Callous Hands and Loss

It has been about seven months since I found the wound on my hip. I never dreamed I would still be dealing with the wound all these months later. I hate wound care and changing my dressing. It is a daily reminder of how fragile the paralyzed human body can be. I am also appalled by all what I have missed. My life since last September has been like a black hole. I missed the Fall harvest. I missed teaching a full academic year. I missed an awesome winter and did not ski once. Seven months is along time. I can now see that my body has changed. I am not better for this experience nor is my body stronger. I know my strength will come back once I am able to sit up all day and resume my regular activities. I am sure I will be kayaking at some point—surely before the end of the summer. This prospect excites me.

Since I can get up more today, a warm sunny Easter Sunday, I went for a walk with my son around my property. Yikes, I have my work cut out for me. My vegetable garden is a mess. Last Fall I did not clear it out. My garden beds around my home are a mess. The deer have had a field day. I have a tree down that I need to cut up with a chain saw and then split up the wood for the wood-burning stove. My head is spinning with all that needs to be done. This does not bother me—I love manual labor. It clears the mind and strengthens the body. It was not until I was inside and my son engrossed on-line that I had a strange sense of loss. I looked at my hands carefully and was stunned to realize my callous hands are smooth. My hands have not been callous free in thirty years. My hands have felt like like shoe leather for decades. I am both proud and embarrassed by this. I tell people with hands like mine no one pushes me around. This is both literal and figurative. My hands are like those of a man who has performed manual labor his entire life. In short, I have ditch digger hands. I am extremely self-conscious about my rough hands. They are rough and hard—an occupational hazard. No way to get around this. A solution does not exist—not that I want or am seeking a solution. Amazingly I am sad to be without my calloused rough hands. I am stunned I miss my callous hands. I have always tried to hide my hands from women. Surely a woman wants a man’s hands to not feel so hard and calloused. How ironic. I was not happy with calloused hands and now I am not happy with callous free hands. For the first time in my life, I want my calloused hands. It was not until today I realized being self-conscious was misplaced. My calloused hands are a symbol of an active life. A life I hope to get back to very soon.