I lived without my right hand for two months. Here's what I learnt

On a random Monday, I felt a little pain in my right hand. I ignored it, as you ignore little pains in your twenties. When the pain interfered with my work as a writer, I went to the doctor. He diagnosed me with De Quervain syndrome — and I was left without a functioning right hand for two months.

Here's what I learnt from it.

My body must entertain myself, or else I get bored... and depressed.

My sick leave quickly got boring, so I decided to turn to my hobbies. Except I couldn't: all of my hobbies involve my right hand. Drawing, sports, writing, doing makeup, going shopping, cycling — all of that was unavailable. I could only solve jigsaw puzzles, watch TV, and read. It was boring and frustrating.

Without work or hobbies, I felt depressed. I ended up laying all day, staring at my phone. I lost appetite and sleep. Part of the reason was being sick, alone, and not knowing if I will be cured soon. But part of it was me being unable to entertain myself. When nothing occupied my mind, dark thoughts took over.

The world is built for able people.

For a one-handed person, the outside world suddenly becomes more hostile. I couldn't open doors or hold them for another person. I could not carry a bag of groceries and pay the cashier at the same time. I could not simultaneously read and hold the metro handrail. I felt uncomfortable all the time.

I never realized how much my city's infrastructure is not meant for someone without a hand, or without a leg, or without sight. The city is only comfortable for those who can run, jump, speak, see, hear, and move both of their hands. And around 10% of the population can't.

My body can adapt to unbelievable things.

I knew that short-sighted people hear better, and those who lose one of their hands develop the second one. However, I thought it is a much longer process and cannot happen in 2 months.

But it did. For the first few weeks with just my left hand, it was incredibly slow and difficult to shower, dress, eat, and wash the dishes. My left hand felt so awkward and out of control as if it was someone else's limb attached to me.

Gradually, I learnt to control it. I started succeeding in washing dishes, cooking, eating, dressing up, writing, and even drawing with my left hand. It was still slow and mentally painful, but it worked.

Every little unnoticeable body part matters.

For 20 years, my right hand let me do all of the things I love. It let me draw, write, work, and do sports. I was a big part of who I was, and I never realized it. And the same goes for my other body parts — brain, legs, the left hand, and fingers. I needed them all. Each small part of my body contributed to letting me live the life I'm living, and especially my right hand.

When I was sick, I thought this realization will stay with me forever. But as I got better, I forgot it all. I quickly forgot how painful and disabling it was to be a one-handed person. I forgot how hard it was to use a smartphone, open doors, do clothes shopping, and use the subway. I forgot the empathy I felt towards disabled people at the moment.

I guess that is how we, able people, manage to always forget about the disabled folks. Because as long as you are able, as long as you have eyes, ears, hands, legs, and an average brain, you don't realize that the world is not built for everyone. To feel it, you need to actually lose your abilities. And I wouldn't wish anyone a disability.

I will to my best to remember just how frustrating it was to live without a part of my body for two months. I'll try to remember that many live like that for decades.