Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of finger. I had a benign fluid-filled cyst removed from the top of my little finger, so the surgeon actually gave me the use of the finger back.
Unfortuantely, it has caused problems with my typing…as you can see with that first word. Spellcheck can only do so much. So Ive had to make accommodations. See? There’s another one. My Chicago Manual of Style editor friend must be going crazy, if she’s reading this. I can go along just fine, and then, all of a sudden, *eman8uY&&…. You get the idea. I’m adapting a bit by paying attention to when I need a little finger key, and switching to the ring finger. What concentration that takes! The Shifts and Returns are the worst. But if I forget, my little finger hollers a bit, and I back off. I wonder if I’ll get so habituated to this way of typing that I won’t be able to return to normal. Writing my manuscripts could pose a new challenge. But for now, this is the way to go. Which sometimes means using Delete a lot when my little finger, bandaged like a breakfast sausage, descends unbidden to sneak in something strange. Bear with me; it’ll be okay.
This not the only thing going crazy. Playing piano is almost impossible. It’s amazing how often pieces want me to stretch that right little finger up to those lovely high notes that add such color. Well, it ain’t happening now. Now, my piano teacher would point out—accurately too—that I do have a left hand only piece. Two of them, in fact. Because my left hand work is definitely weaker, that would certainly be a plus for my meager skills. However. I don’t like those pieces. Shhh! Don’t tell her! My excuse is that I can’t play the occasional chords for the right hand, because those need the fifth finger to complete the chord. I can hear her say, “Yes, but then don’t play that top note. The idea is to strengthen the left hand, after all.” I have no answer there, so maybe I’ll have to cave in, and do those exercises after all.
Washing up is also a circus. I have two more days before I can get the thing wet, which means no shower right now. So, what does that mean for walking my usual miles in the morning? Okay, the walking is not necessarily strenuous, but I still end up drenched from the effort. And no shower for two days? Well… don’t come visiting just now! I’m also under instruction not to do any heavy work, which is just fine with me. No hoeing or pulling weeds? No problem. But does that also include setting the table or cooking, or even dusting? I’m sure I can pull the directions, like taffy, to cover a myriad of tasks. In the meantime, my left hand is getting all the soap and water. Squeezing out a washcloth is going to give me muscles like The Hulk.
In spite of the trials and tribulations—they’re actually pretty minor—I am ready and willing for one thing that requires a raised pinkie: Tea with the Queen. I’ve let Buckingham Palace know that I am fully certified to partake in an English High Tea with Her Majesty. I would even be willing to remove the bandage, should the invitation come through. By the time it does, the blood should all be dried up.