Left Hand

It’s currently 11PM EST in Alexandria, Virginia and I suddenly got the urge or rush to write for the first time in what seems forever—more so to update you all on what’s been going for the past nine months, give or take. Some may know, some may kind of know and some of you all have no damn idea. I’m normally not a proponent of just slamming down my laptop and hammering away but I believe this is justified here. It’s been needed. It’s been wanted. And you all deserve the purest form of Corliss I can physically provide. I’m about to be brutally honest, informing and most importantly a cook. However this will be rather a dishing out than a dishing in. Here we go.

On September 24, 2021 in a freakish accident I fell on a wine glass and tore several tendons and nerves in my left hand. Me and my former girlfriend, who will remain nameless, at the time were drinking wine and enjoying a Friday night whine down. Some way we got physically intimate, fell over her coffee table and onto to the floor where my left hand landed directly on a wine glass. There was blood everywhere! I hadn’t seen so much blood in real life ever!!!! There were screams, phone calls being made to the ambulance and slippages in the copious amounts of fluid. I was immediately rushed to the hospital for stitches as I went in and out of consciousness. I spent the next 4-5 hours in a state of limbo while my hand laid in bandages. I wasn’t able to move my entire hand. I can remember just screaming in a deafening tone over and over that: I LOST MY HAND! MY HAND IS GONE! I CAN’T FEEL MY HAND! For once, my mortality felt palpable; that my existence was a mere drop in the ocean of life. I didn’t even have tears to really cry cause my body was still ravaged by shock. I ended up getting released after spending hours in the ER rambling in this delirious state and got surgery 6 days later by one of the best hand surgeons at Boston Medical. Despite my surgeon continuously telling me that my hand would make a full recovery, I had it in my head that my career and blog would be over. That my life would never look the same again. Afterwards, I spent days in agonizing pain only relieved by the victuals of my partner and a flurry of pain meds. I gave my former partner hell. She was undeserving of that—but I was in pain and borderline psychotic. I spent the majority of my post-op days drowned in self-pity and anger. I took it out on her, and it’s astonishing she didn’t tear my right hand to shreds in response. I’m thankful for having someone loving—albeit dealing with her own worries—around as my family and friends were far away while I recovered in Boston. She surpassed any of her true obligations to help me. I was wrong there, and I’ll have to live with these transgressions mentioned above and below and the damage it caused us. I’ll take the blame for that. Things never were the same after that for me, for us or for my life.

The next several weeks were spent recovering while enduring some of the most agonizing pain. Most nights I’d cry myself to sleep because of the pain or awaken from the nerves firing away. I’m still dealing with insomnia and sleep issues to this day. I never really told friends, family or anyone that. My life, in a sense, felt over. I couldn’t work properly, eat correctly or even cook effectively. I was disabled and so tunneled vision that my future felt utterly bleak in every morbid sense. I actually had a football party during a day of light agony to break up the macabre. That went horribly leading up as I had several mental breakdowns due to the injury and lashed out on every kitchen appliance and verbally on my partner; attendees later told me they noticed the faint hysteria and sadness circulating my apartment. Physical therapy came roaring in as my early days of resuscitation ensued. It was difficult. No one can really explain physical therapy for a torn tendon—or tendons rather—until it happens to them (God forbid!!!). The lack of mobility in my hand was demoralizing; as a result, I felt less like a man. My manhood was taken in an instance from me. Physical therapy had to rebuild my psyche, my spirit and obviously my functionality. My physical therapist, who I’ll leave nameless, really was godsend. He assisted me in so many ways that I’m sure he’s not aware of. He uplifted me when I cried at the clinic everyday for weeks. Going above and beyond his medical obligations he made me see a light that had darkened to almost nothing by the time I entered that facility. Unfortunately the insurance stopped paying for my physical therapy even though my hand was clearly FAR from being fully recovered. But I’m thankful nevertheless for the faculty there to bring my spirit up through the day as it slowly collapsed throughout the nights.

My hand by all means felt like an attachment to my soul that was broken. The broken man. And no one is angrier than a broken man. I missed out on opportunities with friends, seeing family for the holidays or even making a better bond with my ex-lover as my hand tortured me. This hand ravaged me in ways that couldn’t be conjured or imagined on my worst days before. There was nothing as torturous as the walk to recovery taken to even get to this point several months later. I built up so much resentment towards myself and my former partner. It ended up breaking me and finally us as my days of sorrow dissatisfied my taste for love. I wanted to end myself some days. End the pain. This may all come as a shock to most as I hid most of this pain behind my usual charm and candid speech. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me. I hide it so well right? I’m not asking for your pity. I’m always asking for your hunger. I damaged so many good things in my life while fighting my inner demon of purpose which brings me to my final point.

I’m still fighting. I’m fighting myself. I’m fighting others. I’m fighting my reintroduction into ableism—it’s nice for people to help. I still can’t make a fist. I still can’t really point. I still can’t throw up The Rock or make a peace sign with the left. No one tells you the road to forgiveness and recovery is lonely most days. You lose friends, lovers and family along the way as you separate and isolate yourself; yet, here I am typing away vigorously to share some of my more intimate revelations (Typing while still not having much feeling in my ring fingertip by the way). With the help of therapy (and some pro bono physical therapy from my lovely neighbor), support and a tremendous amount of self-introspection, I’ve made many strides to be a better me. A new me: someone with an odd scar on their hand that bears only a reminder of my past. Sometimes I sit in my bed or in my car or at my desk looking at my scar. I ponder the theory of karma and that perhaps this was a prophetic result of my poor decisions, hubris or tears I’ve made others cry. That maybe if I didn’t piss someone off or end things prematurely with lovers of old or hurt a family member my hand would be intact and fully functional. That maybe this was all set in stone to teach me a lesson. What is the lesson? I have no damn clue. Until I’m able to muster some poetic answer, I’ll leave you this to read, and I’ll get back to cooking to allow my hand and soul to heal itself.

I left some photos below for the masochist type. But you’ve been warned. THEY ARE GRAPHIC!