This morning, I gripped the soda bottle and couldn’t open the lid. Frustrated, I slammed the bottle down, causing a loud bang. @#$!! I felt like Samson with a buzz cut or Superman wearing Kryponite earrings — my strength is gone from my right hand.
I feel weak.
The hand doctor said this would take a while. I was hoping he was pulling my leg — you know, a ruse to keep me as a patient for a while so he could buy a new villa in France. Nope. He knows what he is talking about. Nearly two months since I mangled my hand, it isn’t better. In fact, I’ve hit a plateau.
My hand’s still swollen. It’s still weak. And I am still impatient.
But I continue to rehabbing it. I’m trying to loosen the overly tight tendons. I’m trying to rebuild my muscles. I’m trying not to be frustrated. I’m trying.
And it’s trying.
It hurts to hold a pen. My lines are erratic and my lettering isn’t that good. There are times it feels sprained. And there are times when a random pain will shoot through it. I pretend that means it is healing.
But I keep after it. It’s just my hand. It could have been worse.
I’ve figured this much out though: It will take the pain of rehab for me to be healed. I generally try to avoid pain. But I know this is one case where I have to chose it.
That choice is an easy one to make.
Sometimes we have to chose pain to heal. I think about that when I workout. Or I do something I don’t want to. Taking the easy route doesn’t always produce easiest outcome. Or the best.
So that’s the update on my mangled hand. I look at it and think, “it’s teaching me a lesson.” Which I think is, “Don’t be such a dang klutz.”