Stitches are out. Go back in a month.
I cried about this last night. Because I am overthinking things and afraid. Of hurting my hands by using them. Or of using them but not hurting them. Because I am scared to put the pieces of my independence back together. Because I barely remember what the excruciating pain was like, only that I was present for it and somehow survived.
I learned that one of my vans (the one I can no longer drive but has a working ramp) is dead. Game over. The fifteen months where I had three vehicles and two of them were modified has ended. My first vehicle, the one that I dated my future husband in, the one we brought our children home in, is no more.
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