Surgical Aftermath

I had surgery on my hand the other day. It was the second time for the same surgery on the same hand in the past five years. I’ve been told (twice now) that there’s no guarantee of success and that recurrence is not uncommon (I like the double negative assurance). Again this time, the surgery went without complication. I went through the procedure like a widget through a factory, a widget that’s gone through the same processing before, a mulligan as it were. I knew the routine and was appropriately stoic in the early morning prep, the interminable wait with nothing to do but watch CNN and check my email, and finally the march to the operating theater (they actually call it that, as if our performances will all be reviewed the next morning in the New York Times). I was of course out for the next two hours of the operation itself. I awoke vaguely over an hour or so in post-op, being asked about pain (“I’ll take some more drugs, thank you very much”) and generally what planet I thought I was on (“Uh . . . the round one?”) before being taken to final recovery where I was given a snack bar and water and pain pills (“thank you very much”). After a brief bout of nausea while trying to get dressed (with my wife’s necessary help), I finally was discharged into the snow and frigid temperatures of an Iowa January.

When confronted by others who can’t miss the prominent bloody bandage on my right hand, the first question is always, “What happened to you?” The first day or two I’d answer truthfully, “right little finger fasciectomy.” But after puzzled expressions, I changed my response to the more intrepid, “Bar fight.” The next question is inevitably, “Is it painful?” And the simple answer is, no, I haven’t had much pain at all since I left the hospital, I didn’t fill the prescription for pain meds the surgeon gave me because I don’t need them, I have an apparently high threshold of pain, and the real question you should be asking is, “Is it maddening to have limited use of your right hand?” Yes, it sure as fuck is. My right hand is my dominant hand and unless you’ve lost most use of your dominant hand you don’t realize that your life morphs into some bizarro universe where your right hand is useless and you have to rely on your left hand to do an amazing number of things that you’ve never thought twice about before – taking a shower (particularly shampooing), brushing your teeth, wiping your butt, making coffee, putting on your socks, tying your shoes, buttoning your shirt (or pulling it over the bandaged hand), getting dressed generally – it goes on, added to surprisingly as each day progresses, actions you have taken for granted that suddenly become frustrating, painful, strenuous, or comical. The presumption going in is pain. The reality is bother.