‘Réveille-toi! Réveille-toi!” (Wake up! Wake up!) I shook my husband’s shoulder until he snorted a couple of times and then looked at me through sleepy, half-closed eyes. “Skiya?” he mumbled – in other words, “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” (What’s the matter?)
When he could finally focus, he saw, to his surprise, that I was sitting bolt upright in bed, massaging my right hand. I had woken up, realising that my hand was completely numb. I wasn’t worried at all at first, merely thinking that I had been sleeping on it and so, still half-asleep, had rubbed it desultorily a couple of times. It was only when the hand remained stubbornly numb and no amount of rubbing brought the feeling back, did I panic and wake T.
Still flat on his back, eyes closed, he obediently started rubbing my hand as well. All to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I lay flat on my stomach, my hand, rubbed red and raw, dangling over the edge of the bed. Gradually and excruciatingly, the feeling returned. It was like a bad case of pins and needles, only ten times worse.
The next day, I thought no more about it. We were still living in the Clos des Poivriers at the time with our daughter, aged two, and our son, who was about five months old. As baby clothes in Algeria were not really to my taste, I had spent a lot of time over the past few months knitting little jumpers, cardigans and trouser suits for my son. There he was, kitted out in knitted flares and trendy waistcoats, like a miniature Sonny Bono.
I had already done this two years before, when I had knitted my daughter’s entire layette – except for her nappies. The shelves in our wardrobe had been full of little, hand-knitted garments in pastel shades. I had carefully avoided pink or blue wool as we had had no idea if the baby I was expecting was a girl or a boy. No scans in Algeria at that time. It was perhaps lucky, in that some people might have thought twice about bringing a pregnancy to term if they had known it was a girl.
After a few days’ respite, the numbness and tingling in my right hand woke me again. This time I knew what to do, and let my hand dangle over the side of the bed again. The pain was awful – I bit my lip not to groan at the agonising prickling, both of the numbness and of the sensation seeping back.
I soon found that I could not raise my right hand higher than chest level without it losing all feeling. One day, sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to do up the buttons on the back of my daughter’s dress as she stood patiently in front of me, I burst into tears. My hand felt like a block of wood, and was about as much use. How could I continue to live a normal life as a wife and the mother of two small children, if I couldn’t use my hand properly?
Fatiha rushed into the room on hearing my sobs, and fastened my daughter’s dress for me. Off she skipped, not giving a thought as to why her mother had suddenly been reduced to a gasping, shuddering wreck.
Soon, just dangling my hand over the edge of the bed didn’t work anymore. I had to get out of bed and stand there for what seemed like an age, letting my hand drop to my side. T. would wake from a deep sleep and peer through the shadows in the bedroom to find me looming over the side of the bed, my arms by my sides and trying not to make any noise. He would blink at me and say tentatively, “Wendy?” A loud sob would be the only response I could make. He later confided in me that if I had not answered, he would have been out of the room like a shot.
Put yourselves in his shoes. You wake up from a deep sleep, feeling a PRESENCE in the room. You prise open your eyes to see a dark figure standing by the bed, its arms straight down by its sides. It isn’t doing anything – just standing there. The only noise you can hear is a kind of strange, snuffling sound. Visions of blood-soaked fangs and bony fingers reaching for your neck race through your mind. Dracula had nothing on me.
I finally went to see our local doctor, Dr. D. His surgery was just around the corner and along Bethioua’s main road. He had always been our friend, being approximately our age and having worked for Sonatrach at the ammonia plant for a while.
I can remember him walking down our front path for the first time, fashionable flares and kipper tie flapping in the breeze. His sideburns and moustache were a wonder to behold. Not my idea of a family doctor, having been brought up under the care of our dour, grey-haired GP in Blackpool – he of the bristly eyebrows that had always fascinated me as a child.
Dr. D., however, was to be of inestimable help to our family. He had accompanied T. to Algiers after my husband’s car accident and even after that, we could always count on him. When my son caught measles from his sister a few months later, he would come round to the house every single evening without being asked – just to check on our baby.
Dr. D. was no specialist, though. After scratching his head a bit and stroking his moustache, he decided to give me a course of cortisone injections. Even at the time, I knew that cortisone had bad side effects, but would have done anything, bar chopping off my hand, to take the pain away. The injections had limited success, reducing the agonising prickling, but doing nothing for the numbness.
I learned to manage my condition – no name had yet been put to my mysterious ailment. I learnt to sleep in certain positions, so my hand would not fall prey to the creeping numbness. I learnt not to use the hand for certain tasks. Sometimes, I would forget and have an agonising flare-up, as, for example, when T. brought home a load of pine planks for shelving, and I helped sand them down using just a bit of sandpaper.
It was only many years later, after our return to Britain, that I finally knew what was wrong. It is called carpal tunnel syndrome. After a series of tests, I was operated on to release the nerve from its inflamed, constricting sheath. That night, lying in bed, I realised that, for the first time in forty years, my hand was completely free from pins and needles.
My habit of knitting for hours on end has been the root cause of the problem, strangely enough aided by the fact that I had just recently given birth. I had to give up what used to be one of my favourite hobbies, and sadly, have not knitted again from that day to this.