August 11, 2005
Carpal Tunnel Hell
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

The first time I heard someone complain about carpal tunnel pain I thought, “Surely you jest.” It seemed only hypochondriacs deprived of attention or company drama queens could muster such grousing.

But the first time I felt a very specific pain surge from my wrist to my shoulder, stopping my mouse mid-click, I joined the office thespian troop.

We’re the lucky few wearing unattractive, beige wrist guards and molding therapy putty between our fingers throughout the day.

People in the office stop to say, “Hey, are you bowling later” and let me tell you, it’s real darn funny.

My carpal tunnel problem has paused in “hypertension” while it awaits graduation to a “syndrome.” For now, I just call it “office hand.”

In general, older people like to warn you what you’re in for once hitting thirty, which is inevitably a complete degeneration of the body you once knew. Successfully, I’ve completely defied the onslaught of “falling apart” (albeit office hand does test my tolerance).

And then there was slip-n-slide.

My family gathers frequently, and this time it was for my father’s birthday. My brother brought slip-n-slide as a heat-wave gesture for the kids, and to keep them out of our hair for a while. The box said “Ages 2-12, or 120 pounds.” I figured I was close enough in each category, so I followed the yellow slick road.

On my first run, ahem, my only run, I decided to slide along on my knees instead of my belly. I began with a poised start, like I did in my diving days, and then threw myself forward down the path of much resistance.

As backyards go, the ground wasn’t level, and my left foot got trapped under my bent leg. When I stood up in the puddle of grassy water both knees ached, and my foot was scratched, bleeding and beginning to bruise.

The kids collectively cheered, “go again!” but I explained that Aunt Jill wasn’t the slider she once was.

I limped inside and scoured the freezer for the boo-boo bear-shaped ice pack that had been there for fourteen years. It was missing, but a large bag of frozen margarita mix, thankfully, had filled its shoes.

I took the package, my book and sunglasses, and pouted in a lounge chair, the frozen cocktail mix (strawberry, yum) numbing my embarrassment.

My brother teased, “You looked pretty good out there…what’s that on your knee?” I growled then said, “Let’s go drink my therapy.”