What Happened to Your Arm?

I take a sip of my coffee while turning to the next page of the newspaper.

I overhear a senior woman saying to a friend, “My grandkids keep pushing me to get this thing called an app. But I can barely figure out how to text them since that’s the only way they will talk to me.” 

“I know what you mean, Beatrice. My son gave me a smartphone for Christmas, and I keep missing his phone calls because I don’t know how to turn the ringer on.” 

I try to tune out the conversation; it’s the same one every day, old people complaining about tech. 

More people shuffle into the dining room to get breakfast, and most are using walkers. I always sit in the back of the room to eat my eggs and toast so I can enjoy my cup of coffee in peace. When the complaining gets to be too much, I reach up and take both my hearing aids out—silence at last. 

I’m almost finished reading the paper when someone taps me on the shoulder. I look down to see a small boy watching me. He says something, but of course, I can’t hear him. I let out a big sigh of annoyance, hoping he will take the hint. Yet he still stands there watching me. Begrudgingly, I put my hearing aids back in and turn in my chair to see him more clearly.

“What do you want?” My voice rasping, being the first time I’ve spoken this morning.

“Mister, what happened to your arm?”

Before I can reply I hear a woman call to him.

“Bobby, what are you doing? Don’t bother the nice gentleman.” Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever called me nice before. She takes his hand and leads him away while apologizing over her shoulder. She walks over to a young teenage boy who is watching me intently. I take my hearing aids out and go back reading my newspaper. 

The next morning, I decide to go to breakfast early. Hoping today will be less eventful than yesterday.

I finish breakfast and reach for my paper when I feel a light tapping on my shoulder again, and it’s the young boy from yesterday standing there.

“What happened to your arm?” He asks again. I look around for the woman who dragged him away, but she is nowhere in sight.

“Shouldn’t you be with your mother?” I turn away, trying to dismiss him. 

“It’s okay. My mother brought me to visit my grandmother.” 

Whoopty doo, I think and begin to pick my paper up again when I hear him walk around my chair to stand on my left side. He pulls the chair out and sits down, only to prop himself up with his legs underneath himself.

“Can you do tricks with your arm?”

“Look kid, you’re bothering me and you shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“You’re not a stranger. Your name is Roger.”

“How did you know that?” His eyes are fixed on my arm as he responds.

“My grandmother told my mother about you.”

I usually don’t care for gossip, but this little boy has piqued my interest.

“And what did she say about me?”

“That you’re the only old person here who doesn’t act old.”

“That’s a strange thing to say about someone.”

“Can I touch your arm?” He starts to reach for my arm.

“Bobby, you’re being rude.” Bobby jerks his hand away, looking embarrassed. The voice belongs to the teenager I noticed yesterday.

“And who might you be?” I ask.

“Come on, Bobby.” He ignores my question. 

“You know it’s rude not to introduce yourself when interrupting a conversation.” Annoyance flares in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t respond. Bobby is at his side, and they start to walk away. It must be a knee-jerk response because I say, “Kids these days.” The teenager stops dead in his tracks and turns around.

“You have no idea what ‘kids these days’ have to deal with. More than you ever had to, old man.” This makes me chuckle.

“Really? You think?” I lift my left arm, which isn’t a human arm but a prosthetic one. I reach with it and pick up my coffee mug. I lift it to my mouth and take a drink.

“Yes, Bobby, I can do tricks with this arm.” Bobby smiles and comes back to the table. 

I shift my focus back to the teen.

“What about these?” I point to my hearing aids.

“Well, you’re old; of course, you have hearing aids.” He snips.

“Okay, then ask me when I lost my arm.” The teenager looks around, debating whether to take the bait. But curiosity is a powerful motivator.

“Okay, when?” He asks.

“I was 8.” The teen raises his eyebrows. He steps closer to the table, placing his hands on the back of the chair opposite me.

“How did it happen?”

“Got it caught in a piece of farming equipment.”

“You were working on a farm at 8?” Bobby asks excitedly. But the teen looks unimpressed.

“How do you move your fingers?” Bobby asks.

“There are sensors in the stump that communicate signals from my brain to the arm.” Bobby looks impressed.

“Sounds expensive,” The teen dully says.

“It was. I spent all my money on it. That’s why I’m in this nursing home.”

“You wasted all your money on a fake arm that can only move its fingers?”

His outlandish response makes me crack a smile.

“After living most of my life without my arm, it’s been nice to get it back.”

“But you could be living in your house right now or on a beach somewhere.”

When I look back at him, he’s now sitting in the chair, looking intensely at me as if my response will be the most important thing he’s heard in his young life.

“You’re from a generation with many things on demand, but above all, you have choices. Technology has given me choices today to have things I couldn’t have before.”

“What, you don’t want to go back to the good ol’ days?” He scoffs.

“What good old days? Heavy, uncomfortable prosthetics that don’t do anything?”

“Well, what about the…” I don’t let him finish.

“It doesn’t matter what time you live in, there will be problems. I’m saying that the things we have today have fixed many of mine. I think air conditioning may be the best thing ever invented next to this arm.”

“Then what’s the point of trying to be better if it’s never-ending pain and struggle?”

“For the days we do solve problems, the outcomes…” I lift my prosthetic arm and hold it out to shake hands, “are well worth it. I’m Roger, and it’s nice to meet you.”

The teen looks at the hand with skepticism. But slowly reaches out his hand and places it in mine. When the metal fingers gently close around his fingers, he jumps a little. Then we slowly shake hands. He looks up at me, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s nice to meet you, Roger; I’m Timothy.” 

“What other things can your arm do?” Bobby asks with bright eyes.

“Want to watch me give someone the middle finger with it?” Both boys laugh.

“Bobby, Timothy, what are you doing? I’ve been looking for you.” Their mother walks up, putting her hand on each boy’s shoulders. “I hope they haven’t been bothering you, Mister.” She looks genuinely concerned that her sons have been harassing me.

“No, ma’am, you have two exceptional sons here.” Timothy looks surprised at the compliment. The mother sighs with relief.

“Oh, good. Okay, let’s go say goodbye to Grandma,” 

Timothy gets up and starts to walk away but abruptly turns around. “Hey, take it easy, Roger.” He holds out his closed fist. I hesitate before slowly curling my prosthetic into a closed fist and fist-bump him.

“Yeah, you too, Timothy,” I say. Timothy nods and walks away.