Welcome to my one hand blog. For a little while I will not have the use of my right hand, so the blog maybe shorter than usual and more visual until I find other means to produce it. At the moment it is a one handed adventure.

Thursday the 30th of January is hand operation day. I wake up and prepare for the day, shower first then the only thing I am allowed, water! My partner kindly drives me to the hospital where I am booked in and then shown to my room. My lead nurse comes to see me and leaves me to get into hospital gown and those delicious black net hospital pants. She returns to take my vitals and tells me what the day is going to be like and then leaves me to settle in, I’m clearly going to here a while so I read my clinical notes that have been left in the room. My pre operation bloods, mrsa and ECG were all good and normal for me. I hunker down and read Harry Martinson’s Chickweed Wintergreen a poetry collection, having ordered my post operation cheese and pickle sandwich.

At abut half twelve I am visited by the surgeon and the anaesthetist who give me the once over and tell me I will not be in theatre until 3:30pm, so I have a long wait. The surgeon marks me up so everyone knows which bit of me they are working on, which is a good thing!

So I have hours to kill, I continue to read until I inevitably need to write so I dig out a small notebook, which was a present from a friend some time ago, and started to write. Of course I ended up with poem.

431
For a while this is the last I write
with my trusty right hand,
this pen this ink.
I await the surgeons scalpel
to release my curling finger
from its genetic bent
sent by Viking heritage.

I sit and wait in my hospital
underwear and gown,
wrapped in dragons and bamboo,
my legs swathed like a Chines emperor,
reading poetry to pass the time
before the show begins.

No knockout drops or gas and air
but ultrasonic blocking of my nerves.
I'll be awake and a spectator,
my surgeon says we can chat,
I am not sure about that.

Will my undergrad dissection days
stand me in good stead
or will I look away
and vaguely wish I were dead?

That's progress you see,
or is it?
Perhaps it's just cheaper, low cost,
means bigger margins for holidays
and fast cars.
It's plain to see I am a commodity.

So I write to bridge the gap
and cherish my dexterity,
appreciate the feel of writing,
every pressure, measured symbol
as brain tries to capture
what is about to happen to me.

I'm hungry, no food or drink
since before I last slept,
a mini Ramadan,
to make me reflect.

So here I am writing this
as the distant sounds of hospital
murmur in the background,
like a spring coming to the surface
to find a brook to follow
and flow onwards.

They will come for me, theatre time,
my turn to play my part,
the centre piece of artistry.
My chance to shine, be brave,
a model patient, my Olivier 
moment, a Golden Globe at least.

While idling away I read my notes
and found comfort. 
It all looked comfortably familiar
to the ones I'd seen before.
Mr Dependable, Mr Everythingisfine,
except of course its not.
No one mentions the cancer.

Suddenly I am taken by surprise,
someone brings me water,
a measured amount with a straw,
"sip it" she says reading my mind
about the straw being redundant.

So on it goes with hours to wait,
I return to my Swedish collection
of Chickweed Wintergreen
to comfort me.

These are my last hand written lines,
not profound but comforting.
I already miss this feeling,
the pen ,the ink, the stream
meandering from brain to page.

Knock, Knock, its show time,
I am ready for my close up
Mr DeMille..

                                                                          431 30-01-2025
                                                                          Nuffield Hospital Leicester.

Late afternoon I am taken to theatre where my right arm has its nerves blocked and I am wheeled in to theatre where the surgeon and his team set to work while I lay awake staring at the white ceiling only glancing now and then at the small distorted reflection in the theatre lights of the surgeon at work. My arm is an alien limb that I cannot feel or have control over, which the assistant surgeon forgets. When she lifts my arm to remove the operation clutter she let go of it so that I hit myself on the head with the newly applied plaster cast on my arm. A moment of humour and then I am in recovery. I do not stay long before I am back in my room eating my pre ordered sandwich and facing getting dressed.

My partner arrives to take me home but we have to wait for antibiotics, pain killers and a discharge letter. My nurse duly delivers and we leave. I am flagging now and desperately hungry so on the way home I order an Indian takeaway. I am only just home when the meal arrives and I quickly tuck in as I settle down on the recliner to watch TV. There are night meds, the usual, and antibiotics to take before I get to bed. Undressing took a while but I managed, then propped up on pillows endeavoured to sleep.

Friday, I wake in time to dress, everything baggy and pull on, and then let the electrician in to mend the kitchen light. A quick cash job and he is gone so I take my meds and have breakfast. I discovered two things; 1 I cannot open a fresh bottle of orange juice one handed (partner to the rescue), 2 it difficult to get peanut butter out of a jar one handed. Having eaten I start to draft the blog, slowly with one hand, which brings me to lunch time, were I will stop. My hand is now fully thawed out from yesterday and is very sore, but I am resisting pain killers, but I do not think I will last long.