I miss my hands.
They betray me now. I joke and say thank God I don’t have a job holding babies.
Touching cat fur helps. Plush blankets, heating pads, gentle hand massages, these are all welcome.
Don’t shake my hand hard. The firm handshake is not welcomed here. I will rebuke you if you squeeze me too much. Better yet, don’t touch me. You will get an earful. Don’t assume people aren’t in pain all day.
I’m delicate. Treat me like a gentle lilly. Offer me water. Talk soothingly to me and don’t touch. Just appreciate me from afar.
I give up trying to hold on to my phone. It falls all day. Plastic cups only please. I abhor squeeze bottles in the shower. Is this a joke? A wet slippery shampoo bottle that I have to squeeze. Get the fuck out of here.
Please get the door for me. Turning knobs can be tricky. Every year for Christmas I’ve been asking for robot hands.
Or a cure. I’ll take either.