Hands Down, The Most “Touching” Post I’ve Written

Pun intended.

The sense of touch is a powerful tool. Any part of our body that has skin, and active, living nerves, can touch.

Well, wait a minute; let’s think about this.
Any part of your skin can feel, but I suppose only your hands can touch, by definition. There. That seems more right, don’t you think? Although,

wait.

We can touch something with our toes, touch something with our elbow, touch that hot stove with our forearm. So maybe the definition of touch is contextual. Maybe the definition of touch has more to do with intent. Whatever the case may be, just play along with me, ok??

The sense of touch, by hand, is extremely important to me. But because of life often being in the way, I forget this. And, often, it takes some great revelation to remind me. You would think this would be prominent in my thoughts, but it’s not. It takes something that strikes a nerve, (pun intended), to remind me just how sensitive my hands are.

I should treat my hands better.

When I was a toddler, I don’t remember the age, but just old enough to walk, I burned my hands terribly. I don’t remember it, but my Mother has told me the story. My granny had been using the oven all day and it was hot, and had a glass window on the front of it, that apparently wasn’t insulated. I saw my reflection in the glass, walked up to it and said “baby” and put both hands on the glass to touch the baby. My hands stuck. When they pulled me away, the skin strung like it was melted. I had my hands wrapped for weeks and ran high fevers for days. Apparently it was great misery. Well, that’s my take on what I think I’ve been told. So, I thought I’d go to the source, and ask my Mama how it really happened.

Here’s what she wrote:

Granny had a glass front oven and it had been on for a long time with sweet potatoes, bread, etc. You were a toddler and walked up to the oven and saw your reflection and said “baby”, & before we could get you, you put your hands flat on the glass. You went wild with pain. Your hands immediately started swelling and blistering. We took you to TMH e/r and had to wait a long time before a Dr finally saw you. It was old Dr Boland and he was a jerk! Had walked through the waiting room a couple of times laughing and talking, with you bent double in pain. He put soothing cream on your hands and a shot for pain and wrapped your hands from elbows down. Not even your fingers showed. We took you to Dr Young on Monday & he turned you over to Dr Wilhoit in their group. Wilhoit had treated burns before. You did learn to hold your bottle on your very thick bandaged arms! Could not pick it up but could hold it!
It took several trips to Dr before the bandages came off for good. Every time Wilhoit would bend your hands down so he could smell the burns to make sure no infection was in them. You always cried when he bent them. No infection was ever detected……………and, that is the true story!

And, this is what my sister had to say about it:

I remember you burning your hands.
It was gross especially the healing
process when it was peely and bubbly.
And they had to be wrapped in bandages
what seemed like forever.

To look at my hands today, though, you would never know anything had ever happened. There are no scars, my fingerprints are intact, there is absolutely no evidence of any burn.
By the grace of God, I am quite sure.

I like to touch things, feel textures, feel weights, feel temperatures. I often say I am a “tactile shopper.” I want to touch something before I buy it. Not obsessively, but to make sure I like it.

and yet, i hesitate.

When I was a little girl, it was ingrained in me to not touch something if it wasn’t mine. I think that is a great rule to live by. Many of my belongings in life have been broken by others who never learned to obey that rule. But I also think that maybe it made me a little too reserved. I like to feel things, and am very careful, but I still hesitate.

Touch can be firm, gentle, rough, simple, complex.
I think that hand to hand touch is the equivalent of eye to eye contact. It can show the other person that you are paying attention to them.

There are other aspects to my hands which bring me great comfort. I feel secure when someone holds my hand. I feel accomplished when I use my hands to create something. I feel satisfied when my hands are useful. I usually touch the person I am speaking to. Their shoulder, their arm; I gesture toward them and often touch them. I feel that it brings a gentle connection in the conversation and hopefully makes the person know that I am paying attention to them.

Having spent the last couple of years learning Sign Language, I feel as though my hands have new life.

New life.

I have always used my hands, now I can express, with a purpose, with them.

My heart sings.

I don’t have necessarily pretty hands. They are large for my body and a little knuckly. But, my nails grow strong and beautiful and I can use them as tools.

And my hands look just like my Mama’s.

I remember waking up from one of my many surgeries and being very uncomfortable. The metal side-rails were up on the bed; I remember lying on my side and looking through the rail. I saw the nurse in her green scrubs and reached my hand through the rail out to her. She said something I didn’t understand and put my arm back in the bed. I’m sure I dozed off, but when I woke again I saw her and put my hand back through the rail again.
I just wanted her to hold my hand.
In my delirium I was unable to say the words “hold my hand please”, and of course she had no idea that was what I wanted. So she again put my arm back in the bed and tucked me under the blanket. I was so hurt and sad and frustrated. How could she not know that all I wanted was someone to hold my hand? I needed no words, I just needed someone to hold my hand. literally.

So, here I am. Wondering what to do with all this self-revelation. Wondering why my hands are so important, yet so neglected. Why they are so sensitive, yet so not. They are tools for my every-day life; I have been gifted by God to use my hands to make a living. I am protective of them because of my livelihood. I won’t roller skate, or do anything like that, for fear of falling and breaking a hand or arm and not being able to work. Now, there are silly things that I do, that I probably shouldn’t, but for the most part I am fairly smart about my activities. But all of that really isn’t what I’m talking about here.

I’m really talking about the connection from my hands to my heart.

But on a girly note: I feel pretty when my nails are painted. I feel pretty and girly when they are painted pink. I feel grown up and more professional when I have a French manicure. I feel racy when they are painted red. I gently scrub my cuticles every morning, and cover my hands in shea butter every night. I dig in the dirt and scrub the bathroom, caress babies and wipe away tears.

All with these hands