While rounding the stairwell, headed upstairs, I slammed my right hand on the sharp corner of the wooden stair rail two months ago. It rang through the house like Quasimodo's signal from the bell tower. Instantly, I hunkered in pain, yelled "I think I broke my hand," then sat on a step and giggled endlessly when my daughter ran up to my rescue.
It still hurts, hinders me. I have had to rework my fingering while playing piano. I drop things more frequently. It feels like a fifty pound weight prohibits any lifting and movement of my pinky finger. And I discovered this week I have no feeling atop that hand.
Given the circumstances, I consider it a blessing that I write with my left hand...
