The Hand that Pours the Wine
Okay! Full disclosure. In the past year and a half, I have spared no expense in terms of comfort. Amidst a pandemic, record allergy season, and extreme heat waves, I have turned the Fox Den into a Day Spa. Now the proud owner of an air conditioner, air purifier, and a bidet, it comes as no surprise that shopping has become my greatest defence against the elements.
That said, even in this day and age, there are still plenty of items that you cannot order online, like a new arm. Talk about a transition sentence.
After sustaining an injury to the upper right half of my body at work, I have been trying anything and everything, these past few months, to heal. While I should be seeing gentleman callers, instead I find myself on a series of dates with physiotherapists, RMT’s, and acupuncturists. This has officially become the summer of “poking and prodding,” and not at all in the pleasurable sense.
I first noticed something was wrong, the night indoor dining was permitted again. Popping the cork on a celebratory bottle of champagne for a table of gays, I motioned to pour the first flute when my hand began to shake. Well, this is new, I thought. A hot minute later, a minor tremor in my fingers rocked into a 6.0 quake that shot up my wrist. Scrambling to regain control, I willed the convulsing to stop; but alas it was no use.
“Are you okay?” the homosexual in seat two asked me.
“I don’t know,” I apologized, slowly placing the bottle back on the table. “This has never happened to me before.”
Panicked, I fled to the server station and ran through a mental checklist of everything that could be wrong with me. Is my blood sugar low? Opening the bar fridge, I reached for a can of Coca Cola. Did I drink too much wine last night? Releasing the can, I poured a glass of water instead. Returning cautiously to my section, I breathed a sigh of relief twenty minutes later when my hand returned to normal. Then, one week later, it happened again.
“‘Great, the restaurant re-opens and I can no longer do my job,’ I said to myself, sipping rosé through a straw.”
This time it was a busy Friday night and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. With four empty glasses in front of me, I was jolted by a surge of anxiety as I twisted off the cap. My heart pounding, sweat gushing from my forehead, I took a deep breath before lifting the bottle. Mid-pour, my hand did not shake this time, it went completely numb! Fearing I was going to drop the bottle, my left hand swooped in to the rescue just in the nick of time.
In the weeks that followed, I clocked into work each night with trepidation. As the seats filled and the tables turned, my greatest asset developed into a major liability. Like a poor internet connection, my right hand would go offline periodically throughout each shift. When this happened, I had to broker deals with my colleagues to help me perform the most basic of tasks, like refilling a water glass. Returning home each night, I felt defeated.
“Great, the restaurant re-opens and I can no longer do my job,” I said to myself, sipping rosé through a straw.
After a month passed and there was no sign of improvement, I booked an appointment with a physiotherapist.
“My hand is not working, and I have no idea why,” I raised the white flag. “Please help me.”
One shockingly short assessment later, she asked, “What have you done to yourself?”
As it turns out, I strained the muscles in my right arm, shoulder, and chest without even knowing it. As a result, the electrical wiring of nerves winding down into my hand was compromised. Hence, the unreliable connection! The moment I heard this news, I felt an immediate sense of relief that this was not all in my head. Then, for the first time, I felt pain. Ouch.
The jury is still out on exactly how I injured myself. I suspect the wear and tear gradually worsened over time with every new adaptation of the restaurant. From overuse folding ten-thousand take-out boxes in the first wave, to drinking heavy glasses of wine in the second, and exhaustedly building a curbside patio in the third. Whatever it was, I am relieved to be on the mend. Even if it takes a while.
These days at work, I am sporting a compression sleeve on my right elbow in addition to a mask across my face. Although not quite the image I pictured for myself, I have always appreciated a signature look.
