Fingertip Problem

Fingertip Problem

Matthew Ryan Fischer

When did it begin, Hugo wondered. A day ago, or a week or maybe more. When did his fingers grow so cold? And why did nothing seem to change it? On the first day it probably didn’t even occur to him. Or maybe he blamed the weather. How many days did it take for him to begin to think of it as a recurring problem? Too many probably.

Doctors had been consulted. He didn’t feel pain. He didn’t feel numb. At least not yet. Raynaud’s Syndrome was ruled out. Then came more tests. Anemia, diabetes, lupus, thyroid… Nothing seemed to be the problem. Some suggested it was nothing but bad genetics might just beginning. Age, circulation problems, one of the many new changes and idiosyncrasies that could not be avoided. Just one of those common everyday things, and nothing to stress out about. How long did he really want to keep looking and how many tests could he pay for when no one thing was obvious and none of it seemed life threatening?

The internet gave Hugo many new things to be concerned about and many additional things he would need to research next. He read about metabolism problems and blood flow and diet.  He studied himself and tried to document any signs of some far worse ailment. He exercised more. He held his hands on warm mugs of coffee or tea. He bought a space heater and began wearing gloves in the house. And yet nothing solved his problem.

He read about body dysmorphia and wondered if such a thing as finger dysmorphia existed. He told that because he wasn’t worrying about physical flaws or his fingers’ appearances, then it was likely something else. But that just made Hugo worry more. Perhaps it was still a mental disorder. The internet told him it might be depersonalization or ghost limb syndrome. But he wasn’t missing any fingers and he didn’t feel like he was living outside of his body. He felt like himself. He felt like they were his fingers. Just that something was wrong with them.

Then one day they felt wet. And once they felt too warm instead of cold. They were warm and wet on and off for a week. And then they were still too warm for a few more days after that, as they grew dry and his skin cracked. Once he felt a stabbing pain and developed a paper cut when there had been no paper. Did his skin simply crack? Had he imagined it?

One day, Hugo’s fingers began to tap his desk, mimicking what he imagined were the motions of typing. But when he sat at his laptop none of the motions matched motions that would result in actual words. It seemed too orderly to be a seizure, but perhaps he was finally developing one of those awful medical conditions he had feared. While waiting to see his doctor, his fingers began to move again and another patient asked if he played piano. Hugo did not play piano. But he couldn’t argue the fact that yes indeed it did look as though he might be playing or practicing finger placements on a keyboard.

His fingers seemed to be enjoying a life of their own, learning new skills without him. But what of the other sensations? Cold, wet, hot, dry, pain, no pain, too much pain. Perhaps they were not his fingers. Perhaps these were fingers that were out traveling and enjoying vacations and living a grand life without him. They could be linked to another set, somewhere on the other side of the world, and his fingers were reacting to what this other person was doing. If that were the case, what could he do, and what would they feel when he did it? Was someone else out there, thinking they were crazy?

Hugo began to write notes. Letters. Messages asking who was out there, where they were and if they were experiencing the same thing he was. He moved in slow deliberate moves, to try and make sure the person on the other end knew that their fingers were trying to write out a message. All he needed was for them to be holding a pen and they’d quickly discover the secret. He began to learn Morse code and sign language, just in case. What would it take, and how long before this other person realized what was happening? If they existed at all. Maybe his fingers were just that – his fingers. And all the strange sensations had been them somehow living a life without him. 

Hugo didn’t know. But he had to keep trying. Cooking. Construction. Gardening. There were a million new things he could learn to do to keep his fingers active and sending out messages. It would just take finding the right one, the precise skill that the other person would recognize. He would grow. He would learn. He would keep at it. For as long as it took. One more day. And one more new thing to try. And then another. And then one more.