Writing can be dangerous. Especially if you’re a reporter in foreign countries, writing against your government, or a teenager texting anything in a group chat. It can also (cue melodramatic music) blow up your #%@$*& hand! Let me explain.

You haven’t heard from me in a while because I’ve been very busy writing. So busy, in fact, that after an extended and prolific weekend, my right hand expanded to an unnatural size. I seem to be the only person I know who can hurt themselves writing. 

Right now, I am using a microphone to write this, which is super weird. I’m loath to tell you about my issue, because it means I’m gettingold. I’m not ready yet for the ailments list that you give when someone asks how are you doing? Instead of the young person’s response, which is: 

          “I’m great! I’ve been doing yoga! I have tickets to see an awesome band next weekend!” 

Instead, you get this: 

          “Oh, I’ve been okay. It seems I have gout! And my blood pressure is totally abnormal. I also can’t really see out of my left eye, I should probably get that checked out…” 

at which point you don’t meanto tune out but find yourself focusing on a fascinating piece of lint on your friend’s sweater. I’m pretty sure my bodily misfortunes are only interesting to me. But sometimes it’s helpful to discuss with others your various maintenance issues. It’s good to know you’re not alone in falling apart. It can also be like watching a talk show, cathartic in that you think- whoa- they’ve got it way worse than me! They are totally fucked! Whereas I am only partially so! It’s good to remind yourself of these things. What isn’t helpful? The old adage: “the Universe is trying to tell you something.” I would like to respond to said Universe with a shiny, totally working middle digit. I have stuff to do, Universe. Let me get on with it.

I’ve been getting some help from a hand physio, to deal with calcium deposits: the reason my hand went crazy and my thumb basically became a useless chunk. Without going into all the gross details, I had x-rays done, and a minor procedure to eradicate the problem. The doctor said, “it looks like you’ve grown a dog bone… in your hand.” Sure enough, on the ultrasound, there was a smallish lump between my thumb and finger, very bone like. 

You do want to know the gross details, don’t you, why else would this be entertaining? 

I watched as he pushed a needle into this extremely painful area (He said he was sorry about the pain, but I said, no biggie, I’ve had two babies- but basically that was the last time I felt this much pain). He injected cortezone to break up the deposit. Then he stuck another needle in, to suck out as many calcium crystals as he could. This was somehow fun to watch, despite the queasy feeling and pulling sensation from inside my hand. My body is now supposed to reabsorb the broken crystals. It is my hope this happens soon, as I was on a roll with writing. If I’m to hit my goals, I need to keep writing several hours a day. I’m not sure how I can do this with a thumb that doesn’t bend.

Speaking of, have you ever suddenly needed to rely on your less dominant hand? This hand will pay you back for years of neglect. Try opening a can, using a pair of scissors, or, here is a major one, try wiping your ass with the hand you never use! Now instead of shaking hands when meeting someone I just bow instead (right hand useless, left, well… it’s probably clean enough?) Best to just bow.

The physio said because of my writing and jewelry making, this hand is stressed, hence the calcium deposits. She also asked to see how I typed, and then made a disapproving clucking noise after I showed her. I never really learned how to type. But as I pointed out in a previous blog, I blame this on Travis. Travis was a boy who sat in front of me in eighth-grade typing class. I stared at the back of his head and decided I loved him. His ears, specifically. (I’m not sure what the ear fixation was all about) We dated for about a month until a rumor got back to me–Travis told all his friends he was going to “do it to me”. I confronted him in the hallway before typing class. I let him know that we were no longer dating and that he would not have a chance to “do it to me.” I mean, he didn’t even have the sense to say “with me” like I might have a say in it? From then on, I stared at the back of his head, disliking his ears, thinking of the many ways I disliked him. I never paid attention in typing class, not even once. 

Damn that Travis. 

That being said, I must mend my ways, buy a different keyboard, and actually learn to type. Let this be a warning to all of you inadvertently holding your thumbs up. Your hunting and pecking days are over. And Universe? Try telling me to slow down some other way. Something easy, like a pulled butt-cheek or a heinous zit that makes me not leave the house. As Ash would say in the classic Evil Dead 2: “Give me back my hand!”