When Your Hands Stop Working
The pain woke me up again.
At first it was my hands. Then my wrists. Then my forearms. Then my elbows, shoulders and neck. By morning I was trying to figure out whether I could brush my teeth, open a bottle, eat a bowl of chili, or even hold my phone long enough to call a doctor.
The problem with losing function is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
It starts with little things.
A bottle that won’t open.
A zipper that takes too long.
A toothbrush that suddenly feels heavy.
A phone call that requires resting your hands afterward.
For most people these things are inconveniences. For a wheelchair user, they are warning signs.
I depend on my arms and hands for almost everything.
I use them to move.
I use them to carry groceries.
I use them to transfer.
I use them to work.
I use them to write.
I use them to advocate.
I use them to survive.
The last month has been brutal.
After being evicted at the end of April, I found myself hauling more and more weight around the city. My wheelchair casters weren’t rolling properly. Every trip required more force than it should have. There were court appearances, housing searches, shelter deadlines, and the endless logistical puzzle that comes with becoming homeless.
Then came a trip to Kelowna General Hospital.
I spent approximately five days there with dehydration and very low magnesium. During that admission I also developed respiratory problems that required additional inhalers.
The breathing is improving.
The exhaustion never really left.
This week there was another incident when I was transported in my wheelchair and was not secured. I spent the trip trying to hold myself in position while being thrown around. Whether that contributed to the current symptoms I don’t know, but it certainly didn’t help.
What I do know is that the pain has become severe enough to wake me from sleep.
I know that my hands are becoming harder to use.
I know that my shoulders hurt.
I know that my back, glutes, tailbone, feet and amputated toe stump all seem determined to remind me that they still exist.
And I know that my brain feels like it is running through mud.
This morning I found myself sitting in a friend’s apartment trying to decide whether I was sick, injured, exhausted, depressed, sleep deprived, magnesium deficient, developing neuropathy, suffering from repetitive strain, or all of the above.
The answer was probably simple.
Call the doctor.
So I did.
I booked an appointment with a walk-in clinic.
I called my family doctor’s office.
I arranged a follow-up appointment.
I updated friends.
I picked up medications.
I tried to make a plan.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that I was also looking at housing listings.
One person offered a room for $500 with limited availability.
Another advertised a room for $800 in the summer and $1,200 for the rest of the year.
A room.
Not an apartment.
Not a suite.
A room.
I was sitting in a beautiful apartment with a pool, fire pits, barbecue areas, and enough space to breathe, trying to understand how a room could cost nearly as much as a home.
The housing crisis is strange that way.
It stops being about housing and starts becoming a measure of how exhausted you are.
Everything becomes arithmetic.
Can I afford it?
Can I physically get there?
Can I carry my belongings?
Can I store my insulin?
Can I get to the bathroom?
Can I survive another month?
By the end of the day I had prescriptions in my pocket, appointments in my calendar, and more questions than answers.
The doctor suspects there may be a nerve-related component to what is happening.
I am not convinced anyone has fully connected the dots yet.
Maybe it is neuropathy.
Maybe it is repetitive strain.
Maybe it is a neck problem.
Maybe it is exhaustion layered on top of injury layered on top of homelessness.
For now, I don’t know.
What I do know is that tonight I am fortunate enough to have a safe place to sleep.
That is more than I had a month ago.
Tomorrow can worry about itself.
Tonight I am putting down the phone, listening to my body, and hoping that sleep accomplishes what determination could not.
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