I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
De-Lobstering
". . . fairly straightforward," the doctor was saying. "The patient's digits are fused by skin and muscle but the bones themselves are independent."
Jimmy tried to wiggle his lobster claws.
"Now, as the fingers grow in their currently fused state, this will cause them, especially the ring finger, to be pulled down with the shorter digits . . ."
They weren't there.
". . . possibly causing pain and loss of range of motion."
They hadn't been.
"The surgery we are preparing for him is designed to remedy this."
Not for over thirty years.
Under anesthesia, the patient's fused digits will be separated."
Longer than he'd had them.
"Any necessary nail-bed reconstructions or similar will be made and skin grafts from his arm placed over the separations."
Which seemed bizzare.
"The digits will be dressed with gauze between them so that the dermis will not re-fuse. Both arms will be cast above the elbow, bent, to allow the grafts time to take and to guard against infection."
And unreal.
"The incisions will be inspected after ten days and recast for another week after that."
But no more bizarre and unreal . . .
"Once the casts are off permanently, daily wound care and moisturization of the digits will be required. And the patient of course will be encouraged to move and bend and flex the digits to improve range of motion."
. . . than what the doctor was telling him now.
"The entire process should take about four to six weeks."
Jimmy, stunned, stared at him.
"That's all it takes?"
The doctor nodded, seeming to focus intently not on Jimmy's hooks.
"Yes, barring infection."
And Jimmy still couldn't quite wrap his head around it.
"Is that . . . new? The . . . technique?"
Ma? Did you know about this?
"No, but updated sanitation safeguards against infection have been effectively improved to shorten and improve recovery time."
Jimmy, grasping for words.
"Wow."
He stared at the place his phantom lobster claws had once been.
Is that really all it would have taken to make me . . . normal?
What could I have done if I was normal?
A slow burning fire began to smolder in his chest.
Before one single thought dampened it toward eventual extinguish.
Not have Annabel.
Oh.
And then the girl herself interrupted his musings.
"Daddy?"
Sounding anxious.
"You okay?"
And he cleared, refocused on the thing that was important here.
"Yeah, Annabel."
Not him.
"I'm just fine."
And that was it.
But it wasn't that easy, how could she have ever thought it might be, how could she have allowed herself to be so easily fooled?
Oh dear god!
What have they done . . .
"- to my baby?!"l
This isn't right! This isn't what they were supposed to do-
"- Anderson, you wanted to get rid of his deformed hands-"
"Yes! By fixing them! Fixing them! Not-"
Oh dear god, my baby-
Patrick was there, of course.
With his ductape and superglue.
"Be still, little boy, be still-"
And precious little James Oliver Anderson giggling and cooing and wiggling away from Daddy-
"No, wait, hang on, come back here-"
-who was just trying to glue his hands back on.
"Jimmy, wait-"
"Somebody call my name?"
And Daddy-
Oh dear god what is he holding?!
-swooping in to rescue the day-
"Don't worry, Little Man, we gotcha all fixed up. Look what I broughtcha!"
No, Daddy, no, oh god-
Two little toddler-sized wooden lobster-claw hands.
"Now you can be just like me!"
No no no no no-
Ma-Da and Ma-Ba appearing out of nowhere, big pot sloshing with them.
"Who's hungry? We made Lobster-Hand Soup!"
And then Annabel jerked up out of her hellish, pre-surgery nightmare.
Nearly falling out of the bed in the process.
Patrick rolling over, reaching out for an Annabel that shaking herself to bits.
"Annabel? What's wrong?"
"Patrick, get the baby, check his hands-"
"What? Why?"
But he was already up, already leaving her.
Alone in the dark, alone with her nightmare.
Oh god oh god oh god-
Only to return with a semiconscious toddler with two, count them two, lobster-claw hands.
The Baby himself sinking back into comfortable sleep as his mother cradled him to her, kissing his face, his hair.
Kissing and stroking his precious fused fingers, sniffing back her tears.
Slowly calming, recovering.
As her bewildered husband soothed her hair and stroked her face.
"Bad dream?"
Oh god-
"Yeah."
Patrick Pause.
"Better?"
Oh god, well-
"Yeah. I think. Getting there."
Another pauseful consideration.
"Okay. I love you."
Yeah-
"I love you too."
It actually really was that easy.
Relatively, anyway.
The surgery went just fine.
His mother and father and grandparents received the news from their hard plastic waiting room chairs.
"-textbook surgery-"
And used the pay phone in the corner to call the Clarks to spread the good word.
"Wonderful! We'll get on the horn to everyone."
"Call Lucy first, would you please? She was so taken with him at Thanksgiving."
"It would be my pleasure. Give him a little kiss for me now."
"You got it."
The boy came home all drugged up.
De-fused hands wrapped up in gauze and casts.
And later, when the majority of the drugs wore off, a very confused and scared little boy.
"Ouch!"
Hands up. Face pulled into a frown.
"I know, boy. I know it hurts."
No, I don't. I've never had a scapel dug into my hands and sliced apart.
"I'm sorry. But it's for your own good."
Waving casted hands. Tearful eyes.
"Ouch!"
"I know."
And then she held him.
Alot.
And so did his father.
And his grandfather.
And his grandmothers.
Nothing else much got done over the next seven days.
Most of the family's focus was lasered in on the boy.
He was held.
"Let's snuggle and watch Mr. Rogers Neighborhood."
"Ba!"
He was fed.
"Who wants animal crackers?"
"Ba!"
He was cleaned.
"This is a sponge bath. See how it tickles under your arms?"
"Hee hee. Ba!"
And in general, catered to in every way possible.
Who wants ice cream?"
"Ba!"
He deserved it too.
His sliced and diced and stitched fingers must have hurt.
"Ouch!"
Must have ached.
"Ouch!"
Must have pulled.
"Ouch!"
And sometimes, they would later find out, they bled.
"Guh, guh!"
It was one of the longest weeks in recorded human history.
"Ma, Ma! Ouch!"
But children learn to accept . . .
"Would you like to read Curious George?"
"Yehs."
. . . more quickly than they have any right to.
"Would you like some more milk?"
"Yehs."
So much so, Annabel grew to think there might ought to be a law against it.
"Would you like to watch the birds outside?"
"Yehs."
The boy lay against whoever was holding him, all the time, it seemed.
Still and quiet, casted hands still and propped.
He did not play.
He did not cry.
He did not yell.
He still simply lay.
As though this now was his life.
And for several days, it was.
Halfway through the second week, things changed again.
Whack!
Because the boy . . .
Whack!
. . . seemed to be . . .
Whack!
. . . adjusting . . .
Whack!
. . . to what he thought . . .
Whack!
. . . were his new . . .
Whack!
. . . permanent . . .
Whack!
. . . hands.
Whack!
"Would you stop that? You're going to break off the casts."
Whack!
"You're going to have to go back to the doctor."
Whack!
You're going to hurt your hands."
Whackwhackwhackwhack!
"Ouch."
"See? I told you."
And finally, finally, finally, it was time for the casts to come off.
They went to the doctor . . .
"It's okay, it's okay, Mommy's right here."
"Ma, ma, ouch, mm mm . . ."
"I know, baby, I know.
. . . and carefully . . .
"Ma, ma, mm mm . . ."
. . . unwrapped his new . . .
"Ma, ma, mm . . ."
. . . hands.
"There you go, son. Good as new."
And the boy . . .
"Wow."
. . . learned . . .
"Those are your new hands, Jimmy."
. . . a new word.
"Wow."
As he stared at his scarred, pudgy, five fingered hands.
"Wow."
As if he had never seen them before.
"Wow."
And he hadn't.
"Wow."
"I know, right?"
"Wow."
He played with them a lot those first few days.
Poking one finger in between the others.
Seeming amazing at the space between the digits now.
"The zigzag scar pattern will fade with time."
"Okay."
"And since they are strategically placed between his fingers, they should not be reaily noticeable to the undiscerning eye."
"Okay."
"He needs to play with them as much as possible to avoid stiffness and loss of range of motion."
"Ha, I don't think that'll be a problem."
"I tend to agree with you."
"And we'll need to make a followup appointment in a few weeks to check-up on his healing."
"Okay. Thank you, Doctor."
Little Jimmy, still very taken with his new hands . . .
"Wow."
. . . showed them to his grandmamas and granddaddy.
"Ba!"
All the time.
"I see, Darling."
"They're wonderful!"
"Hey, check out those hands, Champ!"
He got lotion rubbed on them frequently to keep the skin grafts supple and flexible as possible, to reduce pulling and tightening and pain.
They even made a game of it.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle . . ."
They went to follow-up appointments.
"Exceptional healing."
And were eventually releasing with gold stars of recovery.
"Ma-Ma, ba!"
"I know, baby. Good job."
"Ba!"
And after several months . . .
"Ba!"
"Yep, ten little fingers, Little Man. Pretty impressive, huh?"
. . . they didn't think of it much at all.
Thanks to brigid1318 for reviewing and positive waves to her with her own frustrations there. I appreciate you very much. :)