“I just lost a few
fingers,” I replied. “I’m not sure that what I have to say
about that would mean much to people who have lost whole limbs.”
“An amputation is an
amputation,” he said. “Your experience gives you something to
contribute.”
I would have agreed to
attend one of his meetings and share my story, but he holds his
meetings on Sunday. Unfortunately, Sunday is one of the days on
which I work a twelve hour shift. My finances are tight, and I
cannot afford to miss working those hours. If my story can help
someone, however, I think I should share it. I do not know how many
amputees visit this sight or will visit this sight, but telling my
story here is the best I can do for the time being.
I had taken a temporary
job at a machine shop. I placed a piece of metal in the punch press.
Below the deck of the press were two buttons, one on each side of
me. I pressed those buttons simultaneously to trip the part of the
press that slams down on the metal to shape into the part being made.
The press then rose to the top and stopped. I reached in, removed
the part, placed another piece of metal into the machine, and pressed
the buttons again. I built up a rhythm as I repeated this process
over and over again. My focus was on removing the completed part and
placing the piece of metal into the proper position before pressing
the buttons. Unfortunately for me the press double tripped. The
part of the press that slams down on the metal did not stop at the
top; instead it only paused there before slamming down again. It
came down on my hand as a reached in to remove the completed part. I
subsequently learned that this was a common accident. Punch presses
at that time did not have the safety devices that pulled the hands of
the operator out of the way. My fingers were not cut off they were
crushed off.
According to witnesses
I let out a very loud and rather impressive stream of profanity.
Some people have told me that I then became almost eerily calm. I
picked up a nearby rag and wrapped my injured hand with it. Some
instinct told me it was better to avoid the trauma of looking at my
mangled hand.
“Will someone please
take me to the hospital?” I asked.
As long as there were
people near me I was putting up a brave front. I even made a lame
attempt to joke with one of the nurses. What happened after the
first injection of pain killer is somewhat of a blur. I vaguely
remember asking how many fingers I lost. I was told it was two and
part of my thumb. I was also told that my ring finger was split open
vertically and that the top joint of that finger was crushed. I
cannot recall when they operated on my hand, or the recovery room, or
being taken to the room where I would spend the next two days. My
girlfriend and her brother told me I was really out of it when they
visited me but that I was still putting up the brave front. What I
really remember is waking up when the lights were dim and no one was
near me. That is when I mourned my loss. Actually it went beyond
mourning and degenerated into self-pity. Sometime during the next
day that changed, and I said to my self: “Okay Steve, you’ve
thought about all the things you can’t do. Now it is time to think
about all the things you can do.” I cannot tell you everything was
okay from that point on, but the part of my recovery I could control,
the mental part, was well underway.
I was more than ready
to leave the hospital when they released me. My right arm was in a
sling and my right hand was so heavily bandaged that it resembled a
volleyball. This meant I was going to have to find a way to do what
I wanted to do using only my left hand. Doing that was made more
difficult by the fact that I am right handed. Rich, who later become
my brother in law, said he was going to offer to tie my shoes for me
but decided not to ask when he saw me manipulating the shoe strings
with my left hand. Somehow I managed to tie my shoes with one hand.
I had him stop at a shoe store on the way home. There I bought a
pair of loafers that did not require shoe laces. Just because you
can do something does not mean you want to do it. Tying my shoes
with one hand was a lot of work.
The next few weeks were
a real education. Some of the things I thought would be difficult
turned out to be fairly easy, whereas some of the things I thought
would be easy turned out to be difficult. Putting on my pants was
not that difficult. The key was to use my bed and lie down on my
back in order to fasten my pants and my belt. Urinating was another
matter. Under shorts definitely favor right-handed people. The
material is folded over the opening in the front to make it easy for
you reach into your shorts with your right hand. Reaching into your
shorts with your left hand requires a contortion that is not easy to
accomplish. Loose fitting boxer shorts made it a little easier. I
also found myself taking preemptive pees. It is much more difficult
to reach into your shorts when you are dancing. Does anyone make
left handed under shorts?
When the bandage on my
hand was changed my fingers were still covered rendering the fingers
I still had useless. My thumb, however, was exposed. My thumb was
still badly swollen and discolored. There were also ugly black
stitches in what was now the end of my thumb. The important thing
was that the thumb was somewhat functional, and this gave me another
tool to use. I asked Jeri, who would eventually become my wife, out
to dinner. She watched as I placed a fork between my swollen thumb
and the bandages. I tried to spear the meat on my plate and cut it
with the knife in my left hand. The fork slipped out of my grasp and
fell on the floor. She asked the waiter for another fork. It also
slipped out of my grasp and fell on the floor. She asked the waiter
for three forks, two of which slipped out of my grasp and fell on the
floor. But I eventually succeeded. Jeri could have cut the meat for
me, but what she did was really better. I was embarrassed about
dropping all of those forks on the floor, but she showed no
embarrassment at all. She was more than willing to ask for as many
forks as it took. That was all the encouragement I needed.
By the time the
bandages were removed and I could use my ring finger and my little
finger I was thinking about what I had rather than what I lost. My
right hand was not what it had been, but it was functional. I had
two hands again. I could write with my right hand again!
I have to do some
things differently than I used to, but I am still able to find ways
to do what I want to do. I have also discovered that doing what I am
capable of doing makes it easy for the people around me to ignore the
amputation and see the whole person that I am. What I want is
acceptance rather than pity. Like anyone else, I want people to
recognize my accomplishments and tolerate my limitations. All people
have their limitations. Successful people work around their
limitations to become as productive as possible. This is true of
people who have not suffered an amputation as well as people who have
suffered an amputation. The greatest change for me is that I do not
take as many things for granted as I once did, and I am more
methodical in the way I approach tasks that are difficult for me.
First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Nov 22, 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment