screen capture, courtesy KHON. Film poster, fair use.

 

 

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