Stenciled hands at the Cueva de las Manos in Argentina. Left hands make up over 90% of the artwork, evidently demonstrating the prevalence of right-handedness.
My right arm and my left. The one, always ready. The other, less chosen.
I’m right-handed, as are 93.6% of us, says the Internet. My right hand is stronger and more dextrous, jumping into action first and fastest. A friend, always willing to work.
Too willing. Perhaps I overdid it.
My right shoulder began a complaining conversation a couple of years ago. While gardening, I think — or bushwacking on our back slope.
“Hey, not me this time,” it said. “Give me a break. I hurt.”
I gave it breaks but it got steadily worse, so just before Christmas this year, I let a good doctor take it apart and put it back together again. It’s called a reverse replacement, with two prostheses inserted in place of the shoulder’s ball-and-socket joint, but upside down, with a socket at the top of the humerus, cupping a ball that’s screwed into the scapula. Or something like that.
It’s done, and I’m well past the days right after surgery when my right arm dangled limp and useless at my side, waiting for my body to come up with a new way to tell it what to do. I don’t know what miracle happened in there but it’s beginning to work again. Range of motion: good. Strength exercises will start this week.
Meanwhile, my left hand’s been a hero, along with my husband Jake, who’s been at my side, filling in every day, in every way.
“How much should she pick up?” he asked the doc at the 2-week check-up.
“A cup of coffee.”
And so began my inner dialogue…
“Does this [plate / carton of cream / book / pillow] weigh as much as a cup of coffee?” I ask myself.
“Yeah, probably,” I reply.
“Well then, I’ve got it,” says my right hand.
“How about the [pasta pot / bag of groceries / car door]?”
“Too much!” says my right.
“I can do it!” says the left, as it jumps in. It never knew it could do so much.
The only thing it’s still useless for is writing legibly. My dad was a lefty when he was born, along with 9.6% other left-handed folks. Born back in the 1920s as he was, he was forced to be right-handed in school, because dip pens worked best for right-handers — which accounts for his lifetime of having an illegible scrawl. Eventually, he learned to type and was an early-adopter of computers. Too bad he wasn’t directed toward the sports that work best for left-handers — tennis, fencing, cricket, boxing, and baseball (39% of hitters and 28% of pitchers are lefties, again according to my friendly Internet). But he wasn’t much into sports.
For me, this wrong-handedness is short-lived. I’m getting better by the day. My muscles should be appropriately rearranged in there within a couple more months. But it’s given me great appreciation and sympathy for my left hand and for what other people might go through as body parts give out.
And for that husband, who continues to be on stand-by!
Meanwhile, just so you know: when your pants are down around your ankles? They weigh more than a cup of coffee.
I’m so glad to hear that you’re mending so well!! And for future reference, I’ll remember that pants weigh more than coffee.
Who knew my right hand was my hero? It was, it is. But I never quite appreciated the fact until I read your post. Welcome to the club of no longer all original parts, Meg! Having had bilateral hip replacement, I can relate to everything you said, especially calibrating everything that came my way against the weight of a cup of coffee. Thank you for your ruminative, insightful writing. "My right hand. And my left." Never to be taken for granted again.