Today is one of those days when I wake up and have to actually look to see if I have forgotten to remove supportive tape from my fingers.
My once graceful, thin fingers have become clubs of clumsy sausage, straining their casings. The sensation of tightness is so foreign, but so real, as I notice that the sides of the swollen, red sausages are peeling as my body seeks to release the surface tension.
Beyond the appearance is the usability issue, which is ever so frustrating. For the second time in a week, the clumsy clubs have dropped nearly full bottles of meds, sending them spraying over the bathroom floor. Today's hide-and-go-seek game was with some small, white caplets...
Now, it's not so much that I mind rescuing these little guys from their cozy spots, nestled deep behind the seat of the toilet or resting precipitously on the edge of the sink drain. (Of course, I must dust them off and dry them out to save for taking later, as controlled substances are not likely to be refilled ahead of schedule, just because they've visited the potty.) It's the sheer gut-wrenching terror of the very real possibility that I will miss seeing one of the little buggers and one of our bottom-feeder dogs won't.
To have this ailment is one thing; to know that the failings of my hands led to the death of one of the only "babies" I will ever know is quite another.
Hopefully I managed to retrieve every last one, as it's time to craft a final paper for a Com590 Crisis Communications class, all the while praying that crisis doesn't hit home.