An Ever-Flowing Stream

 

The long fur on her legs and skirt is a silken drug.

 

My doctor says the pain in my thumbs is osteoarthritis, which being translated means: “Because you’ve succeeded at living to your late sixties, the cartilage in your thumb joints is now gone.”

“Where did it go?” No response from the orthopedist.

“How do I get more?” Condescending smile and slightly narrowed eyes that say “one of those.”

Then medical science offers this cheerily-delivered option: “We can do a trapeziectomy.” That means removing a wrist bone at the base of the thumb.

“So then I’d be missing both cartilage and bone?” The doctor thought it an excellent plan. Recovery takes about six months. But they’d do one wrist at a time so I’d be handily disabled for only a year.

I opted for steroid shots.

But now it seems the shots have quit working. And I’m googling how big that wrist bone is at the base of my thumb.

 

Skye the Schnauzer on my lap is a gentle weight of undistilled comfort on this cold, damp morning. Her fine, silken hair threading through my fingers is pure elixir. And for now the pain completely evaporates — without the shedding of blood.

“Good dog.”