Silicone wrap + wire cube 12 January 2010

Little-no progress Post therapy New Bondage + wire cube 12 January 2010

The therapist had an arsenal of weapons of rehabilitation at her disposal and she deployed them to good effect on my hand. Silicone dressings soothed and softened scars into tiny white lines. Baths of warm wax coated stiff fingers with welcome comfort.  At that cozy stage it was easy to think that the wonderful wax treatment might set a precedent for all therapies. But the wax was always a smooth, comforting cover for the trials yet to come, a sort of warm up for the main event.

I had a suspicion that the therapist’s competitive sporting interests might translate into her professional life, and they did. A slight change in degree of movement in my fingers, although welcome, was never enough. Delight quickly turned to serious determination as the therapist thought of ever more imaginative ways to coax yet another millimeter of movement out of my damaged digits, movement that might at least be measured by machines if not necessarily seen by the naked eye.

Not much improvement Post therapy New bondage device 12 January 2010 My husband bought me another book...not well yet...or soon...

There had been much interest and speculation about a particular event that happened years ago. No one knew for certain what might actually happen, but while some of their American cousins stockpiled fear, bottled water and tins of food in anticipation of cyber Armageddon, the crowds packed onto the banks of the Thames in London risked being in a cheerful mood. It was the eve of the millennium and they were determined to celebrate with most of the rest of the world. Plus, it was only drizzling a bit.  Passing time stuck shoulder to shoulder revelers shared provisions and speculated about whether or not the London Eye had actually begun moving as planned. It had not. In spite of protests by witnesses to the contrary, the giant wheel on the opposite river bank remained motionless on the night.  It was suggested the revelers’ vision, fueled by liquid fun may not have been quite as reliable as usual and the movement they saw came more from the champagne swaying crowd than anything the uninebriated eye might see.

One could see, that unlike the other fingers, the least damaged little finger did display a bit of movement in the end joint. That tiny show of willing brought upon it the therapist’s newest bondage therapy involving a single strip of Velcro.  Again the therapy was simple as it was effective. Place the Velcro around the bent finger and tighten. Wait for the pain to subside. Tighten the strip. Wait for the pain to subside. And so on. When you think you’ve had enough, tighten the strip once more, leave on for twenty minutes and consider the implausibility of having crossed paths with the very wealthy owner of the company that made that practical product. Note the fact that the inventive therapist and the little strip of Velcro from his company while making him even wealthier were making my fingers better. It was a convoluted win all around.

In the drawing the new bondage device, comprised of a strip of Velcro, is barely held onto the smallest finger. The fingers held by the consultant a couple of weeks ago had improved considerably  in the nine months since that drawing was made. The smallest finger in particular could now actively bend to within a few millimeters of the palm. But the others were not so game. The consultant was cautious. He had ordered more therapy. The inventive therapist had done all she could. The consultant had allowed for time. He said he understood what it meant to work with one’s hands. It was now about options and risks. To live with things the way they were or to consider further surgery.

The caption on the drawing says my husband bought me another sketchbook that week. This past week, a few days after the meeting with the consultant and nearly a year since the accident, my husband gave me a third book.