The History of My Hands

When I was a girl of about six years of age, I used to stand at my Grandmother’s side, watching her hands deftly peeling an apple in one long strip. I couldn’t wait for it to break off so that I could eat it. My little hands would push the peeling into my mouth like a chipmunk stockpiling nuts in his cheeks.

Nanny would mix the flour and shortening with her hands and form the mixture into a smooth ball.

“Don’t knead the dough too much,” she would warn, “or your crust will be too hard.”

She flattened the dough and placed it on the floured countertop. Her wrinkled hands skillfully guided the rolling pin until a large, flat circle emerged.

Nanny carefully lifted and placed the dough onto the pie plate and trimmed the excess with a sharp knife.

“Can I eat the dough?” asked my brother.

Nanny would hand him a small piece. He would roll it into a ball the size of a small marble. Sometimes he rolled it so long with his dirty boy-hands that the dough became grey. He enjoyed eating it anyway. I hated raw dough. It felt squishy in my mouth. It made me gag.

***

When Nanny sat in her chair and rocked, I would kneel at her feet and scrutinize her boney hands carefully. I would stroke her paper-thin skin and push on the bulging green veins.

“My hands are old, Pet,” she would say.

Nanny had one deformed fingernail. She got it caught in an emery wheel, a big grinder that her father kept in the barn. She was told not to go near it but in her youthful ignorance, she went over and stuck her finger on it while it was running. Instantly it ripped off her fingernail and part of her fingertip. Eventually her nail grew back but it was puckered, and thick. When I cautiously reached out to touch it, Nanny would make a loud “Bzzzt!!” noise and poke me with her finger. That made me squeal and run.

When I look at the top of my hands I see some bulging green veins on the boney parts. I see wrinkles and creases, and my fingerprints are wearing thin.

My hands have made many pie crusts. It took a lot of tries to make them “not too hard.” My hands have wiped runny noses, painted walls, caressed a loved one, and crafted fine things. They write, they sew, they gently calm and comfort both humans and animals, and they clasp in prayers of thanksgiving for all that I have, all that I am, and all that I hope to be.

***

My husband is dying, and I can’t stop it. I hate not having control over this. All I can do is wait, and watch it progress. There are moments when I cry out to God, “I feel like I’m being tortured! I don’t feel like I can handle this. Please help me to cope!” Then, a scripture, or encouraging song comes to mind, and I settle again.

Harry was fifty-six when we found out that he would die. I didn’t want to know how long he had. I wasn’t in denial. I knew he would die. I just wanted to spend every minute that I could with him without thinking about a cut-off date. That’s all any of us can do really. Sometimes my mind would venture into the future and that wasn’t a good place for me to go – emotionally.

Harry was very private. When he was told that he would die, he said to me, “You’re not going to sit around and stare at me all the time are you?” I said that I wouldn’t. But sometimes, when he would lay with his eyes closed, I would look at him and go to that dark place of fear...fear of losing him.

One night in bed, I asked him if I could lay my head on his chest. He said that I could. I put my hand on his heart and he placed his hand on mine. I thought about how soon, I wouldn’t be able to do this any longer – that soon, he would be gone from my life forever. I buried my unspeakable anguish so that he wouldn’t hear me. Hot tears streamed silently down my cheeks. I felt a wretchedness that can never be explained to nor understood by anyone who has never been through this. You can imagine what you think it would feel like to know that your mate will die, but until you actually go through it…you have no idea. I felt like half of my soul was being ripped out of me. It’s not like in the movies.

Harry was a loner. Independent and strong. He valued his physical strength and vigor. It humiliated him to tell me that he wanted to take a bath. He was not a bath person anyway, but he knew that he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own to shower. I walked him to the tub and helped him in. This would be his last bath. He looked down at his emaciated legs and arms and let out a brief sob before jerking the tears back in.

“Look at me – I’m a weakling,” he blurted. I placed my hand on his chest.

“No my Love, you’re not.”

“My arms and legs look like your Dad’s…”

My Dad had passed away just six months prior.

“No. You’ve still got lots of muscle left. And you haven’t been eating very much lately.” I wanted to boost his spirit. “If you get eating some protein again your muscles will build back up. And even if they didn’t, remember the scripture says, ‘Even if the man on the outside is wasting away, the man we are on the inside is being renewed from day to day.'”

He seemed to settle with that.

“Are you afraid to die?” I asked.

“No, my faith in the resurrection is sure,” he said.

I felt all at the same time a sense of relief at his complete confidence, and terrible shame because I feared death. His death. And my loss.

***

Seven years passed. For a while, my mom lived with me. Later, I lived alone. I was lonely every day. Bitterly lonely. Sure, I could have married again – but I was waiting for "the right one" for me...if that one existed. If not, I’d rather be lonely for the rest of my life than live in a loveless or unfulfilling marriage. So, I waited.

Roy came into my life as a friend. Neither of us imagined that we’d ever be married to each other. Even though I was 62 and he 69 when we started to date, we were as giddy as teenagers. We often sat on a park bench watching the swans and geese frolic in the water while we held each other’s hands.

Roy’s hands are soft. The finger joints near his nails are distorted from arthritis. Some fingers have two little round balls protruding from the joints. Other fingers are bent. I asked him if they hurt. He said they don’t unless he accidentally bangs them.

When I look at my left hand, I see my wedding band set. It is a symbol of Roy’s love for me. We've been married for one year now. Every day I tell him how handsome he is and how grateful I am to have him. Every day he tells me that I am beautiful and that he is happy. Sometimes we spontaneously dance around the house, our hands moving in rhythm.

When I sit beside him he reaches for my hand. I smile at him and he winks at me. We don't know what the future holds, but we are holding on tightly to each other.