I still intend to write in more detail about my recent assault, but what’s most on my mind about it in my day to day life has to do with my kid.
You see, in the attack, I was knocked down face-first by the thugs, and braced myself each time with my hands. Then, as I tried to stagger home following the attack, I fell at least once face-forward and again braced with my splayed hands. So now they are strained very badly — the first few days after the attack, I couldn’t lift a glass of water or can of soda to drink. I couldn’t adjust my pillow or blankets in bed. And of course I couldn’t pick up my baby boy.
Almost two weeks later, I’m improved, but I still can’t do many things like open my prescription bottles. Simple tasks like pressing buttons or adjusting my kid’s high chair, a very simple device, take two hands and a lot of effort, and there are many other moment-to-moment compensations I have to make with different muscles in order to get through the day. I now wear two wrist braces when doing just about anything.
And I still can’t handle my kid. Not really, anyway — not without doing some very creative hugging/scooping wristless and fingerless baby-fu so as not to hurt myself. I can get him into my arms, but it’s a huge effort, and he is a heavy, powerful kid for his age who likes to squirm and play, and I can’t keep up like I did. So usually, I have to call for my wife to wrangle him when he’s heading in a dangerous direction or getting into some trouble. We have to bring a babysitter over — while I’m home as well — just to do simple things like dress him and unscrew his milk bottles. But the point is, I can’t pick him up like I used to. I can’t play with him like I used to. And my hands and wrists might be like this for a while.
God damn them. Those fuckers separated me from my baby boy.