This week's musing was typed with only one hand. Not because it was easy to do. In fact, I suffered for my art this week.
D. K. Wall:One look at the bloated mass that was once my left hand tells you that I am reduced to using only 40% of my typing fingers.
D. K. Wall:In case you question my mathematical skills, I should explain that my normal, if unorthodox, typing method involves only five fingers, three on the left and two on the right.
D. K. Wall:Laugh all you want, but blame cocky 16 year old me, who like all humans of that age, was sure he knew everything.
D. K. Wall:He just sort of missed the oncoming personal computer onslaught that was going to infect every household and decided that taking a typing class was gonna be a waste of time. That decision always ranks on my list of regrets.
D. K. Wall:Ever resourceful, I developed a unique typing style to hammer out term papers through my collegiate career.
D. K. Wall:To this day, I churn out around 70 words per minute even as I attract odd looks from anyone who has ever witnessed my style.
D. K. Wall:Well, at least I use five fingers when the left hand is functioning, which it is not at the moment.
D. K. Wall:Those three typing fingers are currently engulfed inside a swollen mitt of a hand. Think cantaloupe with the mumps, and you get the general idea.
D. K. Wall:For you medical types, let me explain this in medical terms that you will understand. Imagine a surgical glove blown up like a balloon.
D. K. Wall:Don't tell me you've never done that. I don't know anyone who wears scrubs who hasn't decorated for a party at least once with a box of surgical gloves.
D. K. Wall:You might wonder how my disfigured hand came to pass. First, I know that many of you suspect the dogs.
D. K. Wall:They have, after all, quite the record when it comes to accidents around my house. Mostly me falling over them as they are innocently sprawled in a dark hallway.
D. K. Wall:But to be clear, no canines were involved. Well, they were involved, just not the cause. I was walking them at the time of the incident.
D. K. Wall:Maybe they saw the fiend hiding along the side of the trail, but they never warned me. Not one ounce of concern for my pending injury, just the dogged determination to sniff out every blade of grass and drown them in their offerings.
D. K. Wall:And truth be told, I didn't see my attacker either. Only realized he was there when I felt his dagger sink into my arm.
D. K. Wall:I would like to report that I responded to this sudden flash of pain with dignity. I did not.
D. K. Wall:I performed what witnesses, had there been any, would have called an interpretive dance, leash in hand, Siberian huskies orbiting me like a maypole while I shouted words I will not share here because my mother finds these stories amusing.
D. K. Wall:Since I haven't bothered to tell her about my injury, she is probably quite focused on my tale, so I don't need to give her any more fodder.
D. K. Wall:What, you may ask, did the attacker look like? I confess. I didn't get a good look. But I would guess an inch or so, With wings and a giant stinger. Wasp? Hornet? Yellow jacket? Devil's spawn?
D. K. Wall:Not sure, but they are pretty much the same. To make matters more interesting, I am allergic to all of them.
D. K. Wall:Well, I'm not sure about the Devil's spawn, but the rest for sure. Understand, this is a mild allergy, not writhing on the ground gasping for air allergic. More like imitation puffer fish allergic.
D. K. Wall:Mild or not, it's just more proof that my love for Mother Nature is not reciprocated. She chokes me with pollen in the spring and the dust from fallen leaves in the autumn. Through the summer, she sends her insect hordes to torment me.
D. K. Wall:Now you know why I take so many photos of our bears. They don't scare me as much as the frightful little things in the woods.
D. K. Wall:See, for the rest of you, mosquitoes are a nuisance. Me? I get the double whammy. First, they find me irresistible. Seriously, invite me to your next backyard barbecue, and they will not bother any of your guests as they gorge on my blood.
D. K. Wall:Second, I react to them. Soon, I will be covered in nasty little welts, not cute little bumps like normal people get. Your guest will be fascinated or repulsed. Either way, they'll never forget the barbecue.
D. K. Wall:So imagine my fun with these stinging creatures. Each encounter creates its own adventure, some more exciting than others. For this one, it started with fire.
D. K. Wall:The little troublemaker gouged me halfway between the elbow and the wrist. Within minutes, molten lava flowed through my veins. Smoke curled from my skin. Fingernails burst into flames.
D. K. Wall:True. No one actually witnessed that, but it sure felt like it. And my skin did turn a brilliant red. I could have nabbed a job as a school crossing guard just by raising my arm rather than the little sign.
D. K. Wall:Not that I was interested in moving at all. An excruciating pain clenched my joints, elbow, wrist, fingers. Do you know how many bones you have in your hand?
D. K. Wall:Yeah. I didn't pay much attention in my high school health class either, but I would say all elventy-seven bazillion of them protested the poison.
D. K. Wall:Which brings us to the swelling. Did you enjoy Saturday morning cartoons as much as I did? If so, you remember one of the characters blowing up his hand like a giant fist with a few puffs of air. Yeah. Like that.
D. K. Wall:Soon enough, I was balancing a blue ribbon county fair pumpkin on a bright red stick. So off to Urgent Care.
D. K. Wall:After feeding the dogs their breakfast upon our return from the walk. Priorities must be maintained. I don't want the ASPCA hounding me.
D. K. Wall:Now, here's an interesting fact. A simple test for knowing how bad something is. If you can make the urgent care receptionist grimace, you have made it to the express lane. After showing your insurance documents and providing a credit card, of course.
D. K. Wall:The admitting nurse didn't grimace. She was highly experienced and professional. Though she might have cackled when she predicted a shot was in my future.
D. K. Wall:The doctor poked his head in, nodded, concurred. The nurse was just as gleeful when she returned with doctor's orders.
D. K. Wall:For those who have never experienced this fun, a steroid shot doesn't go into your arm. Oh, no. You get the full drop trou, bend over, this won't hurt a bit routine. Talk about turning the other cheek.
D. K. Wall:Whatever shred of dignity a man might have despite balancing a basketball in his arm doesn't last under those circumstances.
D. K. Wall:Oh, and the steroid shot? The needle goes in and stays in for a few passing hours or seconds. I might be foggy on the exact time before the needle is removed.
D. K. Wall:But the sweet flood of relief does come, eventually. It takes hours for the first signs and days before the swelling subsides, but at least the pain gives up first.
D. K. Wall:Just one wee catch. It's replaced with an itch. A relentless muscle deep itch that can't be scratched.
D. K. Wall:There is no effective solution. I tried a wooden spoon. I tried the corner of a door frame like a bear in a nature documentary. I begged the Siberian huskies to scratch me, to give me just a modicum of relief.
D. K. Wall:I tried staring at my own hand and asking it out loud, perhaps with tears in my eyes, what it wanted from me. It only wanted to torment me.
D. K. Wall:Everything is hard now. Not just typing. I can give you dozens of examples.
D. K. Wall:Consider the prescription bottle. The pills inside treat a swollen hand. The cap is childproof, which is to say swollen hand proof. I'm fairly sure I heard the pharmacist snicker.
D. K. Wall:But let me give you one you can try at home just to get a sense. First, find a beach ball. Blow it up nice and firm.
D. K. Wall:Second, pretend you're hungry. You want a snack. You spy a banana. Healthy. On my doctor's approved list, which rules out most tasty things.
D. K. Wall:Now pick up said banana with one hand. Balance it against the beach ball. Peel it. Go ahead. I dare you.
D. K. Wall:Bonus points if the banana never falls to the floor. In my house, the floor is where the huskies have already filed their claim, so I'm not risking my good hand to retrieve dropped food.
D. K. Wall:Feel free to video your effort and send it to me. I need the laugh.
D. K. Wall:So here I sit in the throes of recovery. The right hand is normal. I can wriggle those fingers. The left hand, however, still has the shape of a rotting pear. Smaller, but still not functional.
D. K. Wall:I need to finish typing this musing. Both working fingers are flying over twice as many keys as they are accustomed to. Typos are rampant.
D. K. Wall:I can only hope you enjoy reading this tale more than I did creating it.