Numb

“Why do I only have four fingers on my left hand?”

The nurse blinked. I shifted uncomfortably on the examination chair, the stiff parchment paper crinkling imperceptibly beneath my derrière. The fluorescent light above buzzed vehemently as if it were one of those overly aggressive, all-up-in-your-grill bees. You know, one of those bees that makes you think, “Maybe I’ll buy a Costco sized tub of honey this week.” 

“Erm, sorry. Why does it feel like I only have four fingers on my left hand?” 

The nurse blinked again, her thick eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t have feeling in your left hand?” 

I sighed inwardly. I must’ve judged her incorrectly; this must be a physician’s assistant. “Yes, in my left index finger. It’s like it’s disappeared.” There was a small brown stain on the lapel of her white coat, perhaps a stray drop from her morning coffee. 

She thought–or pretended to think–for a moment about my predicament. Time flowed like expired marshmallow fluff in this room, stiff and thick and gooey. “I think you should take this up with your PCP.” A pained look flashed across her face. “Also, you can take your feet out of the stirrups now. We’ll contact you about your results within the next few weeks.” 

She rose to leave the room, her long, frizzy hair swinging behind her as she left. The overpowering scent of Pantene Pro-V Shampoo washed over my freckled face like a wave of warm, piss-filled water in an otherwise temperature-regulated pool. As the door clicked shut, I swung my legs out of their spread eagle position and let my billowing, untied hospital gown fall to the ground. I looked at the mangled pile of cheap, scratchy medical-grade fabric sitting at my bare feet; it was an odd, demoralizing piece of clothing. Like the shirt version of assless chaps. 

I couldn’t think too long on it, though, because there were other parts of my hands that had begun tingling: About fifteen minutes prior, while a balding doctor rooted around my yoni to look for signs of cervical cancer, the same telltale sensation took hold of my now-dead index finger. Pins and needles pricked my right middle finger, the tip of my left pinky, the base of both palms. Curiously, it felt as though there was something cool and rigid clamped around both wrists, as if I’d suddenly decided to be That Girl and invest in permanent jewelry but had sprung for a too-short promise bracelet length. I held up my dying extremities to the light. Both arms–much like the rest of my body–were completely exposed to the elements, with no influencer-approved regalia to protect me from the frigid wisps of air trickling from the vent above. 

I shuddered. My right middle finger was really beginning to fail me, its nerve endings seeming to blow away with every gust of doctor’s office breeze that brushed across my naked frame. Before I could further lose control of my metacarpi, I yanked my clothes from the waiting chair and awkwardly began separating the fabric of a bright orange T-shirt. My limp sausage fingers fumbled over the rough material, alternating between sensing and unsensing, feeling and unfeeling: 65% polyester and 35% cotton blend, emptiness. 65% polyester and 35% cotton blend, emptiness. Barely grasping the sides of my ochre joggers, I forced my feet through elastic ankle cuffs, my toes struggling through the holes like unborn children clawing out of the womb.  

My left palm prickled with hundreds of acupuncture pins. Using my shoulder, I shoved the thick wooden door of the gynecologist’s office open, my unclad feet slapping harshly on the frigid tile floor as I fled down the drab corridor. White-coated human-shaped smudges, metal rolling tables full of forceps and speculums, and AIDS posters from the 1980’s flashed in my periphery. I had to escape. I had infant hands; visions of tiny, Trump-sized grippers wearing little mittens danced in my mind. I imagined myself donning those little mittens, fastened there to keep me from scratching my own eyes out and protecting me from my lackluster motor skills.

My heart pounded like a rabid bird fighting to escape its cage. I crushed my hands–my poor, jelly-filled hands–into my armpits while I ran. Finally nearing the end of the hallway, I threw my body against the glass door separating myself from the outside world. Stepping on my own feet, I stumbled down the pavement before flinging myself into a nearby patch of grass; my face slammed John-Cena-style into the peat without my outstretched hands to soften the blow. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed. 

I lifted my dirt-smudged head. Something thick and black was wedged in the mud just near it–sweeping my arms out in a snow angel motion, I felt the cool, greasy surface of something distinctly electronic. My phone, yes, my phone! Using my forearm, I scooched the device closer to my turf-spattered chest. My right thumb and pointer finger worked together to unlock my final chance at curing my sudden paresthesia: tap, swipe up, enter passcode incorrectly, enter passcode again. Immediately, I was prompted with a “The Wi-Fi network ‘Gyne-call-ology’ does not appear to be connected to the internet” message. I slammed my thumb into the “Use Mobile Data” button and felt a wave of needles pierce through the rest of my appendage. My touch quality was quickly deteriorating from 4K to Minecraft-pixelated; I had to act fast. I opened Safari and began to type.

“why.arw my hans goingnub”

Flopping my useless, unresponsive palm onto the screen, I began to scroll. What could it be? I fervently scanned the possible explanations for my affliction. Diabetes? Guillain-Barre syndrome? Stroke? My eyes bulged as I skimmed the lengthy list of deadly ailments that could be befalling me. Lyme disease? A ganglion cyst? Syphilis? I swiveled my head to the glass doors about twenty feet behind me. Oh, to succumb at the hands of syphilis at the entrance to your OB/GYN’s office, and as a virgin, no less! It was going to be a cruel (albeit embarrassing) death. 

Minutes passed, and soon enough, I couldn’t scroll any more–my final shred of neurologic command over my digits gave out, and I watched in horror as they laid lamely next to my iPhone on the ground in front of me. They felt weightless, as though the elastic band of control I maintained over them had snapped once and for all. The siren rang louder. Squinting my eyes, I willed my fingers to twitch, to move, but to no avail. I released a breath, my arms shaking with dismay. I felt my heartbeat quicken; glittering shards of shattered rainbows spotted my vision. 

I could see my future now. Myself, in a crowd full of clapping concertgoers, using my functioning wrists to gracelessly slap together a pair of drooping, flimsy hands; walking down a quiet riverbank with my other half, my soulmate, but never feeling the soft, intertwined touch of their hand in mine; accepting the Nobel Peace Prize for something erudite and admirable, but instead of extending a firm, steady palm, I offer two forearms and awkwardly squish the trophy between them. 

Teary eyed, I laid forlornly in the dirt. God, I’d have to buy a 12-inch vibrator and hold it between my teeth. At the thought of this, my heart rate reached cataclysmic levels, my atria barely having time to contract and release before beginning again. The colored specks in my vision turned to blotches, then stains, and then sopping, messy blobs of deep purple and green. I saw light–blinding, terrible blue and red light. The siren screeched at full force, until it was in my ears, my head, my soul. My eyes rolled into the back of my head, my body drifting somewhere far away…

I jolted awake, the electric pulse of interrupted REM sleep shocking my entire frame. I was no longer lying face-flat next to a shrubbery outside a medical practice, but sitting upright in a dark, sticky faux-leather seat. The air was tinged with burnt rubber and cigarettes; a garbled, static-filled noise bleated from somewhere in front of me. I was manspreading my legs in a way that would’ve said “come and get it” if I wasn’t drooling out my mouth, my head bent unnaturally to rest on the damp window beside me. I felt a single, weak prick of feeling spark from my hands, and I opened my eyes fully to view them. They were still motionless, resting rigor mortis in my lap, except now, there was something locked around my wrists. Something cumbersome and cold and a faded, cloudy silver. I closed my legs and sat up. 

Handcuffs. 

 A woman’s voice traveled through the plastic separator between me and the rest of the vehicle. In the rearview mirror, I saw a pair of familiar eyebrows. 

I watched a shadowed hand reach up to the car’s dashboard. The radio buzzed to life. “Suspect in transit. Out.”