~the power of the human touch revisited once again~

Yesterday I saw the most beautiful thing.  As I was going down the street towards home, I looked over to my left and saw an elderly couple, probably in their early 90's, who had just gotten home themselves.  They each had a small bag to carry and were making their way slowly to the front door of their house.  My heart smiled when I saw what else they were doing.  It was a simple act, yet just seeing it done eased my tired spirits and weary mind.  They were clutching hands with one another so as to steady their way upon the walk.  

It was the power of the human touch.  

After my very serious bicycling accident in 2011, I learned just exactly what the power of the human touch was.  It took me a while, nearly 30 days into my 9-month long recovery period, but I learned it just as well.  I was at my classroom and getting things ready for the upcoming school year.  My memories of that day were many.  I was bemoaning the fact that my August 4th accident came only two and a half weeks before I was go back to school.  I'd already had 2 surgeries and my arm was encased in what would be its "forever for the next 9 months" home. Because of my fears of being hurt even further, I was overly protective of it.  The very idea of being with 350+ kids, all with the best of intentions, made me nervous at first.

On the day before school began that year, I hauled up the last load of things that I had to bring into my classroom.  Luckily I could park right next to my door and even though I had no one to help me that day, I figured out a good way to get things in, one-handed and slowly.

Very, very slowly.

After what seemed to be 3 or 4 hours (in reality it was about 30 minutes), I was ready to head back home and rest.  My arm was only in the first few weeks of healing and it was telling me that I needed to stop carrying so much stuff.  When I shut the outside door behind me, there they were.  Two little kids that I recognized from the neighborhood had seen my car there and were rushing over to find out how I was.  Instinctively, I tucked my left arm closer to my body and greeted them with a smile.

That 6-year old and 4-year old stood there to visit for awhile.  I told them about the accident and then asked them about their summer.  Before I knew it, the strangest thing began to happen.  The little one, a sweet girl who was ready to enter the Pre-K program at school, began to massage the swollen, black and blue fingers of my left hand.  I looked down at her and saw that she had a little smile on her face and her eyes were intent on gazing at my broken up fingers that looked more like sausages than the digits they were supposed to.  It went on for several minutes.  Neither of us said anything at first but when she was done, Aniyah looked up to me and said "I hope that feels better now."

And you know what?  It really did.
It was the power of the human touch.

This coming August 4th will mark the 5-year anniversary of the day that I made an extremely poor decision, one that ended up changing my life forever.  I wanted to take a short cut and jump the curb in front of my house while riding my much beloved bicycle.  I never made it and believe it or not, I still recall the sound that my bike's front tire made as it hit the cement curb. I haven't forgotten the feeling, or really the lack of it for a moment, of my left arm as it slammed down into the front yard.  

During the next 9 months, I was the recipient of the power of the human touch many times. Some of the sweetest of moments involved the children that I was teaching.  They witnessed tears fall many times during that school year over the little victories that I was feeling in the recuperation process.  I was teaching reading to a group of 6th graders when my left thumb moved for the first time in 3 months.  It was just a wiggle, nothing more than that.  Yet it was a move and when the kids saw it, they all burst into applause.  As a tear rolled down my cheek, one of the girls grabbed a kleenex for me and said, "You will probably need this."  Once not long after that, I was working with a group of 1st graders with their math lesson.  I desperately wanted to give them a sticker for their page, something I hadn't been able to do yet.  Foolishly, I was using the still broken up fingers of my left hand and was having absolutely zero luck in accomplishing that task.  I was about ready to give up and the tears were welling up in my eyes. One little tiny boy looked up at me and encouraged me to go on, telling me that I could do it.  

I did continue on and you know what?  Little Michael was right.  I could do it.

I don't think about the accident every day now and as a matter of fact, sometimes I have to stop and recollect just what year it happened.  Time went on.  I still prefer to wear long sleeves to keep the scars covered up.  As the years have gone by, dear "old lefty's" outward appearance has become even more misshapen to me.  From a distance, my arms don't look that different but up close there is definitely a change.  I've noticed in the past few months that my left wrist's mobility is reverting back to the way it was while I was in physical/occupational therapy.  The shampoo that rolls down my arm while I'm trying to wash my hair was a clear indication of that this week.  Not sure why the changes are beginning to happen,  but they are.  I knew going into this all that things concerning my wrist would never be the same again.  It does not come as a surprise to me.  

At age 60, I am finding my body changing and slowing down a tiny bit.  I steady myself and pay attention so as not to fall and when I forget to do that, sometimes I do meet the pavement. Arthritis in my hands and knees reminds me to take an Alleve.  Lately I have noticed that the grip in both hands is suspect at times.  Even though "old lefty" is wearing out too, the segment of bone material that I was given from a donor's body, a friend I never met, is still going strong. It is something that will live within me until the day that I die.

I'm glad I saw the old couple last evening.  They reminded me of what it will probably be like for Mike and I in the the years to come.  No matter how old our bodies become, no matter how crippled up we may find ourselves in the years that lie ahead, one thing shall always remain for certain.

As long as we stick together, we will make it just fine.
And oh yes.....hold hands.

It was the power of the human touch for little Aniyah and I.  There's really nothing like it.