Prosthetize

“Okay, Mr. Parsons, now roll your hand into a fist.”

Despite the obvious fact that I don’t have a hand, I do as I am told for the hundredth time in the last hour. My brain forces my non-existent muscles to move. I realize this is a real problem, not having a hand. Hits me the same as when I’m suddenly out of ice cream and need to make a stop at the store. Maybe my hand is just invisible — the human eye can only see wavelengths from 390 to 750nm. Maybe my hand is choosing to transmit only wavelength 751 or greater. I always was an overachiever.

The nurse is wearing a sea green uniform. Give her some hair gel, she’d be a man. Whiskers on her chin and everything. But, I’m sure her whiskers keep her warm. Too much androgen. Slash it off, bleach it, pluck it. Something, please.

Her small talk, prior to hooking me into the massive array of wires emerging from my eyelids, nostrils, and shaved head consists of how many times she needs to stick the average person, before she can find the vein. Sea green, probably the best color to contrast with blood stains. Comforting. Her disinterested tone means I’m Number 50 of 55 patients she will see today. I hope my entire body isn’t transmitting wavelength 751 or greater.

I’m lying down on the paper sheet over the plastic, foam filled pad on the examining table. The overhead lights are humming. I ignore the wires.

“Excellent. The signals from your cerebellum and primary motor cortex are working fine. Do you know how we initially determined the function of the cerebellum, Mr. Parsons?”

Great. The small talk was starting again.

“We studied patients with tumors in the area. An act as simple as grabbing a pen off the table led to massive overcalculation — the hand moves too late, too fast, too slow…it overshoots its target.”

I mumble something about always undershooting. Nurse Green Pants barks a laugh.

“Well, we are ready for the fitting.”

My eyelid itches uncontrollably, thanks to the mess of wires implanted microns deep in it. My eyes are starting to water, but the liquid feels wrong, too viscous. Betrayal by one’s own body is an ugly thing. One of the best remedies for watering eyes is cold cutlery on the eyelid, straight from the freezer. Your choice whether to use a spoon or a fork.

The nurse steps out of the room for a minute and returns with a glass case. In it is The Hand. It’s silver and black and powder blue. It’s cold and it glows.

“Model C-313. Our latest and greatest. Here we are.”

With practiced movements, she lifts Model C-313 out of the case, and attaches it to what remains of my forearm. Layered inside, I am told, are wires encased in a specially designed fabric meant to stop residual pain. She conducts a few connectivity tests. The lights on the 15-foot-high glass screen mounted on the wall mean all tests have been passed. She gives a thumbs-up to the twelve doctors watching the procedure from behind the one-way mirror. Twelve doctors and probably countless medical students. Taking notes and observing. Who else was back there? For an instant I feel like a zoo animal. I want a banana.

“I want a banana.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Parsons?”

“A banana. Yellow. Kind of mushy. Lots of potassium. Proof of intelligent design.”

I am ushered out, partially chewed banana in my mouth and a note in my pocket reminding me to return in a few days for my follow-up examination. Don’t submerge it in water, they say. I guess they’re talking about the hand, not the banana. Don’t expose it to high heat. Don’t smack it against anything. I promise myself not to take a shower for the next seven days. Let them deal with the consequences of their own rules. A facility van is waiting for me. It’s white and smells recently disinfected.

Home is a small apartment on the east side of town. Dark smoke fills the air, sets me to coughing. Smells of grease and tar, and, combined with the disinfectant smell I was just exposed to, almost make me gag. The bomb factories are only about a mile away, hidden by tall, barbed wire fences and burly security men. As I enter my lobby, the doorman, dressed like a lobster, with his black hair slicked back in that fashionable way, accosts me.

“Mr. Parsons! So nice to see you, sir. May I help you with anything?” Wonderful. The unspoken “…since you’re missing a hand and everything.” I lift up the new hand and give him the finger. His lobster mouth opens in shock. I’ve never been so satisfied with a purchase in my life. I start singing to myself, “Lobster in the lobby, lobster in the lobbyyyy.” Suddenly I’m Sinatra.

My apartment is one room, one table, one chair, one twin bed and one window. Only one-half bottle of brandy in the fridge, left over from the previous tenant. Guess that’s why my rent is so cheap. I sit down. I had prepared for this moment – when I would be able to test out the Model C-313 without the doctors drooling over me. The night before, I laid out five objects on the table, in decreasing order of size.

One fuzzy brown coconut. Check.

One fuzzy yellow tennis ball. Double check.

One espresso cup. Okay, I admit it. On my one table I have an espresso machine. A man should be allowed some luxuries, after all.

One pencil eraser. Triple check. Or maybe quadruple check.

One grain of rice. The holy grail. The holy grain.

I pick up the coconut in my new hand with ease. I smile, the hand responds instantly to my cortex or whatever it was that nurse lady had said. I don’t feel the weight of the coconut at all. It makes that sloshy noise as I set it back down.

Encouraged, I skip the other stuff on the table and go straight for the grain of rice. My silver and blue thumb works in conjunction with my forefinger. My cerebellum modulates the acceleration, angle and position of my limb continuously. A constant feedback and adjustment loop. And, in an instant, the grain of rice is between my fingers. Hallelujah! Accuracy tests completed. The hand glows with pride. Now, for something more interesting.

I reach again for the coconut. Hold it up. Rock it in my hand, lovingly. Then I begin to squeeze. The coconut is my enemy. Falling coconuts kill 10 times as many people as sharks each year. The shell cracks and it explodes, spraying coconut body parts everywhere. So much for keeping my hand dry. I wonder for a second if I should lick the coconut juice off my fingers, but decide it’s not worth the risk of electric shock.

I’ve adjusted to the hand within the first hour. My newfound strength and speed is astonishing.

My small keyboard is propped against the leg of the table. I’ve been playing since I was five. For the first time in over a year, I push my chair over to the keyboard and begin to play. Prelude in G Minor, Rachmaninoff. Like a six year old, the tears begin streaming down my face.

The next day, the ringing phone wakes me up. The clock on the wall reads 11 am. I find my pants, and glance down to make sure my hand is still firmly attached. Once on, the nurse had said, it isn’t coming off without major surgery. Check the box. Sign on the dotted line. Initial here. And here.

“Who’s this?” I’m not very gracious before 11:30.

Lobster Doorman isn’t doing his job today. “There are some gentlemen here to see you, Mr. Parsons. It sounds important.” His lobster voice pronounces the word like Im-Por-Tang.

He is supposed to play goalie – only let people up to the apartment if I’ve given the go-ahead. I make a mental note to give him the finger again, next time I’m in the lobby.

“I’m sure it’s very importang,” I mumble back.

I carelessly sling on my orange military jacket with the charred sleeve and crack open the door.

Jim Corman, Boston Globe.

Alan Isenberg, New York Times.

Rob Alverez, LA Times.

Mr. So and So, from the depths of wherever.

Microphones and mini-recorders are thrust under my nose. Lights and cameras are shining in my eyes. My eyes water again, and I’m imagining the relief of cold cutlery on my eyelids. My heart starts to pound. I’m nervous.

“Mr. Parsons, Mr. Parsons, any comments on your new hand?”

“Has it made your life better, sir?”

“Are you a new man?”

“Is there really no recovery time or rehabilitation necessary?”

Is there…can you…will you?

I mumble something and it comes out wrong and I’m trying to close the door. They’ve teamed up against me. How did they get my address? Boston Globe man sticks his foot in the doorway at the last second.

“Can we get a photo?”

A day later, and I’m picking up some broiled fish tacos, and the man waiting in line behind me has his head shaved and takes his hand out his pocket. His hand is glowing silver and powder blue with model number C-313 stamped on the side. He looks at me and raises his palm upwards in salute. The man gives me a big grin.

“You know what’s so great about these? Let’s me do everything I couldn’t do before — it’s freedom, man!”

I turn away from the idiot. He steps to the counter and orders the burrito. See you in the bathroom, buddy.

The next day, I am heading out of the apartment to my follow-up appointment. I run into Lobster Doorman in the lobby again. He waves to me. His head is shaved. My vision blurs again.

“Mr. Parsons, take a look!”

He makes a display of touching each of his new silver and blue fingers to his thumb, then twiddles all of his fingers maniacally.

I ask, “You didn’t lose your hand in an accident, did you? Say in the past two days?”

“Accident? This is the best decision of my life.”

“It’s a prosthetic hand. It’s meant to replace something I’ve lost, and give me back some functionality. You know, picking up tennis balls. Scratching, that kind of thing.”

“It’s fantastic. Best purchase of my life. Besides, my old hand gets frozen up and used in the name of science. So I’m helping out humanity as well. I’m helping society. It’s a win-win. And I owe it all to you.”

“To me. What the hell did I do?”

I go outside, and my picture is posted on a big billboard right along the main road in town. You can’t see my face, just my torso and my arm, but you can tell it’s me. I’m even wearing my damned orange military jacket. Always hated that thing. The bold, white text reads:

“READY FOR A NEW LIFE? PROSTHETIZE!”

I’m back in the medical facility. Seated in the waiting area are four others, C-313s for hands. Shaved heads, like a row of monks at prayer. Time to attain Nirvana. Sit at the tree and don’t rise until you get there.

Each of them raises their hands to me, palm upwards. One of them, a small, tanned man, stands and introduces himself.

“You’re Parsons, I know you! You’re in all the papers. The first one, huh? Man, what an honor.” He tries to touch his C-313 to mine. It’s a win-win. I pull away.

I meet Nurse Green Pants again in the examination room. Her manner is still cold and professional.

“Spreading like a bacteria, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“The C-313 is freedom, it’s life”

“It’s a replacement for what was once life”

“It’s better.”

She finishes her tests and shows me out, through the monks. But not before saying, smugly,

“You wouldn’t think that we would spend the millions of dollars of development costs and then limit our market to just you and other amputees, do you?”

I flee. Back at my apartment, the phone rings. I pick it up and hear my mother’s voice.

“Billy, it’s Mom. Um…what do you think about me getting one of those…you know? New hands? I heard they just make your life so much easier.”

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Manny Vinea spent years working as a financial analyst in the technology and healthcare spaces before making peace with his old creative self. Today, Manny is an animation writer, director and producer, most recently directing the efforts of a sci-fi CG animated TV series. He is currently in development on two other animated series, as well as a feature film. So, once again, he is up til the wee hours of the morning!