Don't Blame Anyone

Image by Loretta Marburg from Pixabay

“It seems absurd to carry on whistling in the sudden blue darkness enveloping him, and it begins to feel hot. His face, still part of his head, ought to stay out; but his forehead and his whole face remain covered and his arms are barely halfway through the sleeves. No matter how hard he pulls, nothing comes out, and he realizes that perhaps he made a mistake owing to the ironic anger with which he resumed the task, and that he was stupid enough to have placed his head in one of the sleeves and a hand through the collar of the sweater. If this were so his hand would have to come out easily; yet he still pulls with all his might and cannot advance either one of his hands. On the contrary, it seemed like his head is about to make its way out because the blue wool is pressing against his nose and mouth with almost irritating force, suffocating him more than he could have ever imagined and obliging him to breathe deeply while the wool gets moist against his mouth (it will probably fade and end up staining his face in blue).”  

The above excerpt is from Julio Cortazar’s short story Don’t Blame Anyone. It is about a man struggling to put on a sweater, trapped by the sweater, an allegory of his life. He ultimately falls out a window, 12 stories down.

I first read Don’t Blame Anyone early in high school prodded by an extraordinary Jesuit teacher who taught me all I know about writing in English. I was reminded of it as I struggled to put on a sweater. But fear not, my struggle with the sweater was not existential. I will explain.

After 73 years I finally fractured a bone: the radius right above my right-hand wrist. It was a freaky, and stupid, farm accident. Since then, it has been an incredible learning experience.  The first thing I learned was that our dog is no Lassie. After seeing me stagger to the ground in pain, she quickly decided that I was no longer a good playmate and took off in search of other entertainment. There is still hope for her – she is just a big puppy; and I guess I can give her the benefit of the doubt. She did run to the house and sooner or later Pat would have noticed number 17^th of her creatures was missing.

For a week my hand was very swollen and painful – I could not use it. I am right-handed. The first morning after the accident I carefully took the splint off and proceeded to the shower. It was not too bad. Once I figured that I could soap my left arm pit with the left hand the rest was a breeze. Drying was a different story. Drying my back consisted of self-flagellation with a wet towel. Drying my left arm consisted of rubbing against the towel on the hanging rack. For years I have been sporadically brushing my teeth and shaving with my left hand (good for the brain), so that was not an issue. Taking the cap off the toothpaste and the shaving cream was another. Here is where the mouth and the armpit come in handy – although not pretty. At my age, medicines are a way of life, but opening a child proof bottle of medicine with one hand is an impossibility. I tried the mouth trick, but despite what some say my mouth was not big enough. The armpit vice also failed. Banging against the counter did not help either. Ultimately, I had to ask for help from my wife.

Possibly the most challenging trick I had to learn was putting pants on. First you need excellent balance (I am proud to say I passed that test) or you must lean against something. Second, with the left hand you grab the pant by the waist and in a series of coordinated moves worthy of Olympic medals you pull up and quickly move your left hand along the waist of the pant while pulling and shimming. But the trick is to open your legs just wide enough to prevent the pants from falling. After this exhausting routine you rest. Then comes buttoning the pants. I found that impossible to do with one hand – the only alternative is to use your mangled right arm to help a little and bite your tongue not to scream.

After successfully completing the pants contest, came the belt. That is another challenge that requires exquisite timing. Once through the buckle you, grab the belt and, in a single move, you breath in, pull, and move the belt tongue out to catch the prong. If you fail, try again; it gets better with practice. Then comes the shirt. Not too bad except those pesky buttons become even more elusive to my normally shaking left hand. I learned that putting your socks on is best done on a rug so you can create friction as you wiggle your foot in while pulling with one hand. I strongly recommend sitting. I wish I had kids Velcro shoes. Is there a lacing knot that only has one rabbit ear? Finally, came the sweater you already read about.

After an hour of exhausting dressing, I went off to my office, proud of my accomplishments but soon realized that I could not drive my standard shift car. I exchanged vehicles with Pat but still had to contort to turn the ignition switch with my left hand. Self-satisfaction returned and I started answering emails in my office at half the speed (one vs two fingers). But the ultimate test was when I needed to go to the bathroom. I will spare you the details, but it is not easy – for number 1 or number 2.

As I write, the swelling is down and I can at least use my right-hand fingers with less pain. I can laugh at my experiences because I am suffering from a temporary inconvenience. But many have disabilities that are permanent and far worse. They struggle daily to live in a world that does not understand what they go through all the time. Hence the wisdom of the Americans Disabilities Act (ADA) of 1990. I hope you laughed at my experiences but while doing so become increasingly sensitive to the barriers society imposes on many of our fellow human beings.