My hands

My hands are turning into two disobedient little creatures particularly my left one whose fingers are refusing to straightsn out. But I m more concerned with my right one as this is how I communicate with the world. Not only that but hands do so much ¬†and it’s only when they start to malfunction that you realise what dear friends they have been to you. This morning I attempted to put some eye make up on but as my hands are at the end of even more useless arms this in involves some complicated moves. I stand in front of the fireplace and swing my arms like a mad monkey until they are resting on the mantelpiece. Then I hold the eye pencil and heave my elbows onto it and if I’m lucky I just about avoid poking my eye out and to think how east this used to be.


When you cannot talk you feel very vulnerable .if I am out I worry that someone might speak to me and though I have made a notebook of little phrases to use I am finding it hard to use my hands now so fumbling in a bag would only had to the stress. I have had a few terrifying taxi rides with the driver getting lost and me in the back seat getting hotter and more gripped by panic as we have driven round and round streets as I try not to cry with desperation. On one occasion my son strapped me into a taxi but didn’t free my hands so I felt as if I was being driven off to be sectioned unable to tell him that my poor arms were trapped. Once a taxi driver asked my friend if I knew where I lived and hysterical honking laughter did not put him at ease. “Don’t you know who I am?” I wanted to yell as I wondered if he would help to undo my seat belt at the other end because I can no longer do it myself. I know how toddlers feel and I have to admit to a fit of temper that resulted in me stamping on my husband’s foot when he insisted something was not in my bag when I knew it was.