Well Used

by | Aug 11, 2016 | Relationships, Uncategorized, Wheelchair | 4 comments

I often hide my hands now. They stay clasped in my lap when I’m in polite society, though I can’t stop myself from checking for sore spots. They are cracked and deeply lined. The tips sometimes split where the skin meets the nail. I have callouses on the insides of each thumb from pushing myself forward. It’s a quick movement, hold and release, like throwing confetti over and over. I have chafing on my palms from braking myself, the skin well worn from the steady tightening to slow and control my speed in the chair. Most waking hours, I am either touching the metal rim or the wheel itself. My hands are almost always dirty, filthy dirty, despite my attempts to stay clean. When I wash them, the soap turns black and the water runs grey. Foam flecks dot the mirror, distorting my grimace. No amount of scrubbing can fully clear my nails. Sometimes I feel like an animal. With claws. You can track my movements through my prints on the walls. Here’s where I paused to shut the door just below the handle. Here’s where I used the closet to brace myself.

I have amassed a collection of gloves: thick leather for winters, thinner liners for the drier months. Each pair is spent at the end of a season. I think of them as a kind of temporary cushioning, though protection is problematic. I misplace many. I’ve substituted socks and hats and even hot pads in a pinch. Some gloves leave streaks on my face and my clothing, further marking me. All bear holes and wear at the stress points.

“You have the hands of a craftsman,” Leslie says. I measure mine against hers. We have the same long fingers and prominent veins. I sometimes wince when she kisses them, but I know she’s right to reach out with tenderness instead of this harsh judgment that I can’t shake. She brought me a picture of a painting. One huge hand. She pointed out the marks and stains of service. “Let’s call this beauty,” and she held mine.

It is better to think of my hands as honed for use, for this life on wheels. It is gritty. I wear the spray from wet sidewalks in Pioneer Square. It is jarring. I feel rough surfaces through my torn and bleeding thumbs. I am connected, and I am raw.

Today, I want to make a new pact with the world. I am extending my battered hand. Take it. Let’s vow not to shame ourselves for how our lives have shaped our bodies and how our bodies have shaped our lives.

4 Comments

  1. Denise Brownlie
    Denise Brownlie on August 11, 2016 at 3:42 pm

    “I am extending my battered hand”, you write. I take it, Randy. I reach over to clasp your beautiful, battered hand.
    As a person with MS, I join you in the vow “not to shame ourselves for how our lives have shaped our bodies.”
    What an honourable “new pact” to make with the world, as I stumble forward with difficulty, and as your battered hands propel you through your neighbourhood.

    Reply
    • Randy Earle
      Randy Earle on August 22, 2016 at 6:45 am

      Stronger in solidarity. Onward, Denise.

      Reply
  2. Marilyn Raymond
    Marilyn Raymond on August 22, 2016 at 8:10 am

    I love the way you write about love, it makes my heart feel full. Beauty is one of the things that holds me. I’ll try to see the beauty in this body that feels like it is betraying me. Thanks for your words.

    Reply
  3. Judy Millar
    Judy Millar on August 20, 2019 at 3:28 pm

    Gorgeous. Your blogs (and Leslie’s poetry) are invariably balm to the soul, even, or especially, the ragged one.

    Reply

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