“Time for your breakfast. Please, wake up…”
The gentle whisper penetrated the dark layers of my sleep. Grudgingly, I swam up through them to open one eye. A torch-beam shone directly into it. The sharp pain made me snap it shut but the light still projected a dull, red glow through my closed lids.
I could hear familiar voices muttering. But my eyes though opened couldn’t clearly see their faces. Guess I’ve had too much slumber. It took me a minute fetching back my fuzzy vision to normal.
Now I could evidently see my sister sitting next to me on couch. She was the one trying to stir me up. I also saw my brother standing beside me, gazing at me. The door slowly unbolted then I noticed my father and my two good friends, Ann and Luisa, came in. I could apparently behold all their faces smiling pleasantly. Then my father came to me closely and whispered,
“I’ve brought your fav’rite meal. You must be hungry.”
“I’m not hungry,” I mumbled.
Suddenly, I felt ache somewhere in my body.
I knew that I’m in a small white room in a hospital right now, but I couldn’t remember since when and why. Surely, I’m not well that’s why I’m there. I need to be cured. But, I don’t know where the throbbing comes from. I’m really unaware of what put me in that place. My clever wits are now but oblivious driving me to confusion and perplexity. And somehow, this bewilderment augments the petite spasm I currently sense. Now I, in qualms and awe, asked my self have I been cataleptic for days, almost down for the count? Have I made my family and folks awfully bothered and vexed about me? Well, how I anticipate I didn’t confer them too many outlays.
I looked at Luisa. She just smirked and told me to recuperate soon; and that all my friends are now tremendously fervent to see and be with me. Somehow, her words made me feel a little better. I smiled too and said,
“Please come to our house when I’m home. So we could sing and play with my guitar like we used to.”
Abruptly, the door again opened. Then came in Ome, my young brother with his big bag on his back. He looks heavily weighted down with his stuffs in school, and worn-out. Our dwelling is far-off from the infirmary. I wish he’d just gone home and rest or do his courseworks if he has any. Anyway, I guess I’m better now than before if I had been worst.
Ome kissed me on the cheeks like he used to do especially when he needs something from me. So I asked him what it is. He just grinned and said I’m mistaken with my assumption. I was surprised when he gave me a box wrapped beautifully and said that it’s a gift to be opened when I’m home so he said I must get well soon so I could see what’s within the box. Suddenly, I remember his drawing project in school he’d asked me to do for him. So I said,
“Wish I’d be home now, bro, so I could also continue doin’ your school project. Hope it isn’t yet due. But don’t you worry, I have drawn on almost three-fourths of the board already, and when I’m home, I promise to finish it marvelously, as prompt as I could.”
But Ome replied,
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. I could finish it myself, and so that I could even show you how much percent have I inherited from your talent. For now, you must only think of gaining back your health and vigor. That’s all we care for now.”
How I was astounded by his words and his mode. I’ve never perceived or heed my jolly brother that solemn and genuine.
“Tell me how you’re feelin’. Is it alright now?” hissed my father.
But I only asked for water for I suddenly felt parched. My young brother warily poured distilled water in a glass and handed it over to father. Then I noticed him add something in the glass, dissolving just in seconds. I asked him what that is for. He replied it’s a medicine, a palliative.
Father said he’d hold the glass of water for me. It made me think in marvel. Why does he have to aid me that way like I’m entirely paralyzed? Am I that helpless? Unable to drink water by myself? I’m certain I could do it single-handedly, confident without his help or of anybody. And it insults me whenever people look at me piteous of my weakness, treating me fragile and flimsy. These aren’t doing any good to me, neither making me feel better. It only makes me feel useless of myself. You see I’m not fond of dependency. For years in my life, I’ve stood for the principle of doing and providing it myself as long as I can so not to bother other people.
“I can do it myself, father,” said I.
Yet my father replied,
“But I want to do it for you.”
“I want to drink by myself,” I retorted.
He said nothing. He just stared at me. I could see a bizarre gleam from his eyes yet I couldn’t grasp plainly what it is trying to convey. His face turned gloomy, but I know he’s not annoyed. So are the faces of the people around me. Ominous. As if they were, out of the blue, veiled by melancholy and misery. Could it really be sorrow, or anxiety? But for what? I really was confused.
On the small table beside my couch, father placed the glass of water. He then helped me lift and tilt my back on the cushion so I could slurp water more comfortably and at ease. The white blanket gently uncovered my body from the torso down to my waist. My arms are still down. A very peculiar atmosphere indeed roofed the entire room. I could see morbid excitements on their visages.
Carefully, father held the glass of water with his two hands. I wonder why he looks so edgy and hesitant.
I tried to break up the deafening silence,
“Is there a poison in it, that I’d die if I drink?”
But I saw no reaction of delight on their faces. It was as if they’ve heard nothing.
At last, father spoke out,
“Be careful when you take this glass of water. Be very careful.”
I frowned, not getting what he meant.
Finally, father moved to give me the glass of water. Though he attempts to conceal, I discern the meek quivering of his hand as he give the glass of water to me. What’s so chilling, I asked myself; or maybe it’s his old age, and not about some daunting creepy thoughts.
It’s quite painful when I moved my arms. The blanket delicately descended showing off my entire limbs. Still, my eyes were kept gaping at the goblet father is handing over me. This thirst in my mouth just couldn’t wait. I could feel the dryness and drought of my orifice down to my gullet, heaping on the craving for water.
Now I raised my right arm to take the glass of water. Suddenly, my father interrupted,
“It would be better my daughter, if you use your left hand upon taking this.”
Nonetheless, to my aridness and desire, those words did not matter to me. Fervent to drink, I lifted up my right arm higher to reach the goblet. I’ve touched the glass, but to my astonishment, it just fell down the floor and broke into pieces.
I was shocked! There was no feeling with my right hand! Unable to grip! Where have its strength gone? I drove it close to my eyes. Its color is far different now. Pale, and near the pulse, somewhat bluish. Keeping my self calm, I tried not to show anxiety. Everything’s okay, I told myself. I tried to move my fingers. I really tried hard to move it. But it didn’t work. My right hand looks dead!
Still, I tried to be serene. I must not conclude yet. I know my right hand is not dead. It might just be wounded but it’s not dead. It might just take some days, or weeks, or months to heal.
Then I noticed a tourniquet wrapped around my right elbow down to my wrist. So I asked my father what is that for.
While I tried firm to uphold my self cool, I just couldn’t defy the mounting angst in my heart. Of course, I could never deny how much I fear to lose my right hand. It’s not that easy and simple. I would be very pretentious if I’ll declare these do not matter at all.
I waited long for father’s response. I looked straight into his eyes, waiting for his candid and truthful testimonies ‘bout what had happened with my hand. How optimistic I was to heed from him that the whole thing should be all right, that my hand would soon recover, and that there’s nothing to worry at all.
“My daughter,” father began. “It was an accident. Your forearm was badly injured, for the most part at the wrist by a dagger, and your hand was enormously affected with the damage…”
Father continued while tears in my eyes can’t help but burst as I listen to him. Every words coming out his lips pains me profoundly. He said the vital arteries and nerves in my hand had been severely injured, and that some of the imperative ligaments and bones had been impaired. He said I could never move my right hand anymore for it’s thoroughly paralyzed. And that from now on I must learn to accept the fact that it is dead.
I wish the whole thing were just a dream! A nightmare! That what father said were illusory and unreal. But I know I’m awake, beyond doubt conscious. And if those were but a joke, well there’s nothing hilarious in it. But how could it be a comic yarn when everybody’s weeping. Even father who’s telling it is awfully crying. And I am certain that a devoted father like he is can never tell such a grave joke merely to make me feel forlorn, doomed to failure.
I was tremendously lamenting like an infant. My sister hugged me to comfort and ease the agony I’m suffering. Just when I thought father was through, he further said, that tomorrow my futile hand should be removed off my body through an operation. I was shocked! I felt so upset! And I cried no! Why do they have to hack it off from me? Yes, it may be of no use now, but I don’t want it gone!
But father insisted it should be removed for it’s too dangerous, or else my body shall be entirely a corpse. He said the damage would definitely worsen if the putrid part were left connected to my body. These I do not believe. Or if these are true I just don’t want to believe, for I cannot picture my life without it. I can’t perceive myself with a single hand, in the vein of a freak
The night before the operation, I couldn’t get to sleep. Anxiety and disquiet was all over me. It all happened so fast, and I couldn’t accept that I just woke up with a hand deceased and useless. Far more painful is, why this right hand? Why not my left hand? At least it won’t be that excruciating to me, maybe. Of all the billions of people on earth, why should it be me to bear this tragedy? Why should it happen to someone who means her hand a lot?
This hand is my existence, my hope and my bliss. With it, I can do many things not other hands could, making mine far more exceptional and precious than others. It is a very prized treasure to be kept. It could not be sold, but it could earn. And it’s not very easy letting go of it. I was like the sorcerer, and my hand the magic wand; could do anything if my heart says so. This peculiar hand is my very best comrade giving me too much grace and nobility ever since I was a child.
When I was a little girl years ago, at my very early age, I’ve amazed my mother with my sketches of her face on the wall. Then she gave me colored pencils and papers. Yes, she was the very first one to see and appreciate my very first pencil strokes. And from her, I’ve heard the earliest words of admiration of my petite works. In school, I’ve joined in different visual arts competitions and became the most insurmountable opponent.
Despite the young age, despite the gender, I made name and reputation out of it. I’ve gone to various distant towns to vie with my drawing dexterity with others, and to my luck, I’ve always brought home the bacon. And in that field, where in reality men rule, a girl stood towering above all, yet keeping her feet on the ground. For ten school years, I’ve gained fame and friends. I’ve given honor to my school and to my family. But to tell you honestly, I didn’t compete just for acclaims, but because my hand loves it. My hand just simply wants to hold a pencil or a paintbrush. Working harmoniously well with my heart and my brain, they could create a marvelous work of art.
Now, I’m a third year college student taking up architecture, a course that to a great extent involves the use of dexterity upon sketching and drafting designs. You know I love this course so much. I’m determined to finish and be licensed with it. And I know, somehow, I would be a successful architect with my apt and persona. But now that this hand I’ve been using throughout those beautiful years is about to become extinct tomorrow, I don’t know if it’s still right to hold on with those aspirations. Perhaps I should begin accommodating the agonizing notion of reality even at a snail's pace. But I told you it’s not that easy, really not that easy.
A lot of things played in my mind that night, bothering me too much. Certainly, my life won’t be typical like it used to once my right hand had vanished. I wonder if I could write poems, essays, short stories and novels again. Possibly if I’m an ambidextrous person, I could use my left hand instead. But I’m not. I’m only right-handed, and in so countless ways. Yes, I could use a PC, but definitely it would take me a long time before I finish typing a single sonnet. To tell you, I’m a good swift typist. But with a single left hand, there’s no way I could be that speedy again.
And how about my long black hair, which I used to fix in different styles? Now, I can never do it on my own. But it doesn’t mean I’ll ask somebody else to do it for me. No. It would only make me feel further worthless.
I also wonder if I could climb trees again, if I could still catch fish when I’m fishing with a rod, if I could still paddle a boat on the seas whenever the tide is low.
Far more hurting is that, I could never play billiards anymore, the game that my spirit always longs for. I’m keen to it, yes, and it has been a very vital part of my life. And I’m pretty good in it. But though I may not be as excellent as the world champion hustlers, I feel so very well and pleased each time I’m playin’ it. Billiards gives life to my tedious blood. But I’m certain that I have to cease from playing it for it is too impossible when I only have one hand. Giving up such an attachment is not that easy.
But one thing that pains me the most is the query if I could still play my guitar. Positively, I could play it no more. Again, it’s neither probable nor feasible. And I found it enormously intricate to accept as true. I have been used to playin’ it everyday, before I sleep. And the music it gives me soothes my soul thoroughly, turning every hate and ache into delight. My dream of becoming a famous guitarist had also vanished.
How I wish tomorrow won’t come. I really don’t want my right hand gone. After those reminiscent thoughts, I prayed and pleaded so hard and sincere to the Lord to spare me some of His miracles. God, please touch my hand, breathe unto it, I keep on praying. Somehow, in the midst of vast apprehension and confusion, I tried hard to keep a quill of optimism and faith for the Lord within me.
Gently, I fell into slumber with my eyes damp with unceasing tears.
‘Twas ten o’clock in the morning when I woke up crying from a dream.
“Dear, what’s wrong?” asked my father.
“My hand! Please don’t cut it off!” I cried.
But when I saw my right arm, the hand was already gone; only the thick white bandages tightly wrapped around my wrist! And I was very stunned and shaken! The operation was done! My right hand had been removed. And now, I have only but a left hand! I cried so much that I almost go mad with the pain, not from the wounds but from my heart. Who are they to remove my hand, or anything away from me? It is mine, and I alone should have the power over it! They don’t understand me. We should’ve waited enough time for some miracles. But now, it’s done, and there’s no way I could have my hand back to me.
My remaining days inside the hospital had been very distressed. I’m feeling so desperate and hopeless. I don’t want my friends to see me, or anybody. For sure, they’d only pity me. I need neither their sympathy nor compassion; it’ll only make me feel small of myself. Cold and cantankerous to anybody, I’ve become. Always complaining and irritable. I’ve changed so much! I myself couldn’t even understand why I’ve turned this perverse and unreasonable.
After a week, I was released from the infirmary to continue with my therapeutics at home. On our way abode, I was thinking how appalling my life had shifted into after the tragedy. Nowadays I’ve learned the feeling and sentiments of being odd and anomalous in the flesh. Yes, I don’t know but I picture myself as a freak. This is my depiction of my own body, - eccentric. Through the car window, I saw huge edifices superbly erected; bitterly reminiscent of my desire to be an architect. Then we sluggishly passed by a lovely garden, so comely that I suddenly felt eagerness to sketch it on a pad. But I know I can’t. So at the backseat, I stealthily whimpered in tears.
At home, many people welcomed us, making me feel worst. There were my good friends and colleagues, relatives, and my family. So what was the use of that festivity? What is to be celebrated for? Father said mother geared up that gala for me. So therefore I am the celebrant, when in fact, I’m still not done with my grief! Still drifting on a melancholic tarn! I do not know if I should get off the car. I don’t really want them see me. For now, all I sought after is solitude.
“Come on, dear. They’re all waiting for us,” whispered my father.
“Tell them to leave this house! This won’t make me feel any good!” I retorted.
I get off the car and headed to my room as quickly as I could. I locked myself inside my room and cried. Then I heard father knocking at my door.
“Father, I need to be alone, please,” I cried.
“Your mother wants to see you. She’s waiting for you in her room,” said father.
It took me a few minutes drying up my teary eyes. Feeling better, I headed to my mother’s room. There I saw her lying on bed, with some bandages and pockmarks on her body. Such frail, marred sight of her profoundly squeezed and pained me inside.
I asked her,
“How are you, mother?”
“Feelin’ much better than before… How’s my daughter? Oh no, I shouldn’t’ve asked. Your father always tells me how miserable your days had become after the operation. I’m so sorry my dear.”
Rain gradually streamed out of mother’s eyes. She’s weeping. Yet, I do not know what is it she’s woeful on.
Mother continued,
“I’m sorry for the party. I thought you’d like it. ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see your friends.”
“Mother, I’m afraid they’d only pity me.”
She warmly held my hand and whispered,
“You’re still beautiful, my child. Very beautiful.”
Placid tears spouted from my eyes, too, as I hark on those words. I hugged her and sighed,
“Your eyes have always seen me perfectly, mother.”
Then she heartfully cried,
“I’m very sorry, my child. This shouldn’t have happened to you. You’re too young. If I could only bear your pain, I will without a shred of doubt. If only I have the power to turn back the time, I would never let it come to pass. My dear, you shouldn’t’ve saved my life. ‘Cause you don’t want me die, it’s your dreams that were killed. I can never pardon myself for this! Never!”
My tears heaped on. I couldn’t understand what mother says. She was wailing dreadfully, and I loath it seein’ her that way for the hurt within is far more unbearable.
“Mother, I don’t understand what you’re sayin’,” said I.
“Do you recall the drizzling night when our house was robbed by a group of villains? One bad guy was about to slit my throat through his sharp dagger when you blocked it off by your small wrist. You saved me, don’t you remember?”
I was turned speechless, bowled over by the truth. How could I overlook in mind those ghastly hours of dusk? The whole thing that took place that morbid night abruptly flashed back into my consciousness. I howled and hugged mother very tightly.
I cried,
“I’m sorry, mother! I’m sorry!”
“What are you feelin’ sorry for, dear? Regrets and guilt are mine. If I could only turn back time, dear…”
“If I could only turn back time, mother, I will still save you without a shred of doubt…”
I realized how much torment my miseries have caused mother, making me feel so guilty for all her sufferings, for being so damn forgetful. These emotions and pain of loosing a hand have made me vague of its history, – that it was gone out of saving mother from death; one great thing I can never be remorseful of, one noble and gracious feat of a hand I should be very proud of.
Mother was mistaken when she said that my dreams were killed. As long as I’m living, I won’t stop dreaming and pursuing my goals, for as long as there is blood running through my veins, I can never be useless. Maybe God wants me be someone else in the future; not an architect, not a guitarist, not a pool hustler, someone better. Mother believes that my hands are worth my dreams. Well then, she doesn’t know that my dreams are worth her. And if I shall be successful and glorious with my two hands with her nonexistent, indeed, my happiness will never be complete.
