Six days ago, after years of putting up with the pain and inconvenience of carpal tunnel syndrome, I finally had it done.
Recovering from carpal tunnel release surgery is a masterclass in realizing just how much of your dignity relies on your dominant hand. You start the week looking like a cut-rate boxer who lost a fight to a heavy-duty bandage, suddenly forced to approach everyday tasks—like opening a jar of peanut butter or wrestling yourself into sweatpants—with the frantic, clumsy energy of a raccoon raiding a trash can. Your non-dominant hand is abruptly promoted to CEO of your life, a terrifying prospect considering its previous experience was limited to holding a fork or awkwardly waving at neighbors. Between trying to shower while keeping one arm wrapped in a trash bag like a bizarre high-fashion statement and realizing that text-to-speech software turns your innocent complaints into unhinged manifestos, you quickly learn that true healing is less about physical therapy and more about mastering the art of asking someone else to open your snacks without crying.
My other wrist gets taken care of this August.