The other morning I woke with my right arm positioned in a Benny Hill salute above my head. Somehow I'd lodged it where the circulation got pinched off and the whole length, from my hand to my shoulder, was paralyzed and cold. No feeling whatsoever. Any sort of grazing vermin could've ambled up and feasted on it, chewing up sinew and veins, and I wouldn't have felt a thing. I had to use my other arm to position the cold appendage down and coax it back to life.
I experienced a mild panic wondering if maybe it had been without circulation to the point of no return. What of gangrene or amputation? Or what if a different extremity had gone numb like, say, my head? Then what?
Well, the old arm did finally come 'round with some rallying slaps and a victrola playing John Philip Sousa marches full blast. I scolded it to never venture so far from home again, as I'd discovered it clutching a knapsack and a mini travel-sized bottle of Jim Beam. I mean, who knows where it had been in during its wild sojourn?
Should I be concerned?
"Lefty" The Icepick Jones