My Hands

 For most of my adult life, I've prided myself on the state of my hands and feet. Getting a manicure and pedicure was not only relaxing but my birthright, or so I thought. I love rings to adorn my well-manicured hands. As soon as there was warm weather, I wore sandals to show off my pedicured feet. both were my pride and joy that I shamelessly carried from being a young woman well into my maturity.

So, you can imagine my chagrin when the medicine I was given to manage the cancer started to change my fingers and toes. This is not a woe is me piece, as the medicine is doing such wonderful work on the areas for which it was intended. But there are other effects. Pigment of the melanin variety has pooled beneath my finger and toenails So much so that to the casual observer my hands look like those of a coalminer. Not to mention the abundance of hang nails on ever finger and the thumbs claim a fair share of them as well.

Along with the shrinking nodules and perfect blood count comes the strengthening of the resolve to reclaim my hands being in a perfectly manicured condition. Same goes for my feet and toes.

It's my birthday and I am blessed, as I blow out the imaginary candle my deepest wish is for fingers that do not appear as though I was not digging in the dirt, and I had washed my hands before posting this.