Larry
A combination of having to keep the right hand and wrist wound sites clean and dry for two weeks, wet weather, and my roller-coastering mood demanding low-impact situations, led me to opt for a week mostly at home.
By Wednesday, I was more than ready to accompany my husband on our weekly shopping trip to Lutwyche. Destinations: Aldi, Woolworths, Coles and Chemist Warehouse.
Whilst seated near a travelator in the shopping centre, my right arm tubigripped and elevated to minimise swelling, a pale, slim older man approached me and asked if I had broken my hand.
I am easy pickings in these situations. Too English to politely decline a conversation, and insufficiently mobile to stand up and briskly walk away.
“Surgery,” I mumbled.
“Carpal tunnel?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded, nodding, whilst wondering how long my husband had been gone.
The man proceeded to tell me about a friend with carpal tunnel syndrome who had achieved total recovery through professional massage. Memories of dry needling, cupping and painful deep-tissue massages flashed through my mind as he explained his distrust of doctors and the medical profession.
I was fascinated by his grey-stained, tombstone-like teeth, crammed together as though in an overcrowded graveyard.
He announced that he had prostate cancer. He thought it had been there for about 20 years. His doctor had told him, “Larry, you won’t die of it.”
I wondered whether the woman at the other end of the blue vinyl-upholstered seat, who was looking at her mobile, was listening to this monologue.
Finally, Larry bid me a good day and disappeared into the “not usually this busy” throng of passers-by.
