Sooner or later, alas, we will all have to go under the knife. Regardless of status or wealth, at some point, a part of our body will malfunction and require attention. Unfortunately, our precious body doesn’t come with a lifetime warranty, and eventually, we will all have to visit the “repair shop” to replace or fix a defective part.
Few of us ever consider that our bodies consist of countless invisible parts. Like faithful servants, they carry out our wishes without hesitation, without question, without complaint. You don’t need to instruct them—they simply know what to do.
But what happens when one of these staunch allies suddenly refuses to work? The experience is both shocking and frustrating, akin to the betrayal of a trusted friend or lover.
Two days ago, I found myself in the hospital for some minor surgery. Perhaps due to legal precautions, the hospital staff meticulously documented every detail about me and the upcoming procedure.
A few minutes before surgery, as I lay in a small hospital bed, a serious-looking nurse conducted a thorough interview. “What is your name? When were you born? What do you eat? What do you drink? Do you smoke? Do you have any implants?”
Strangely, this interview reminded me of a “speed dating” show I had once watched. In this game, you spend five or ten minutes with a potential partner to determine compatibility. Based on my answers, it seemed the nurse and I were a perfect match—ready to tie the knot.
Then, after sticking a multitude of needles and tubes into my unwilling body, somebody placed a mask over my face and sent me flying on a short journey to outer space.
A few hours later, as I slowly resurfaced from my spatial flight, I realized something was off. I couldn’t feel my right hand or fingers. The sensation-or, or rather, the complete lack of it—was so unnatural that it took me a few moments to grasp what was happening.
I was born right-handed, and for my entire life, I unconsciously relied on my right hand for almost every task. It had always been my dominant side—strong, dependable, and never failing me. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, it was as if my right hand no longer existed. When I tried to touch it with my left hand, there was nothing—no sensation at all.
My left hand had always had it easy, playing a supporting role while my right hand handled anything intricate or precise. And now, to my utter frustration, my right arm and hand were useless. I had no choice but to delegate everything to my left hand. Try eating with your non-dominant hand when you’ve spent a lifetime using the other—it’s not impossible, but it certainly feels awkward.
Fortunately, this incapacity didn’t last as long as my previous failed attempt. After two days of near powerlessness, my right hand is finally starting to recover. It can once again work in harmony with my left, and vice versa.
To touch is akin to a kiss—one of the most profound sensations a living being can experience. Without touching, you can live but not exist.
Alain
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