By Carol Blatter
“Osteoarthritis happens when cartilage — the hard, slippery tissue that cushions the ends of bones at a joint — breaks down.” (Mayo Clinic).
The cartilage in my right thumb joint broke down, so the pain from bone on bone became unbearable, and for an unexplained reason, it recently started its reign of terror around three a.m. some time just before dawn, and disrupted my otherwise pleasant sleep. And disrupted my husband’s sleep. I love company when I’m up, but in this case, it was to help me. How could he sleep when I was crying due to the pain? I chose some topical agents like Voltaren and Lidocaine cream, and patches like Salonpas, which reduced the pain but irritated my skin, and finally the TENS unit (Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation), which used mild electrical pulses to quiet the nerves and ease pain. It worked, enough to get both of us rest, until I chose the surgical option to stop the pain permanently
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On June 10th, I had surgery (CMC) Carpometacarpal Arthroplasty on my right thumb. Now it’s one week later. The doctor’s medical assistant removed my stitches and made me a cast using vortex material. It’s not covered by Medicare, so I happily paid $25.00 for the privilege of having a waterproof cast. But here’s the catch: it’s waterproof, but after showering, it takes forty-five minutes to dry. Oops! And if I don’t wait, there’s the risk of dye leaking on my towels and clothes. I doubt this is a good investment.
Now, for those fashionistas among my readers, you will be pleased to know that I had a choice of colors for my cast.
“Is there a color that matches my skin color?” “No.”
“What about white?” I thought it was perfect; it’s so ordinary-looking. So unobtrusive.
My doctor said it would get dirty easily. Good advice. “Ok,” I agreed. No white cast.
By default, I picked black, the last choice after rejecting purple and red, much too flashy. Why call attention to my cast when we are out doing errands or eating in a restaurant? I want to be low profile. I want to avoid people asking me concerned–but often dumb–questions, like,
“How’d you get that?”
Or for the more intellectually gifted questioner,
“I’ve never seen one like that. Is that a cast, or is it something else?” “Yes, it’s a cast.”
Or perhaps an older person, closer to my age, may come up to me and say,
“I remember when I broke my arm falling off the monkey bars when I was a kid. I remember the white plaster cast that immobilized my entire arm. I guess they don’t make those anymore. I hated the cast at first. I couldn’t do anything with that arm. Then I became special. My school friends wrote their names and drew funny pictures on it. Too bad I can’t write on yours.” “Guess not,” I said, with a half smile and a wish to get away from this chatty person as soon as possible. So much for avoiding attention.
Now I’m using my left hand for almost everything, the hand I had to wake up after being dormant for most of my life. It has to do the work for both hands. And I don’t think it was in any way prepared for its new duties. Like trying to eat a salad when we went out with friends last Sunday evening. I used my left hand and a spoon to eat the small pieces of butternut squash, tiny dried cranberries, and pecans in the salad. But it was impossible to scoop up the nameless, pathetic-looking greens, pieces that were uninviting and wilted, I was eager to leave behind.
I ordered the hand-tossed 12″ size, which came with generous amounts of portobello mushroom slices and pieces of artichokes. My husband took two slices and cut them up into small portions for me. But— some of the cheese oozed off the plate. It almost missed my lap, a near mishap. He wiped up the mess. The pizza was perfect.
And for a treat, we ordered lemonades. No, they didn’t bring drinks to the table. I had to go to a drink machine, set the glass on the grid under our choice, and push the dispenser button. With a clumsy hand and a slightly unsteady gait, I managed to bring our drinks back to the table. After a few sips, I managed to knock over my glass, and its contents landed all over our table and dripped down our friend’s shirt. Numerous napkins were used to dry it. A store employee came with large white cloths to wipe up the lemonade on the table and the floor. After moments of embarrassment, I laughed at my own clumsiness.
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Then there’s brushing my teeth. I use a mechanical toothbrush. With this cast on my right hand, my dominant hand, it is difficult to my right thumb to push the on mechanism. So I take my left hand, put toothpaste on the brush, and after a few weak attempts, I manage to turn it on. So some toothpaste goes flying, landing on the mirror and on the counter, and some small amount is available for brushing.
And then there’s using the hair dryer. I hold it in my left hand, and with my brush, I try to fluff up my hair using my right hand, but I don’t succeed in getting much volume. Well, it’s not totally flat.
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My right thumb will be immobilized for two more weeks. Then I will use a brace to protect it. And then no brace. My thumb will be pain-free.
© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter
Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.
