Thursday, 12 January 2017

No right-hand anything

It's only me - please don't get up.

I'm typing this essentially with two fingers.  I normally manage a couple more than that, but my right hand still isn't right and my left hand isn't very useful at the best of times.  (I'm very one-dimensional).

To recap, this was my right hand precisely a month ago today when I was taken into Leeds General Infirmary with what turned out to be cellulitis (which I'd not previously heard of).

And this was the self-same hand around about three minutes ago when I took another picture of it.

Much better, you will note, although it's still fairly swollen and the colour's a bit weird.  (Maybe I'll put a glove on and dig out my Michael Jackson CD).

Getting to this stage has involved an operation, five days on an intravenous drip, two seven-day courses of oral antibiotics and countless hours of elevation interspersed with hand exercises.

I also retain something of a big hole in my hand, tastefully covered by a dressing that I change every other day.  (Such gaping wounds happen when a 6'6" masked surgeon comes at you armed with a scalpel).
I'm kind of hoping that my remaining difficulties relate solely to the local trauma caused by what lies beneath my big plaster, and that normal service will finally resume in the coming days.  But we'll see where we're at by the beginning of next week.

In the meantime, I'm committed to resting it as best I can, more elevation and a ban on "man" handshakes (which made my hand blow up when I was back home for New Year).

And I hope not to have to clear the path for local children to get to school after a tree has been felled in a storm.  I had to yank this baby out of the way yesterday morning, prompting my hand to turn purple as a form of personal protest.

If you see me using my right hand between now and Monday, you have permission to hit me with it.  Thank you in advance.        

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