We had what was, I suppose, our last visit with the surgeon this week.
I suppose it was as it seems he does not "release" people.
You can come talk to me whenever you like, he said as he slipped quietly from being the surgeon who saved the use of my hand and wrist to that subtly arrogant doctor who is better with patients who are asleep.
I cannot feel my hand, I explained, hoping for some information about how long it might take to come back.
Yes you can, here, see? I'm touching your hand, you can feel this.
I'm not sure why we'd go back.
K has a ganglion which could be aspirated or operated or just watched. He's going to just watch.
We went to the Guggenheim afterwards. I forgot that the building makes me dizzy. I cannot look at art whilst standing on a hill, heading downward.
We went to a friend's butcher shop after that. We bought delicious things.
But the day had been shaded, for me.
I'm tired of being a patient but everyone agrees that I must do exercises to strengthen my hand.
I can't open jars or write much.
So, I will. I shall.
Tuesday will be one year. One year that moved so slowly I thought I'd never see the anniversary of it. One year so fraught with appointments and complications and PT that it became a way of life.
Now I have my old life back, slightly damaged.
I have been determined not to let this event "make me old." But I minced around the ice all winter and I clutch my hand to my chest in a crowd. I am afraid of things. I won't wear shoes that aren't flat.
I look sorrowfully at injured people. My story is no longer a recent event.
And, as much as I try not to let it be true, I think I have become old.