Once in a Lifetime (if you're lucky!)

 I don't remember under what circumstances I first met her.

But I know my first impression was of a true lady, a woman unlike any I'd ever encountered.

Isabelle Tamburri was, in a word, brilliant. She was a formidable presence from the first syllable she uttered, setting her apart from anyone else in a crowd. Her diction was crisp, clear and flawless, unmarred by regional accent or slang. She chose her words carefully so as never to leave in doubt exactly what she wanted to convey to her listener.

Eschewing the convention of taking a gift or token when visiting, she and I had our chats in her living room or mine, accompanied by the single bottle of filtered water we offered one another. Most of our get-togethers were supposed to be limited to a couple of hours, simply due to my work schedule. In reality, we usually got caught up in conversation and didn't keep track of the time, so often we sat for three or more hours, lost in any of the myriad topics we explored.

Isabelle loved art. And music. And philosophy. And religion. And Nature. And psychology. And...on and on. An observer might have commented that our conversations were all over the map, that we leapt from one topic to another, and how could that even make sense? 

To us, the conversations were seamless. One thought lead to another, often on an entirely different subject. When we talked about music, I discovered she and I shared a love of the work of Mozart, yet she had never seen the film Amadeus. So one afternoon, feet up on pillows and ever-present bottle of water at hand, she sat in my living room and spent the three plus hours of sheer enjoyment, sharing my love of that movie. At times, especially at the emotional, heart-rending end, we were both in tears. Yes, it was a fictional account and we knew it, but to us, it touched something deep inside and I'll always be grateful we were able to share that time.

After her 91st birthday, Isabelle told me she was aiming for 95. "Then, I think I'll have accomplished everything I wanted to do and I'll be more than ready to go." Her beloved husband Rick was waiting, after all, and she knew she'd be spending eternity with him. 

A series of falls derailed Isabelle's plan. Each one robbed her of more cognitive function and she struggled for the words that once flowed so effortlessly. But her sense of humor seemed sharper, her desire to be with those she loved even stronger. 

When Isabelle Tamburri finally slipped away in a small room filled lovingly by her daughter Sharon with artwork Isabelle either created herself or loved, she left behind sadness that she was gone, but joy that she had lived and given everyone who loved her so much of herself. She once told me she wouldn't be sad about going, only about leaving. Those of us she left are richer for having shared a snippet of Isabelle's life.

What's in a hand?

 Since June 15th, I've been without the use of my right hand.

I take that back...I can use it, but only in a limited way and not without considerable discomfort and a lot of awkwardness.

It was at least a month or so ago that I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. It's been at least a year since my right hand began going numb during the night and not regaining its full feeling for hours after I woke up. Praying it wasn't diabetic neuropathy, I went through the motions of consulting first Google (my go-to source of medical information), then my primary care physician, then a physical therapist, then finally a hand specialist. 

That wasn't the final step, though. To obtain an accurate diagnosis, the hand doc sent me for an EMG. For those of you who aren't familiar with that test, let me just say you don't ever want to have one unless it's the last resort to finding out exactly what's wrong. EMG (short for electromyography), is a bear of a test. You're wired to a series of leads through which electrical impulses are directed. They zap away, measuring the health of muscles and the nerves that control them. Thankfully, the doctor who administered the test was a gem, a master of his trade who made the experience, if not pleasant, at least tolerable.

The EMG said it all: carpal tunnel syndrome. Solution: surgery.

That established, I had the procedure on an out-patient basis...a little drip of propofol, lidocaine to numb the hand (while I was blissfully unaware) and about six little stitches from base of the wrist to the middle of the palm. Then a big, bulky bandage which came off after three days (showering was a challenge!) and now a large band-aid that covers the incision. Stitches come out on July 1st.

 Until then, though, everything is a chore. Being right hand dominant, I find it excruciatingly difficult to do just about anything. From opening a pill bottle (which I've done a lot these past six days) to putting peanut butter on a piece of bread, it's a slow process. I've been exhausted from simply getting dressed.

But...a dear friend spends four hours three times a week in dialysis just to continue living. Another is marking the end of her days as she lies in the care of hospice. Another has lost her sight and is dependent on too-busy nursing home aides for the simplest of services. And my right hand hurts. Gee, what a pity!

You see, it's easy to whine and feel sorry for myself because I'm temporarily forced to alter my day-to-day routine. But when I consider the plight of others in my own circle of friends who are facing major, life-altering things every minute, I am reminded that my little complaints are trivial in relation to theirs. My right hand will heal; their calamitous health problems won't. Lesson: look outside yourself when you are tempted to believe you're the only one who suffers. Others suffer worse.