I promised a blog post today. It’s not going to be too long or detailed, simply because my hand is still broken and I have to make sure most of my typing time is spent on fiction (or fucking corporate work, depending on the day). Anyway, this post is just to update and say a big THANK YOU to Trevor Curtis and Tony Acree for stepping up with guest posts for me. Helping each other out is the epitome of #risingtide and what we need to do. I know both those guys are busy and I can’t express my appreciation. Anytime either of you want a podium, you need just ask. The Brownies will listen.
The picture above is after initial X-rays and wrapping on 10/19. The Incident, as I call it, happened the night before. I’ve been told I should save this story for when “I’m famous,” and while I’m convinced I’m about as famous as I’m ever going to be, I’m still going to save it. Let’s just say I blame the mead and, obviously, my own dumbassery (thank you Mr. Fenton for that term).
Now, this picture here is after my surgery on 10/24 (many thanks to Dr. Gowda and his staff). It didn’t take just one rod, but two, to put this Humpty Dumpty’s hand back together again. What was supposed to be a 45 minute surgery turned into nearly 2 hours and a nerve block in my arm that lasted almost a full 24 hours. Without being crude (let’s face it, I’m going to be crude), using the toilet became an adventure. I, for one, have obviously taken my right hand for granted these past 25 years. I solemnly swear to quit doing so and use my left hand far more often.
The hand is mending, slowly but surely. Some days are better than others. Here’s a shot of what it looks like now without the splint I have to wear when I’m not typing. There’s a nice incision under the gauze (mostly healed), but what’s really cute is that even putting my hand over my face, that fucking pinkie finger is cockeyed. For the record, it’s not touching my face. I can’t get it to because it has a mind of its own right now and I can’t get it to change. It’s probably a little pissed off at me; it is about a half inch shorter than it used to be. I suppose I’ll be drinking my tea like a snob for the foreseeable future. The good to come of this? I CANNOT SHAVE. Hence, you can see the beard coming back.
The moral of this story is, of course, don’t break your fucking hand.