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My Hands

I’m pretty certainly proud that I’m the only sibling to have inherited my Dad’s exact hand structure; slightly on the bony side, the hardest knuckles around..narrow fingernails with pink nail beds, giving an appearance of a varnished look when the nails are bare (the way I like to keep them). Can you tell I kinda love my hands?



Well, they are definitely one of my favorite things about me. They signify how far I’ve come in conquering the battle against an eating disorder, and the fact that my body’s still got a way to go with healing. I owe a large chunk of gratitude to my hands in playing an integral role in setting me on the road to recovery. Sounds un-bloomin-believable hey?

Last winter I was at my lowest, darkest point..the cold – which in other lands would be child’s play – was literally destroying me. My hands were taking it the worst. They became a permanently blue/red hue, the fingers swollen and painful all.the.time. The thickest of gloves would be of no help, they would just freeze under all the fleece. It was a mystery..it had me boggled..no one could understand the reason behind it. The exact severity of my low weight hidden from concerned eyes under bundles of clothes, even I assumed that I was coming down with some life-threatening disease inflicted – to me only – from the cold weather. When the skin on my fingers practically began to break and split, it was time to panic. Doctor is the last resort in our house..we are a fascinating lot 😉 . From blaming the chill in the air to horrifyingly considering that I was attacked by germs –  I believe I soaked my hands in every disinfectant invented. I recall googling up all sorts of appalling hand illnesses; I’d relate to a few of the symptoms, but nothing brought me to a concrete conclusion.

The fateful day of the visit to the Doc will forever be ingrained in my memory. Doctor looked once at my hands, then proceeded to go through a full-body assessment. She weighed..her expression grew grave. She listened to my heartbeat..her eyes looked sad. Every word spoken after had the most profound effect on me; soft, kind, concerned. Yet..what she was saying could not possibly be true! There would be no pills, no antibiotics..but she was begging me to eat. I needed to eat. She swore that was the only cure for my hands. My beautiful hands like Dads’. And you know what? She was right.

Today, my hands don’t turn blue or red..my skin is healthy with no trace of its painful past. These marvelous fingers of mine still have a tendency to remain frightfully cold a lot of the time, but we’ll get there. I often find myself glancing down at them as they race across the keyboard..and I’m grateful, proud, strong. They tell such a story..one would never guess.

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