Post 42. My Left Hand, Part 2

High-Risk Repairs, Inside and Out

After all the battles, the pins, and the stubbornness, my left hand was finally ready for its first major operation: the fitting of the soft patch of skin that still sits there today like a comfort blanket. Smaller flaps taken from under my arm had patched up my face before, but this procedure carried far more risk.

Mr John Clarke, my surgeon, began at one of the main arteries near my left wrist and cut out a flap of skin extending all the way up to the top of my inner forearm. Crucially, the flap remained attached—still plugged into that artery—giving it a much better chance of being accepted by my body once it was swung around and repositioned. That wouldn’t be possible the following year when we attempted a similar procedure on my right hand.

No pins in sight!

The back of my left hand was reopened, and the flap was stitched—and mostly stapled—into place before those lovely pins were hammered back in to get the full benefit of stretching the skin out. Thankfully, the thickness of the bandaging this time around was enough to cover the pins—maybe the lively “discussions” Mr Clarke and I had before influenced his technique somewhat :)

The operation sounded simple to me, but it was anything but. This was a complex, high-risk procedure with plenty that could’ve gone wrong. But the potential leap in hand function—and the chance to avoid years of future scar-release surgeries—made it more than worth it. I think I was under the knife for five or six hours, likely my longest surgery since the first major skin graft back in Dublin.

The operation was a huge success. To me, it’s a thing of beauty—like an art piece I carry with me. It’s made that much difference in my life. Mr Clarke left a bit of a mess on the donor site though. He’d managed to pinch so much skin from my inner forearm that he struggled to sew/staple it back up. It means I’m left with a big scar up my arm, but honestly—what’s one more scar? Every single millimetre of that undamaged skin on the back of my left hand equates to a little bit more (desperately needed) functionality. Life’s about trade-offs, and you bet we accepted this one.

The progress I made afterwards with my physio, Claire, was exponential—and it had to be. If I was to have any shot at returning to, and surviving, school, we needed results. My two GCSE years were like two seasons in Formula 1; my body was the car and my mind the driver, getting upgrades from race to race just trying to keep up with my peers.

Who takes holidays around their patient’s operations?

I don’t remember anyone else ever handling my physio; Claire was the constant, four to five times a week, for a long time. Want to know why? Mum recently reminded me that she would schedule her annual leave around my hand operations. She couldn’t work on my hands until the pins and bandages came off, and she didn’t want to miss being there for me—so she timed her holidays for the moments when my hands were out of action. Incredible.

What strikes me now is that I received three very different—but equally vital—types of compassionate care throughout this period.

Claire, whose presence and consistency made her the number one reason (outside of family and close friends) I never really needed therapy. She was always there when I needed her—not just for my hands, as I’m sure you can imagine by now.

Mum—knowing when to protect me and when to step back. As much as she might have wanted to fight every battle for me, she knew she couldn’t always be there. Watching me argue with Mr Clarke might have been painful, but letting me stand on my own two feet was exactly what I needed. Having those fights during smaller, less risky procedures helped prepare me for the bigger ones when I needed to step up a level. I was toughening up, growing up, becoming a little bit more streetwise.

And the last one might surprise you: Mr Clarke. His tough love was its own brand of compassion, seasoned with confrontation and raw honesty. Sometimes, I just needed a good row—and Mr Clarke, with his short fuse, rarely shied away. Standing up to someone with his authority, especially when he quite literally held the scalpels to my future, taught me a lesson in how to be true to myself—whoever I was facing, and whatever the stakes were.

Three (types of compassion) is the magic number

Just a few months earlier, I’d ended the school year feeling a little deflated. My grades were mid-range, I was coasting, doing the bare minimum—to the frustration of my teachers. Socially, I was trying too hard with too many people. I often came off as too much—annoying, a wind-up. But fast-forward a few months, and while the outside world had fallen apart, my inner world had shown up. I was smashing through glass ceilings in terms of effort and self-awareness, learning the value of showing up as my true self—whatever the situation.

That shift wasn’t like flicking a switch. Progress is rarely linear. Life distracts us, our ego gets loud, and flaws remind us that the work is never done. But it’s in those moments—especially when we realise we’ve taken a step back—that we have to keep striding forward.

After the operation, I went back under general anaesthetic for the dressing changes and later to have the pins removed. I’d go on to experience pins being pulled out while I was awake, so I’ll give Mr Clarke credit—this time, he did me a solid. What I did have to endure, though, were the staples. So many staples. Industrial-sized ones, all around my hand and up and down my arm—pulled out with what looked like pliers. Debbie and Ruth, the senior nurses who ran the ward, always seemed to take care of my postoperative dressing changes. I’d endured so many traumatic dressing changes to that point that they, being the most experienced, made sure to be there for me in these scenarios. Debbie was tall and super gentle with her hands, whereas Ruth was a small, tough Aussie who just cracked on with getting the dressing change over with. I always hoped for Debbie’s delicate approach—but to give her credit, Ruth was handy with a pair of pliers!

That flap of skin didn’t just give me back some more use of my hand—it gave me back choice, freedom, and a sense of control. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And that made all the difference. Every scar, every staple, every argument and every breakthrough stitched into that patch of skin carries more than medical history—it carries proof. Proof that healing isn’t just physical. With the right people, the right fire, and just enough rebellion, you can build something stronger out of what’s broken. Even now, I look at that flap with gratitude—not as a reminder of what was taken from me, but of everything I was given in return.