A Spinal Cord Injury Survivor's Fingertip Diary: Cold Noodles, Gummy Candy, and a 60% Miracle

Introduction

Invisible landmines are buried throughout our casual daily lives.

Since returning to the office, I have been facing this kind of "fingertip survival" every single day.

About a year ago, I suffered what is known as a "cervical spinal cord injury."

Immediately after the accident, I entered a state called "spinal shock," where no signals from my brain could reach my body at all, and there were times when I couldn't move my fingertips even a millimeter.

Through repeated rehabilitation, I have fortunately regained some function, but a strong paralysis still remains in the "tips" (extremities) of my nerves.

To put it another way, it feels like "being forced to do everything while wearing thick ski gloves."

If people only see me walking or moving my arms broadly, they tell me, "You've really recovered well."

However, the real battle lies in the millimeter-level "details" of daily life that are never visible to others.

The "Invisible Minefield" of Convenience Store Lunches

During lunch at the office, those landmines show their fangs without mercy.

I head to a convenience store near the building a little off-peak, but the bento boxes and cup noodles lined up there are "impregnable fortresses" to me now.

First of all, I cannot open the thin plastic wrap covering the containers.

Or rather, I don't have the strength in my fingertips to pinch the "tear notch" to open them.

Even with a bag of gummy candy I bought for a snack, even if I manage to tear the notch using my teeth, I often fail because I cannot muster the strength to pull the "zipper (resealable closure)" apart with my fingertips.

As a result, my lunch has been optimized for "rice balls with the seaweed already wrapped" and sweet breads like "melon pan" that don't crumble easily.

Sandwiches and yakisoba buns are out of the question because I would crush the contents the moment I grabbed the package.

I broke through that safety zone just once. The other day, I had a colleague accompany me, and I bought cold noodles.

The start of the meal was fine.

My colleague opened the noodle sauce packet, removed the lid, and took the chopsticks out of the bag for me.

Thanks to that, I was able to enjoy the luxury of "choosing my lunch" for the first time in a while.

The problem happened after I finished eating.

My colleagues left their seats first, and I was left alone to deal with the remaining noodle broth.

The moment I tried to go dispose of the broth by holding the edges of the plastic container between both hands, I intended to apply pressure with my fingertips, but I couldn't control the angle to tilt the container properly, and the broth spilled all over my own seat.

I tried to right the container immediately, but with fingers lacking grip strength, I wasn't fast enough.

In the end, the broth ran across the desk and splashed onto the surrounding seats, affecting the person next to me as well. All I could do was bow my head.

The action of "holding a container at a tilt with constant pressure"—something healthy fingers do unconsciously—is the highest wall for me.

Since that incident, I never touch menu items involving broth.

In exchange for the deliciousness of cold noodles, I continue to choose the price of a "safe lunch."

Lunch has become a purely administrative task just to fill my stomach.

There are traps in drinks, too.

Thankfully, an acquaintance introduced me to a "bottle cap opener" a while ago, and I keep it in my bag at all times. I can turn the cap itself with that.

But that's not the point. The current mainstream is the "environmentally friendly, ultra-thin, lightweight plastic bottle." For me, with zero grip strength, that is nothing more than a "water bomb."

If I put even a little bit of pressure on the hand supporting the bottle to open the cap, the thin plastic dents with a pop, and the liquid inside sprays out with force, making everything soaking wet.

The miracle of "fumbling" I learned after it was taken away

Every aspect of daily life feels like walking a tightrope based only on visual information.

Humans naturally perform many tasks based solely on the sensation in their hands. For example, the act of reaching into a bag and identifying, "Oh, this is the plastic of my Suica (commuter pass) case," just by the feel of the fingertips.

Technically, this is called "Active Touch," and by moving our fingertips to "fumble" around, we recognize the shape and material of objects.

Right now, I cannot perform that feat of "fumbling."

Because my fingertips have lost their sense of touch, even when I touch something, I have no idea if it's a key, a card, or a coin.

And this isn't just about objects. To be blunt, I don't really understand the sensation of human skin either.

Even when someone I haven't seen in a long time asks for a handshake, I think the 'palm of my hand' they feel and the 'palm of their hand' I feel are completely different things.

They are likely feeling my warm body temperature and softness, but what comes back to me is nothing more than a vague, indistinct 'pressure'.

The act of holding someone's hand, which should be the most human form of contact, has become a somewhat one-way experience for me.

As a result, I end up getting stuck in front of the train ticket gate, having to open my bag wide and desperately 'search' for my Suica with my eyes.

Buttoning a shirt is the same. During my rehabilitation in the hospital, I practiced for hours on end to do it.

But even now, I can't.

In particular, I can't confirm the position of the top two buttons without looking in a mirror, and above all, the delicate coordination of fingers required to 'pass the button through the hole, then switch fingers to pull it out from the other side' always fails.

So this summer, I'm getting by with a 'trick' of leaving the top button of my polo shirt fastened and pulling it over my head like a T-shirt.

Even cutting my nails is a struggle.

I have become able to cut both my fingernails and toenails by myself using tools.

However, it takes a fair amount of power to cut my hardened toenails.

As a result of forcing strength into my fingertips, I've accidentally cut my own flesh twice so far, getting caught in the process because of my dull sensation.

It is only when I see the blood slowly spreading that I notice the pain.

To make matters worse, the little finger on my hand that I injured during my student days has developed a condition called 'swan-neck deformity,' possibly due to the impact of this recent injury, and it doesn't bend well.

My hands remain truly awkward, both physically and neurologically.

The '60% Light' on the Other Side of the Screen

In the midst of such a daily life filled with barriers, where even peeling the seaweed off a rice ball is a struggle, I suddenly look at my hands at my office desk.

My two hands are in front of the keyboard.

When I was hospitalized and in the darkness of spinal shock, I couldn't even touch the keyboard of a PC or smartphone.

And now, look at me.

The 'tactile stimulation' on my fingertips when I strike the keys.

Perhaps my brain is 're-educating' itself and relearning that faint impact as a new sensation.

I feel my body gradually, bit by bit, becoming accustomed to the keyboard.

I certainly can't touch-type like I used to, and I have to look at my hands while typing.

However, I feel like I've reached a point where I can input text at about 60% of my previous speed.

In the 'extremities' of my body, my fingertips, a persistent paralysis certainly remains.

I still lose to the zipper on a bag of gummy candy today, and I get sprayed with water by eco-friendly lightweight bottles.

Even so, without having perfect fingertips, I am still tapping the keyboard with my own fingers today, devouring seaweed-wrapped rice balls and melon bread, and facing my work at 60% speed.

I still can't manage to fumble through things or feel the warmth of a handshake very well.

But today, I walked through a daily life filled with landmines without stepping on one. For me, that alone is more than enough of a victory.

Thank you for reading this far.

They say everyone feels things differently, but I hope this article is of some help to those who share similar feelings.

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