THE SLIP OF THE HAND

THE SLIP OF THE HAND

Margaret carried her empty coffee mug over to the kitchen sink, at the last second it slipped from her hand and crashed into the bottom of the sink, shards of porcelain exploding like shrapnel. One of the shards dug into the back of her hand. She gave a sigh of frustration as she grabbed the shard and pulled it out leaving a tiny bloody trail.  She stared regretfully into the sink, it was her favourite mug, isn’t that always the way she thought? It was the mug the children in her kindergarten class had designed for her the year she retired. The mug had each child’s name carefully printed out in tiny letters. They must have worked very hard printing each letter so small, a real labour of love to fit twenty-six names on one small mug and each name spelled correctly, just as they had practiced every day since September.

She peeled off several pieces of paper towel off the stand and started to gather the broken fragments onto the paper towel.  She picked the first piece up. Evan, she read, Evan was the class clown, always ready to joke and laugh. Latoya, a sweet, sweet girl, always so willing to help her classmates. Gurpreet, the class mathematician. Margaret shook her head. No point going down memory lane, she thought and bundled the pieces of broken mug all together, wrapped them in a newspaper, and deposited them carefully in the garbage can. She then rinsed the sink out and washed the cut on her hand. It didn’t hurt, she barely felt it at all. That in itself was a problem. Lately, she hadn’t been able to feel much in her fingers and hands. The coffee mug wasn’t the first item to go. As a matter of fact, it was just another in a growing list of things fumbled or dropped.

At first, she had just chalked it up to clumsiness, but lately, she had been forced to take a long hard look at the situation. It was one thing to drop a scarf, a jacket, or a pillow while making her bed, but then she had started to drop other things. Her cell phone’s screen was beginning to look like it had gone through a war zone. Several plates had gone the way of the Dodo Bird as well. The second time the plate was accompanied by her entire dinner on the floor, and she had to make due with a hastily made ham sandwich.

 Yesterday while making her porridge, she had dropped the pot and spilled hot oatmeal all over her hands. She felt no pain but the skin was red and badly blistered. She had immediately rinsed her hands with cold water, or at least she assumed it was cold water, and then put some aloe vera lotion on them. As a concert pianist she was trained to take care of her hands, her money makers, her agent had once called them. Now they were only a liability, useless appendages that hung from her arms. 

Appendages that tingled and refused to cooperate with the simplest of commands. It was like the link between her brain and her hands was completely severed.  She lacked muscle control and simple movement, there was tingling and numbness, and a lack of coordination.  As if that wasn’t enough, she also had periods at night when shooting pains ran from her fingertips up the length of her arms.  She suffered from unbearable burning sensations and crippling cramping feelings. She would wake up and try to massage her hands as best she could, but both hands refused to cooperate very much.

When her new grandson and daughter had come for a visit yesterday, she had refused to hold him, afraid she might drop him.  She had oohed and awed over him but she knew that Kelly’s feelings were hurt when she didn't hold the baby, but she just couldn't bring herself to admit to what was happening to her physically. Pride goeth before a fall they say. She wanted so desperately to hold the baby in her arms, kiss his soft cheek, snuggle his warm wiggly body, but the weakness in her hands wouldn’t allow her to take the chance even though living alone meant she was often very lonely, and craved the simple touch of others. She finally remembered the burn she had received that morning and used it as the reason she couldn't hold little Jonathon and Kelly had seemed somewhat mollified with the excuse.

The past few days her physical health, or lack of it, was starting to register with her, and not in a good way. All her life Magaret had been a creator, sewing, knitting, crocheting, painting, and pottery. Then there was her music.  Music was not just something she enjoyed, it was part of who she was. Now the things that had once been so easy and so soul-quenching, had become physical labour. Her fingers, once nimble and deft, would seize up. The knitting needles would not fly along the rows as they once did. Her knitting projects became a jumble of missed stitches and knots.  The notes on the piano sounded like a cacophony, harsh and discordant.

 After yesterday's disappointing visit with Kelly and Jonathon, she was feeling blue and went to the piano to console herself. It never failed to lift her. To send her soul soaring.  She had tried to play her favourite concerto, Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number Three, one of the most difficult pieces ever written with its dynamic range, technical difficulties, and dexterous hand jumps. As a concert pianist, it had long been one of her most famous and well-played pieces but now it was so jarring to her ears that she had stopped abruptly and sat for a long time, staring at her hands, noticing the loose skin, prominent veins, ugly liver spots, the swollen joints, and the knobby bumps on the joints of her fingers that had somehow formed without her really noticing them.  They were once the hands of a concert pianist, famous for their strength, agility, and accuracy. Now, they barely responded to the barest of the demands placed upon them. She tried a piece of music that was simpler and less demanding. She had always loved  Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody but even this relatively simple piece was beyond her now.

She somehow subconsciously knew, years ago, that it would someday come to this. The writing was on the wall. After years of playing for hours before huge audiences, her fingers would ache and then there came a day when she realized she could no longer do justice to the music she played, at least not for the paying public. She played her swan song to a packed house, it was better to go out on a high note she thought. After that, she taught kindergarten for years, and the children didn't care if she hit the odd wrong note on the classroom piano. They were not harsh critics, they loved her music and begged for more. But those days were gone as well.

 She lifted her hands to her face as the tears fell through those traitorous fingers. At last, she straightened and carefully and deliberately lifted the lid-prop on the grand piano and closed the piano lid, then ran her fingers lovingly over the keys and shut the keys away…forever.

Margaret walked slowly over to her comfy chair, sat down with great defeat and resignation, and waited to die.