Hands

I am puzzled by the saying “I know it like the back of my hand.” I know it means that someone knows something very well, as well as the back of their hand. But what makes the back of a person’s hand so well known by them?

Is it because they look at it all the time and have memorized its shape, color and imperfections, or is it because the back of their hand is at the end of their arm, and therefore it must be theirs because who else could it belong to?

It is things like this that keep me awake at night; that and the rash on the back of my hand. I have had this rash, this itchy redness for several weeks. This has happened before so it didn’t alarm me.

Several years ago I visited my physician about my pre-leprous affliction, and he referred me to a dermatologist. Either my condition or my insurance coverage didn’t warrant an audience with the dermatologist herself, so I was treated by her assistant.

I was given a prescription for some cream that made my hands look like my grandmother’s. I would have been happier with large strong hands like my father, but instead I got these.

I don’t want to complain about my hands because, well, because I have hands and they work reasonably well. But they do have their shortcomings. For instance, they can’t tie a good knot or build something sturdy out of wood. When I get a cup of coffee at a shop I have to either get a cup sleeve or ask for a second cup to insulate the first cup, as I can’t hold hot things. But I can type and I’m learning to play the banjo.

I used the prescribed cream faithfully, but after a couple refills I was told I needed to see the doctor again. Again? I hadn’t seen her the first time. So, instead of going back to the dermatologist who had handed the handling of my hands over to her assistant, I took matters into my own hands.

I tried to treat myself with an impressive collection of balms, creams, emollients, gels, lotions, moisturizers, ointments, and salves. However, the rash would come and go seemingly without regard to my treatments.

Recently, the itching began to dominate my thinking and interrupt my sleep. I started to go to bed with socks over my hands to keep the salve from staining the sheets and to keep me from scratching. Other than producing some late-night sock-puppet shows, I wasn’t making any progress.

I scratched and rubbed my hands until I couldn’t take it any longer. Concerned that I may have contracted some rare case of flesh-eating bacteria, I made an appointment with a dermatologist who had come highly recommended by a friend.

The first available appointment was more than a month out. For the next thirty or so days the condition worsened with the rash spreading up my arms towards my heart and, what I imagined, certain death. Shirts, coats and questions from the curious irritated me; I found myself hiding my hideousness from the peering eyes of the public, lest I be labeled “unclean” and shunned as a social outcast.

When the glorious day arrived I was at the doctor’s office an hour early, hoping that perhaps my enthusiasm would be rewarded with an early entry. When the doctor entered the room he reached out to shake my hand – something I had not expected a dermatologist to do.

He spent the next 20 minutes looking at my hands and conversing with me. He explained that I had eczema (Greek) or dermatitis (Latin), the same general skin ailment but with different names. He suggested a light coating of olive oil (Italian) and a prescribed cream on top of that. I expected him to add oregano and basil to the menu.

Although I may have to be deal with this the rest of my life, the good doctor has given me relief. My hands are healing, the puppets are back in the drawer and I am beginning to recognize the backs of my hands again.