Under My Thumb: What living with chronic pain has taught me
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes was attacked by a squirmin’ feral cat – she’s desperate to take it easy, but the shock won’t let her
PLASTIC SKIN
The plastic skin they dressed three fingers in
After the rescued cat clawed its pound of flesh
From my right hand for the favour,
Had stuck to my wounds as if attached
Like masticated chewing gum, ironed on.
The nightly pain preventing sleep could only
Be otherwise achieved by placing your hand beneath
The wheel of a car with the weight of the engine above.
When that second skin was finally stripped away
My epidermal layers had turned a ghastly shade of grey,
Reflecting the medics’ faces in the hospital
On my third visit. But as the colour began to seep back into
My own thin covering the pain receded like the end
Of a long night and let the daylight in. Buttons, zips,
Watch straps, bra straps, and peeling vegetables
Remind me of the importance of the humble thumb,
The missing end mending beneath its bandages.
While my piano-playing days are over before they’ve begun,
And a guitar is out of the question, I can paint
As if holding chopsticks badly, and write about it.