Welcome back! Coffee's always on around here. Pull up your favorite chair and a grab a cup. Enjoy your visit today! And don't forget to stop back by again soon.
I’ve been ignoring something for a long time. Something I just didn’t want to have to admit to myself. But in an effort to live my truth – to CREATE my truth – I must let this out and acknowledge it.
Most people, just looking at me, don’t know there’s anything wrong with my arm. It looks normal – on the outside. On the inside, though, it doesn’t work quite right.
See, I have no feeling from mid biceps all the way down to the palm of my hand. It’s been like that for over 23 years now. Well, not quite as bad in the beginning – it’s gotten worse over the years. At first, it was mostly around my elbow and part of my forearm along with part of my wrist and hand.
What caused this?
A bike riding accident.
I fell off my bike going down a steep hill at a pretty high rate of speed and slid 20-something feet across the pavement. Thankfully I protected my head or I probably wouldn’t have had a face left. But . . . since I *did* protect my head as I fell and slid, I managed to totally screw up my arm.
When I was 14, about 6 months after the accident, I had surgery to repair part of the damaged nerves. The surgery rerouted the major nerve that goes from the shoulder to the hand, called the ulner nerve. It’s the one that makes your arm feel funny when you hit your “funny bone.” It’s not actually the bone you’re hitting that causes the funny sensation – it’s the ulner nerve. And let me tell you, when you DON’T have an ulner nerve there and you hit your elbow, it hurts like freakin’ hell. And I’m not kidding.
Anyway, the sliding across the pavement damaged that nerve along with just about every other nerve in my elbow region. In addition to the nerve damage, I also have tendonitis and bursitis in my elbow. I’m sure by now there’s arthritis too and who knows what else.
Over the years, the non-feeling area has widened and like I said above, it now goes from mid-biceps all the way to into the palm of my hand. Sometimes my fingers go numb too.
I cannot grip things with my right hand very well anymore as result. I drop things constantly or think I’ve picked something up but really haven’t. The sensation is all out of whack and it’s often hard to tell without actually looking to see what I’m doing. I can’t pick up a penny or a nickel or any coin from a table. I have to slide it to the edge of the surface and let it fall into my hand.
Now, as a right-handed person, this is not good. Especially as a right-handed WRITER. And although I am ambidextrous and can write left-handed, I do prefer to write right-handed because, well, it looks slightly nicer.
Yes, I can type – obviously. But do you know how beautiful it is to hold your favorite pen in your hand and write? Write on fine paper? Write and scribble and doodle? Pen lovely words to those you hold dear?
I’ve always been a “writer” type person. Even as a child. Most girls had Barbies and dolls and what-not. I had paper, pens, crayons and all that good stuff. I was always writing. (If I wasn’t out riding my bike, that is!)
I always knew this day would come, the day the doctor told my mom 23 years ago would eventually come. The day when I really couldn’t write well. The day my nice, neat, oft-complimented handwriting would turn into chicken scratch. That holding a pen would be so uncomfortable, I wouldn’t even want to write.
Well, that day is here.
It’s been here for a while now and I just didn’t want to admit it. I kept thinking maybe it was just the pen. Or maybe it was just the paper. But no, it really is my arm.
Earlier this morning, I wrote a note for my sons absence from school yesterday and didn’t even recognize my own writing. It looked like . . . I don’t even know what.
So, this is a very discouraging place for me. As someone who has always taken pride in their writing, to no longer have that is quite upsetting. It’s like losing your best friend or your most prized possession.
A part of me is gone.
And I’m really not quite sure what to do about it. I knew it was going to happen at some point, but I really had hoped it wouldn’t be until I was considerably older.
Until next time -
Be blessed,
