Three days ago, I came home in a pool of tears, terrified I was going to lose my right hand.
I could see a vein pulsating in my wrist. My thumb, index and middle finger were on the verge of numbness. At the slightest twitch of my wrist, a dreadful electric shock ran through my arm.
In a wave of panic, I imagined doctors shaking their heads. They would have to amputate my right hand. I wouldn’t be able to write, type, play keyboard, draw. Literally everything I was half decent at would slip through my fingers.
The more I thought about it, the more I wept. I had never quite wept that openly before. My mom panicked along with me. My dad meekly suggested an ointment for want of something to say.
Today, nothing about my hand has changed.
The numbness isn’t gone. My right hand lies limp on my thigh as I type with my left, backspacing and retyping to get the spellings right. The self-diagnosed carpal tunnel still taunts me.
But I’m not crying anymore.
Because I spent a day with this dog.
This is Chap.
He is a Cocker Spaniel. His mane is handsome as a lion’s. His fur soft as a baby’s blanket. His demeanour, adorable as a puppy! But he doesn’t have the gorgeous big puppy eyes that people fawn over. Instead he has his eyelids stitched together so they don’t get infected.
Chap is a blind dog. He was born blind.
When my friend adopted him as a few weeks-old puppy, he thought his eyes were infected. Eventually, the vets had to clean out the cavities completely and stitch them up so they wouldn’t get infected again.
I’m not writing this so you sympathize with Chap.
I’m writing this because I’m in awe of how Chap goes about his life.
Chap walks around his home with a striking sense of familiarity. The confidence in his gait, the sureness in his paws when he leaps onto the gate and the menacing growl he has in store for strangers will hardly make you sympathise with him.
When he smelled me, he trusted me at once. He propped his shaggy head on my knee as I sat down. I gingerly placed my right hand on his head. He licked my arm, the warmth of his tongue comforting my brittle arm.
To me, it felt like he was pitying me.
Pitying me for the little discomfort in my hand.
And suddenly, everything seemed so ludicrous. My tears, my panicked state, my overstated emotions that trapped all those around me. I was put off by my own desire for attention.
A hand pain. Seriously.
I went to the doctor today; he gave me pills and sent me off. Said it’ll be alright.
It’s going to be a while, though, before I can wave it off as a setback, like Chap has done with his sight.
Isn’t it amusing how life throws so many lessons at us and we almost always turn a blind eye to them?