Learning to be a Lefty

Estimated reading time: 7 minutes

When your dominant hand fails you, it’s time to call in the back up. And it’s hella awkward.

I’m officially “that” age. You know, the one where you start racking up bodily failures simply due to a lifetime of use. Which is on top of the lingering effects of one-off past injuries, of course.

So yes, I’m at the “everything hurts” stage of life. I’ve dealt with the chronic fucking pain of Frankenleg for over a decade now but that’s a different category than the standard-issue getting-old aches and pains. This is the time of life when you simply sneeze and you throw out your back. Don’t ask me how I know this.

But the latest voice to join into the chorus is my right thumb. Or my carpometacarpal joint to be more precise. That’s the big thumb joint closest to the wrist.

And stick a fork in it, ’cause it’s done.

Big Fish

Obviously this didn’t happen overnight. I’d been noticing stiffness and aching building for a couple of years—ever-so-gradually, of course. I certainly thought “I should have someone look at that” along the way. But there were always other bigger fish to fry.

Until the thumb decided it wanted to be the biggest fish. And it decided the ideal time for that was when I picked up my knitting again in January. I left it behind when we went on the road and hadn’t gotten back to it with life being consumed by other things.

And holy hell, that’s when the giant fish jumped out of the water and into the boat, stared its beady eyes straight into mine and screamed,

Fun with x-rays

So, in spite of the challenges of getting medical care in our small town (it’s really big issue here, by the way), I managed to get in with an orthopedic doc in town.

He did some poking and prodding and made a preliminary diagnosis that, yes the joint is shot and—oh, by the way, welcome to middle age. The x-rays confirmed his diagnosis. Along with the revelation that there’s basically zero cartilage left in the joint.

The most dramatic part was when he was explaining how the joint is “supposed” to work.

“You see how the end of your metacarpal is out here?”

“Mmm hmmmm,” I replied pensively.

“Yeah, that’s supposed to be over here,” he said pointing to an area that was quite far from where the end of the bone actually is right now.

So essentially, arthritis has pushed the end of the bone so far out of alignment, it’s not sliding in the joint like it’s supposed to. Throw in the absence of cartilage and you have all the ingredients for a Constant-Pain Cocktail^TM.

The bonus in the x-ray viewing party was seeing the arthritis blob around my ulnar collateral ligament repair from back in 2014. I knew it would be impressive given the gnarly-ass bump I can see from the outside. But seeing it from the inside? Even more fun.

The conservative approach

I wasn’t quite ready to sign up for surgery on the spot. I mean—call me crazy—but I needed a minute to absorb the info. And to accept I can’t PT (“Physical Therapy”) my way out of this one unlike other injuries.

So we opted for a slower path that got me some relief. That involved an aggressive round of steroids and a splint. And orders to take it easy on my poor thumb. We’d see what that course of action got me and revisit the surgery question when I was ready.

Which gets us to the “learning to be a lefty” stage of this little adventure.

Well, this is awkward

Obviously switching to my non-dominant hand is awkward AF. But I’m getting grudgingly better at it in terms of the motor skills. The largest hurdle is remembering to do everything possible with my left hand.

And after the initial few weeks of constantly wearing a big honkin’ brace, I’m dialed down to an as-needed basis. And I filled out my suite of support devices to include smaller ones for different scenarios. They still provide support and protection but don’t keep my wrist immobile. ‘Cause that’s a suck fest and was a huge source of frustration. And unnecessary.

The biggest benefit right now with the braces, though, is it reminds me to avoid using my right hand. Otherwise I default to it out of habit, especially when I’m in a hurry. And I pay the price later in terms of pain.

Overall, the retraining-myself-to-be-more-of-a-lefty has resulted in only moderate (at best) success so far. I drop and fumble a lot of things. And I find myself using my right hand for quick assists, especially when not wearing a reminder brace.

Temporary status quo

But, the tasks I am maneuvering as a lefty—along with those I’m avoiding altogether—have given me enough relief to manage the pain for now.

Knitting is an absolute no-go. I powered through finishing the giant blanket I was working on for my eldest kiddo’s birthday, then put it all away yet again.

One really big elephant in the room is the problem joint is in my throttle hand. The Adventure Beast is a modern machine and doesn’t need more than a light touch. But there is something about that particular grip motion—as light as it is—that is especially aggravating to the bum thumb. So the fun-factor of riding is down a helluva a lot right now.

And the old beast of a sidecar? Oh hell no, not riding that with its stiff 20th-century throttle. Not happening. That’s a big ole Nopety McNoperson. Just thinking about it makes my hand ache.

But the sneakiest thing that has crept in is I realized I’ve been avoiding using my “real” camera. Gripping it and manipulating the buttons has been one of the tougher things to work around. And I’ve unintentionally backed off from using it.

I’ve been defaulting to my smart phone which I can do more with my left hand. That’s not where I need to be with something that’s crucial to my life and livelihood. No bueno.

Slicing in the New Year

The range of motion in that thumb is deteriorating noticeably in spite of me doing “home PT” exercises. Which means I’ll need to have the surgery soon-ish before the damn thing is unusable at all.

But—you might have noticed—the health care system in the U.S. is a fuck-all shit show to end all shit shows. So I’ll be spending the next few months doing some financial and insurance hoop-jumping to set myself up to ring in the new year by getting sliced and diced.

This was definitely not in the brochure.