What the right hand isn’t doing

In which our Hero is so delighted that as he travels up and down he’s back to a case of the bends

One of the things I’ve noticed about approaching the Middle Ages, Gentle Reader, is that my perspective on injuries has changed. Where before they were either interesting or else a momentary inconvenience to be shrugged off (or limped through) at the earliest capability, now I husband my energy a little more. I rest so I can heal. And I reflect on the fact that maybe this sore knee now is going to become an old friend when the jokes about my old age stop being ironic.

Over the weekend, I slowly discovered I was becoming left handed. Which sounds like a pretty big neurological issue, but in my case was driven by the slow loss of range of motion in my right elbow. And suddenly I’d sit down with my cereal and the spoon would stop about an inch from my mouth and my elbow saying “I don’t think so” in a sudden low level pain.

“I know what you’re thinking, ” the elbow was saying to me in it’s best Clint Eastwood. “Is this as bad as it gets, or will bending that little bit more bring down a whole world of hurt? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is your elbow, the only one you’ve got and screwing up a nerve would make you suffer the rest of your life, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

And I didn’t. Because my elbow was lying and as I bent it more, it hurt more, and while I think I’d have been able to bear it, it also seemed like a hint about how my body would prefer to be for a little while. Which meant eating left handed and showering left handed, and sitting awkwardly in church after discovering that most of the signs and motions are right-handed.

Shaving left handed was surprisingly easy. Stropping on my right forearm felt a little weird, but otherwise I got to about as good a result as with my right hand.

Eating was the big casualty. Apparently I stuff my face, Nocturne was teasing me about it one night. But for about 36 hours, it was a constant bit of taunting myself with the little treats that I would normally just pop into my mouth.

Chocolate… so… close… maybe… if i throw it in my mouth from here… Missed.

It was a long weekend. Recovery came swiftly by Monday, my bruising cycle makes 2 days pretty standard. I just wish I knew what I had hit.