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Writing a column isn't usually physically challenging. Unless you count wracking my brain. Sometimes I pull a muscle in my cerebellum.
Today I'm having to work at this. Wednesday morning, I had carpal tunnel surgery on my right wrist. I wasn't sure if I would be able to type after that. But here I am, plunking away with a giant, clompy wrap around my right hand. Credit to Tylenol.
My post-op instructions mention no strenuous activity for that hand. I'm not sure writing counts as strenuous. Finding the right words and pounding them together to build a sentence are heavy lifting of a type.
For the couple of surgeries I've had before, I was not awake. Carpal tunnel is different. I lay on a table in the middle of the well-lit operating room in New Ulm Hospital. I felt an odd mix of being the center of attention and a dispassionate observer at the same time. Around me, five people busily attended to my arm, prepping it for Dr. Honstad's skilled craftsmanship.
The staff carried on a bit of talk about their kids and camping the way any co-workers would do. At the same time, they were extremely methodical and professional at their tasks.
I talked recently to a farmer from a part of the state where their hospital has lost staff and services. He had a son who needed an hour ambulance ride to treat his appendicitis. The local hospital no longer had a surgeon.
I count it among my blessings that Sleepy Eye's hospital and clinic are a few miles away with talented doctors and staff. They get my routine checkups and emergency room visits. They work closely with New Ulm's hospital and clinic to expand their care to include things like my surgery.
It was wonderful when we had kids here who regularly needed stitching and x-raying. Now at seventy, it's good to know that both medical campuses are close by. I'm not sure you've heard, but things start to go wrong when you reach these decades.
This current ailment showed up last fall when my right arm began doing all sorts of weird things that kept me awake at night: tingling, numbness, feeling like my hand was "asleep." Adjustments ton my sleep position helped a little.
Finally, my local Doc Adam sent me to see Doc Nikki, a neurologist in New Ulm. That led to an EMG and a positive diagnosis for carpal tunnel. Wearing a brace helped once I knew I had that.
Next was a visit with Doc Honstad and a plan for surgery. I asked about waiting till winter, but she said I risked further damage to the nerve. So, the procedure was Wednesday morning, and here I am typing with slightly swollen fingers sticking out from a wrapped hand.
On Tuesday night I ran around the farm trying to think of tasks to do with which a right hand would be helpful. The recovery time for this procedure can vary, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to get back to them.
Speaking of right hands, I thought about this as I planned for this temporary inconvenience.
In the summer of 1968, my father Sylvester lost his right hand in a combine accident. It was about this time of year. My older brother Dale and my dad were custom combining oats for a friend north of town. This was with their new International Harvester 303, the first self-propelled combine we owned.
There wasn't much for shields and guards on those machines. My dad's hand got eaten by a straw chopper up past his wrist.
He wasn't alone among farmers in missing parts of his body back then. Those first generations of farm machines after horses were notoriously dangerous. Many limbs and fingers went missing. Mining and farming were always on top of lists of most dangerous occupations.
I remember hearing there was a place at St. Mary's Cemetery where those parts were buried. I assume my dad's hand is there.
Unlike me, my dad didn't get to walk around the farm looking for things to do with his right hand while he still had it. It was suddenly, violently, and completely gone.
I was 12. I have a memory of someone coming to get my mom. I didn't know, but she was rushing to the hospital. My older sister came out to be with my brother Dean and me. I remember we prayed, but I'm not sure I understood why.
There must have been chaos on the farm. Dale, who had his own farm, and my mom had to see that the milking and egg-gathering and myriad other chores got done that day. Being twelve, I don't know how particularly useful I was. I think I mostly had to keep track of my younger brother and keep us out of trouble.
Eventually, my father carried on with a prosthesis. He had a hook where his hand was, which opened and closed. In my farming years with him, that actually became a versatile tool. It was like having a hammer and large pliers with us all the time.
It was just part of our lives. I had two hands, Dad had one. We worked that way for 20 years. He passed in 1998. I wish now I had asked him more about those days in 1968 when their world was turned upside down. I learned vaguely that there was hard talk between my mom and dad about how to go forward.
They did. And maybe it was just like the generation to not make a big deal of things, but to put your head down and get to work. Maybe we think about things too much now.
My right hand will hopefully be good for the fall work ahead. Having it wrapped up and sore for a few days caused me to think of another right hand that didn't get better fifty-eight years ago.
-- Randy Krzmarzick farms on the home place west of Sleepy Eye, where he lives with his wife, Pam.