Hands in Gauntlets

AWW: 6/22/11
nonsubject ~ conspiracy
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Conspiracy.

I am my own worst enemy. Or am I?

I don't put much weight in conspiracies. I know they exist. But what difference does it make in the end?

Why would anyone want to live their days conspiring, sneaking around... with the purpose I guess to reach some sort of twisted goal?

I have no idea what I can write about tonight. I am depressed; that I know.
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I sat at work looking at the bins of art not yet filed, knowing I am behind on orders, on entering new artists into the system, on updating and tallying the payment records. Knowing that my swollen hands, feet, and legs inhibit my work, my play, even my sleep.

I wish it would all go away - this pain, this swelling, this disability.

I've thought of my dad, almost thirteen years living as a quadriplegic.

The docs called him an odd quad because he could use his arms bending his elbows, shrugging his shoulders, moving his wrists. Medically he wasn't supposed to be able to use his arms because his spinal cord sever was at the C-4 location.

His hands didn't work at all. He wore a couple different kinds of gauntlet gloves, that is fingerless gloves, to help his hands function for different activities.

He had hand-helper "tools" too. One tool served like a pocket in his palm. It was positioned around his hand held in place with Velcro securing a plastic "pocket" in his right palm. The pocket, large enough for yet tight enough to secure a utensil handle, opened at an angle facing between his thumb and forefinger. We, the people with hands that functioned, would slide the handle end of a eating utensil into place in the palm pocket with the non-handle end of the utensil - the spoon scoop or fork tongues - facing upwards and exiting between his thumb and index finger. He could then move his arm, with his thumb facing his body, to cause the utensil to shovel food so he could lift the utensil to his mouth and feed himself.

I've been wearing gauntlet gloves now for weeks. A different kind than Dad wore; my hands still work, but they are limited. They ache. I can't straighten my fingers. I can't make a fist. I need help opening bottles and such. My fingers are swollen, palms tender, and wrists are weak. The gauntlets help support my hands and wrists.

I mentioned to the occupational therapist the other day that my hands remind me of how my father's hands used to work, or rather not work. I told her that I've had to tell myself that my hands can function. I see Daddy in my hands and I've wondered if I am using my hands a certain way because I watched Dad for over a decade use his hands that way. I've wondered if it is becoming a habit for me. I don't want that.

But if I can't grip well or make a fist...well, I can't.

In addition to my gauntlet gloves, I'm also garbed in toe-to-thigh compression socks and I use knee sleeves for knee support. My knees tend to act like my fingers, in that I can't straighten them. Mornings, or when I've been still for awhile, are the worst times for my legs. I shuffle in the mornings after I get up, holding onto furniture to balance myself as I painfully make my way across the bedroom to the bathroom. I refuse to use the walker. I refuse to accept that this disability is a permanent state.

As I move through the morning, my legs strengthen.

It all started in mid-April, after I'd been taking oral Lamisil, a prescription drug for toenail fungus. I was only on the drug for about five weeks. I've now been off of it for around eleven weeks. I stopped when I finally observed that my foot, ankle, knee, hand, and wrist pain and weakness had set in during the weeks after starting the medication.

My husband spoke with some lawyers about it earlier this week. They're doing a bit of investigation.
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Conspiracies make the mind and body and emotions tired. I think us adult humans could learn a lot from animals and little children. They don't conspire. They do look to have their needs met, often times with an innate awareness of the importance of interdependence. And sometimes they look to meet those needs out of pure, raw survival; but seldom, if ever, is there a conspiracy.
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