Surgical strike

When I had my hand operated on two weeks ago, my expectation of being able to go to work the next day turned out to be a complete pipe dream. First off, there was the soft cast that was the size of a tree stump. That effectively made it impossible for me to wear clothes that would be work-suitable, but it also rendered me incapable of using a mouse with my right hand.

Since I’m currently building out the financial models of a business plan in spreadsheets, that kind of put a crimp in things. I did go back to work last Monday, but I had to use my left hand for mousework, which is to say: I spent a crapload of time not getting much done.

I kept finding things that require opposable thumbs and/or flexible wrists. Like turning the key in my car’s ignition, releasing the brake and shifting the manual transmission.

Last Tuesday I saw my orthopedic surgeon for the post-op follow-up, and swapped out the soft cast for the hard one. It was an interesting process:

First of all, the orthopod removed the cast and had me wash my hands. I took the opportunity to get a couple of kludgy left-handed shots of the wounds. This one is the incision where he enucleated the bone and shoved the bunched-up tendon into the resulting cavity. (Everything's still swollen in these shots. I still have to remember to elevate my hand to reduce the swelling. I look like Stonewall Jackson.)

This one shows the main incision, as well as the smaller one halfway up the arm, where he snipped the tendon that got pulled up into the base of my wrist

Cool, huh?

Then the assistant came in and wrapped the hard cast. He asked me what color I’d like; I said, “Give me something that won’t show dirt.” So this is my wrist now:

It’s considerably smaller than the first one. Although I still can’t grip anything between thumb and fingers, I do have greater freedom of movement. I can comb my hair, and brush my teeth, and changing sheets is almost okay. And I can kind of kludge the mouse. So, yay!

But I still can’t get it wet, so I have to wash dishes one-handed, and stick my arm in a plastic bag in the shower. And I’ve been banned from heavy lifting and gardening, which latter is a real pisser. This is about the only time between winter and mosquito season where you can get out and dig in the dirt.

But—worst for me—I still cannot hold a pen or pencil in my hand. I’m a writer; I’ve not gone one single day without putting instrument to paper since I was six years old. Until now. Therapy for me is uncapping an Italian fountain pen and feeling my thoughts flow across the pages of my journal. That’s off the table for another two weeks at least. This is a hard one. (Hoping the IRS can make out the writing on the check I sent them.)

Still—I’m looking forward to being on the other side of this, to being able to use my hand, with opposable thumb and without pain.