A Crooked Line by Liz Flaherty

I was relieved, when I fell and hurt my face and my arm and inconvenienced virtually everyone I know, that it was my left wrist that was compromised. I am, after all, right-handed. Actually, I think I'm right-bodied--everything dominant is on my right side. It will be, I thought, a piece of cake to deal with wearing a splint for four weeks. Easy. 

I can be such an idiot.

When I began this, it was with the intent of it being funny, because--for me--it kind of is. I've gone from being so-so clumsy to being so clumsy because the splint and the inability to use my left hand throws off not only my physical balance but all my other balances, too. 

I can't walk in a straight line; I either list in the direction of the splint or overcompensate in the opposite way. Getting into a car, closing the door, and fastening the seatbelt could easily be a how-to reel on ineptitude. 

As in, I don't use my left thumb on the keyboard spacebar--due to learning keyboarding in the olden, golden days of typewriters and the touch system; I use my right one. Always. Except for when I'm wearing a splint that makes my left thumb smack the bar often. Very often. 

Everyone who knows me knows I'm completely unable to eat neatly. I only hold kitchen utensils with my right hand, but since I have a splint, I now throw toast on the floor, spray coffee grounds on the counter, and am unable to cut a sandwich in half. 

I can dress myself, almost, although sleeves are quite a challenge. I've only worn slip-on shoes. When my feet were cold, I wore socks, and Duane had to help me put them on. 

I have taken whining to a whole new level, and I wasn't half-bad at it before. And I've gained a whole new understanding of walking a crooked line. 

And now I'm at the hard part. 

While I have always admired people who overcome physical limitations to succeed and exceed in so many ways and places, that admiration has increased a lot in recent days. It's also made me notice a few things about myself. 

While I offer to help get things down from shelves I can reach and customers on scooters can't, usually they've managed just fine without me. I walk around them in the grocery, stifling a sigh because they've slowed me down. I am righteously annoyed when someone parks in the paint-striped space reserved for getting out of a van in a wheelchair, but when it's raining, I envy handicapped drivers those good spaces. 

Yes, really. 

My wrist will heal. In a few weeks, the splint will come off and I'll be able to open car doors and fasten my own bra. And I'll know enough to never, ever say I know just how you feel to someone whose healing won't be physical, who's made compensate into an amazing way of life, who doesn't need me to get something off a shelf that's over their head because they've figured it out on their own. 

Like I said, my admiration has increased. 

I've written this because I have an old and dear friend who recently underwent an amputation of her leg. She is strong and brave, and I have no doubt that at some point in the future, she'll find the funny in her situation. She'll be part of the lunch bunch sometimes and she will be just as loving and hilarious with one leg as she has always been with two. 

Hugs to you, Deb. Praying for your healing and the faith and humor that have always sustained you. See you soon. - Signed, your friend the idiot, Liz. 

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.