Chapter 16 - My Hand
The pin came out eight weeks after surgery.
I screamed anyway.
The doctor said:
“You barely felt that.”
“I felt emotionally attacked.”
He laughed.
I was getting sarcastic.
Mom called that progress.
Hand therapy continued another three months.
Putty.
Rubber bands.
Tiny grip exercises.
Picking up coins.
Writing.
Opening jars.
My middle finger remained stiff in mornings.
Dr. Wallace said:
“Likely temporary.”
It was.
By my tenth birthday I had nearly full motion.
No nerve damage.
No lasting functional impairment.
One small scar near the pin site.
That was all physically.
Psychologically, drawers were harder.
I used my left hand to open them.
Never placed fingers inside.
If someone shut one loudly, my heart jumped.
Dr. Chen never forced exposure.
We practiced.
First, open drawer.
Close slowly.
Again.
Then faster.
Then with Mom nearby.
Months.
Eventually a drawer became furniture again.
Food took longer.
I asked permission constantly.
“Can I have yogurt?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have apple?”
“Yes.”
“Cookie?”
“Yes.”
One day Mom snapped:
“Ethan, you do not have to ask for every snack.”
I froze.
She saw immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re mad.”
“At the situation. Not you.”
“How can I tell?”
She sat.
“Good question.”
We made a rule.
If Mom said no because dinner was close, she would say:
“Save room.”
Not:
You’re greedy.
Not:
You’re stealing.
Just save room.
If food was restricted for health or budget, she explained.
Never as punishment.
I stopped hiding granola bars around age eleven.
We found one behind books years later.
Expired.
Mom held it up.
“Ancient artifact.”
May you like
I threw pillow.
Normal.
