I was mistaken. The physiotherapy I previously went for, was really occupational therapy. Now that the hand doctor referred me for physiotherapy, I noted the difference.
At occupational therapy, my hand and fingers were massaged. I was asked to do the Tendon Gliding Exercise, push my fingers into a lump of theraputty and stretch same fingers on a silicone net. It helped loosen the whatchamacallit inside my hands.
Meanwhile, at physiotherapy, which is a separate clinic, a different therapist guided me to do more Tendon Gliding Exercises. The hand doctor's final diagnosis is that I do not have arthritic fingers. Instead, I had multiple trigger fingers and TFCC Degeneration. Big word, eh? Basically, it meant that something is wrong with my wrist due to the age factor. So I was given the ultrasound treatment on the affected area which should reduce the swelling inside.
I was all ready for some serious Depression except that other patients I met during the two weekly therapies plus fortuitous events became a hindrance. In comparing myself with others less fortunate, I find my circumstances not quite as disconcerting, justifying therefore as it did, the good cheer I mustered on most mornings.
Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger was a pudgy faced man in his forties. His alert eyes beamed from a fair complexioned face at the other waiting patients sitting at the clinic. One could tell that the man was in the mood to talk.
"How did you get those burns on both your hands?" asked the lady sitting between us.
Holding out his hands importantly, Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger looked at them thoughtfully, for good measure. The hands and fingers were covered with burnt marks, fiery pink skin were exposed and pus oozed from certain quarters. He was not a pretty sight.
"I was bitten by a spider," replied Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger.
Here's the long and short of his story. He joined a group of photographers on a photography trip to the hills. He saw an itty-bitty spider and whipped out his macro lens. He got too close. The itty-bitty spider sank its itty-bitty fangs into some part of him. What followed was two weeks of intensive care at the hospital followed by months of pain and agony. He had more claim to Depression compared to me.
Mrs Big-Hand was a sorrier sight. Her left hand is twice the size of the right. It was swollen, bluish green and had been this way for the past nine months since she fell from a stool. Recently, her husband suffered a stroke, became irritable and started picking on her. Her children neglected them and blamed them for their circumstances and the subsequent inconvenience caused to the family. What a blinking blight to be in.
It was a most opportune moment when Serena invited me to join an 8 course calligraphy class which virtually took the blues out of my blues. ~~~ I have been painting up a storm of peonies ever since.
At occupational therapy, my hand and fingers were massaged. I was asked to do the Tendon Gliding Exercise, push my fingers into a lump of theraputty and stretch same fingers on a silicone net. It helped loosen the whatchamacallit inside my hands.
Meanwhile, at physiotherapy, which is a separate clinic, a different therapist guided me to do more Tendon Gliding Exercises. The hand doctor's final diagnosis is that I do not have arthritic fingers. Instead, I had multiple trigger fingers and TFCC Degeneration. Big word, eh? Basically, it meant that something is wrong with my wrist due to the age factor. So I was given the ultrasound treatment on the affected area which should reduce the swelling inside.
I was all ready for some serious Depression except that other patients I met during the two weekly therapies plus fortuitous events became a hindrance. In comparing myself with others less fortunate, I find my circumstances not quite as disconcerting, justifying therefore as it did, the good cheer I mustered on most mornings.
Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger was a pudgy faced man in his forties. His alert eyes beamed from a fair complexioned face at the other waiting patients sitting at the clinic. One could tell that the man was in the mood to talk.
"How did you get those burns on both your hands?" asked the lady sitting between us.
Holding out his hands importantly, Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger looked at them thoughtfully, for good measure. The hands and fingers were covered with burnt marks, fiery pink skin were exposed and pus oozed from certain quarters. He was not a pretty sight.
"I was bitten by a spider," replied Mr Spider-Bit-My-Finger.
Here's the long and short of his story. He joined a group of photographers on a photography trip to the hills. He saw an itty-bitty spider and whipped out his macro lens. He got too close. The itty-bitty spider sank its itty-bitty fangs into some part of him. What followed was two weeks of intensive care at the hospital followed by months of pain and agony. He had more claim to Depression compared to me.
Mrs Big-Hand was a sorrier sight. Her left hand is twice the size of the right. It was swollen, bluish green and had been this way for the past nine months since she fell from a stool. Recently, her husband suffered a stroke, became irritable and started picking on her. Her children neglected them and blamed them for their circumstances and the subsequent inconvenience caused to the family. What a blinking blight to be in.
It was a most opportune moment when Serena invited me to join an 8 course calligraphy class which virtually took the blues out of my blues. ~~~ I have been painting up a storm of peonies ever since.
