My journey as a long distance runner who started the sport later in life.
By the time January 26 rolled around I had finally been doing my exercises enough times to have noticed the rest of my hand. It was eight days after the accident and I was rocking some pretty harsh shades of blue, green, and yellow. How lucky was I that I didn’t break more bones in my hand, or worse? The only part that wasn’t bruised was the thumb; from the tip to the base it was pink and fresh, denoting its absolute avoidance of calamity. How did it manage this?
The thumb and pinky on my right hand emerged as polar opposites in this accident. When I had visited with the doctor he told me that I had two stitches on the palm of my hand in the crevice between it and my pinky. The implication was that the force of my landing on it was almost sufficient to cause pinky dismemberment. That was a new tidbit of alarming information. Now I knew why there was stitching down in there.
I was scheduled for another appointment with the plastic surgeon in two days by the time of this photo, and it was starting to dawn on me just how long this road to recovery would be. I was slated for my first physiotherapy appointment the day after, in three days time, and I did not know what to expect. At that point I most certainly had high expectations that I would have to readjust downward.