The Light at the Beginning of the Tunnel
I was supposed to wake up this morning in a hospital bed and my right arm in a sling. Instead, I rose two handed to birdsong and a vibrant, violet-orange sunrise over the mulberry tree. A pre-admission COVID check was enough to convince my surgeon that the tail end of a cold was worth delaying my arthroscopy another two weeks.
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to feel good about this. There's something about my right arm that makes it my favourite of all my limbs. I think that's because it holds the pen, holds the mouse, taps the screen. I'd say I do about 90% of my communication through writing. Going without my arm, just for a couple of weeks, makes me think of having duct tape over my mouth rather than missing an opposable thumb to crack a tray of ice into a blender, steer a car, or reach above my head in a yoga pose to open my hips. I can live with two arms for a little while longer.
Potential frustration also fermented into philosophy. What if this delay was fate. What if I don't really need this surgery. After all, my shoulder only hurts when it's away from my body, pushing something, or trying to hit threes in community centre basketball courts. Can I live without those things? Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it doesn't hurt that much. I can't tell if I'm in denial about my injury, or in denial about being in denial.
Either way, I wasted a lot of time cleaning the house last week.