I spent six years living with an arm that had zero motor function from the elbow to the fingertips after I was injured in a Vespa accident. Picture one of those inflatable T. rex costumes: The person wearing it knows the tail is there, but they keep knocking drinks over and tripping people nonetheless. When you’re aware of something but have absolutely no control over what it does, it’s time to Marie Kondo it. I had no guarantee life would be better as an amputee than it was with a paralyzed arm, but knew it was time to part with my arm as it sparked no joy...

This year, my left arm actually started growing back. “Like a lizard?” I asked my doctor, borderline excited that I really might be part T. rex. No, not exactly, it turns out. While I won’t regrow an elbow, forearm or hand, my arm bone has virtually rebuilt itself. My humerus is now visible just beneath the skin ― about an inch and a half past where it ended a year ago. The pain I’m experiencing is somewhat akin to what I imagine Harry Potter must have felt after his professor made the bones in his arm disappear and he had to regrow them. Every morning I wake up and look down to see if there’s a hand or if the bone has finally made its way past the wispy layer keeping it in. Thankfully, it hasn’t ― I’ve gotten too used to my freedom, range of motion, and half-priced manicures. So, in light of this ironic setback, come Friday, I’ll be having my left arm cut off again. And I couldn’t be happier about it.

~~~

OK, context. Still.