When I was somewhere around the ages of ten to twelve, my mother looked at my hands one day and noticed that my fingers were crooked. She seemed to find that funny, but I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I got quite upset and started crying that they weren’t. The thought that I could be flawed was too much for me to handle at the time. Of course, I soon came to realize that I was flawed in many ways. It’s the human way after all.
Ever since, when I thought about my fingers at all, I assumed they were a birth defect. I don’t know when I realized that was probably not the best explanation, but it was fairly recent.
It may have been when I was undergoing some physiotherapy within the last few years. Fiddling, or my feeble attempt thereof, had caused quite a few aches and pains in my digits that I was hoping the therapist could help ameliorate. Which she did — to some minor extent, at least.
But when she was evaluating my condition before treatment began, she looked at the crookedness and declared that was the result of arthritis. I replied that if that was the case then I had had arthritis for a long time: since childhood, in fact. She just looked at me and nodded sagely. Okay then.
Was it that that got me to thinking about Mom’s discovery, or had I been pondering it already? I’m not sure. But if Mom had been surprised to discover the crookedness, that might indicate that I wasn’t born with that condition but the curvature developed sometime in childhood.
That’s why I went hunting for this picture that I posted yesterday.
Because of my age and the fact that my hands are quite visible, I thought this might be my best chance of discovering whether I had been born with the condition.
As far as I can tell, I wasn’t because these closeups seem to show that my hands and fingers look pretty normal.
So … I guess my physiotherapist was right. Arthritis did inflict my fingers (along with other parts of my body, no doubt) whilst I was still a child.
I long ago got used to the fact that I am flawed in many ways. Or perhaps one never gets used to it. Perhaps it’s best to say that I grudgingly accept the way that I am and let it go at that. Might as well let it go … because these fingers can’t hold on too tightly anyway.
In part 1 of this special two-part presentation brought to you in AC comfort, even in winter, I was trying to determine whether my crooked index finger was longer than my somewhat straighter ring finger. Frankly, I still don’t know.
When I mentally straighten my finger, I find that it’s a close call, and frankly whether it is or isn’t, finger length is merely one indicator. Some men with longer index fingers will likely get prostate cancer and many with shorter ones, probably won’t.
Given my family history and a prostate that has already had one operation, I’m sure not counting on escaping that fate. The good news is that Dad and his prostate didn’t develop cancer until he was in his eighties, and it’s not as though something or other isn’t going to take me down around then anyway … if something or other hasn’t already got me before then, that is.
So what the heck!