Backpacker33
Member
OK, we all know we’re s’pposed to be proficient with either hand. It’s one of those givens of firearms lore. Got it. I had good trainers going back to the ‘70s, so I have always had fair weak hand proficiency.
So, what is the scenario? It’s always, almost, that we’ve taken one in the strong arm and have to do a cross body retrieval of our handgun. Reach behind the back or across the belly, undo the snap, lift the strap, push the button, whatever, then draw out the pistol. It changed the kind of holster security I used. If I couldn’t operate it with my other hand, I dumped it. Thankfully, my employer allowed choices.
All this assumes that the other hand is fully operable. I mean, if you’re having one of those days when The Forces of Evil have made both your arms hors de combat, well, what to do? Clamp the grenade under your armpit, pull the pin with your teeth and chuck it at the Evil Doers with a body thrust and hope it lands among their feet and far enough away from yours.
Just kidding. I don’t get to carry grenades any more, ever since leaving Vietnam, more’s the pity.
BUT, could there be a more mundane reason for bilateral manual incompetence?
Yes indeedy! Whilst pulling triggers I noted that a finger other than my usual trigger finger was experiencing, uh, trigger finger. And no, that isn’t a good thing. The expressive finger (thumb, fore finger, expressive finger, ring finger, pinky) developed a painful dislike for straightening after folding. Went to see the family doc who bounced me to a hand doc who was entirely too enthusiastic about the prospect for surgery since I expressed a reluctance to have expensive-sounding chemicals injected into my hand. Three times. Scheduled me for slice and dice three days hence. Oh joy.
Showed up as instructed an hour before The Event. V-nice RN took copious notes about my physical history. “You were shot HOW MANY TIMES?” Made me show her the scars. “And you were stabbed HOW MANY TIMES?” Made me show her the scars. “And you had HOW MANY HERNIA OPERATIONS?” She wouldn’t let me show her the scars. Took my word for it. My wife was there.
And, of course, started an IV drip. I’m sure that if one goes to the emergency room complaining of a hang nail or plantar wart, they start an IV drip. Sucrose, saline, I dunno. I asked for rum. She said “NO!” Wife concurred.
Now, I’m old enough to remember when IV’s were turkey feather quills stuck into the vena cava or jugular vein at the end of a fire hose. At least it seemed that way. Today they use a teeny needle that actually leaves a hair-thin catheter in the vein on the back of the hand. They even apply a local “numbing agent” (is that like a talent agent?) to the insertion site first, to, ah, numb the pain. THAT should be a warning. AND, since it was my RIGHT hand the hand doc was to do her magic on, all that drippy pricky stuff goes into the LEFT hand. Fine. What could go wrong? Go wrong? Go wrong?
First thought that came to mind as the nurse pushed the catheter-bearing needle thingy into my hand was “Is it a bad thing when the nurse says ‘OOPS!’ ”?
Well, it turns out, yes it is. BUT, she assured me, everything would be fine. Seems the needle thingy passed into and right back out of the prominent vein on the back of my hand. Since she caught it, retracted and realigned it, everything would (probably) be fine.
“PROBABLY?” She watched for a few minutes, telling me that if anything were going wrong, my hand would be swelling up like a water balloon, her term. Since it didn’t seem to be doing that, Everything Was Fine. I focused on her reassuring tone. She telephoned the anaesthesiolologist, uh, aneastetistist, the person who was going to give me the sleepy stuff, and told him about it, “Just In Case.” Like I said, reassuring.
After a while my chauffeur arrived to push my gurney – I HATE that term – to the O.R. I tried not think it meant anything that she was gowned from head to toe. Into the O.R. where they have an ominous many-armed robot dangling from the ceiling with lights and drills and big pinchy things all aimed at me. The nurses there had me scoot from the gurney – I HATE that term - to a table that is about as wide as my spine. They added more IV drips to the spaghetti dangling from my arm and laid my arms out as though I was to be crucified. I was waiting for them to drive a spike through my feet when I hear the aenesthetioloist – the sleepy stuff guy, say “CHEESE AND CRACKERS GOT ALL MUDDY CHIP IN A RIVER OF HISS!” Or something like that. He started saying things about responsible parties and heads rolling as I started losing touch with the world. Turns out that wasn’t necessarily because of the sleepy stuff but because I was fainting. I think.
And what was the cause of this noteworthy outburst? Seems that extra hole in the vein in the top of my hand had taken priority over the normal blood flow and my hand now looked like a water balloon. A purple water balloon. Shortly thereafter I completely fainted or the sleepy stuff finally did its work.
Upon awakening I found my right hand wrapped up like a giant lollypop and my left hand wrapped up in an ice pack. Happily, I could feel neither.
The good news was that my wife fielded the parade of people who came in to see me because I was now infused with world class mind altering very expensive drugs that made them all seem like characters in a Looney Toons cartoon, speaking in silly voices.
My Dearly Beloved relayed to me in simple, single syllable words, that the hand doc had to snip out a nerve ganglion cyst in addition to releasing the trigger finger. Sooo, the scar was longer. Hence the huge bandage and expensive drugs. She was probably thrilled at the challenge. They kept me for four hours, to watch my palpitating heart, they said.
A day later, as the mind and pain numbing drugs wore off, I realized I was not only unable to draw or even TOUCH a firearm with my right hand, never mind actually shoot one, I could not close the fingers of my LEFT hand enough to grasp anything more demanding than a hanky, and I had no need of one of those. Good news, though, the swelling in my left hand subsided rather quickly, leaving only an attention getting purple blotch over most of it. And substantial discomfort . . . OK, I know I’m being whiny, but it was PAIN - in the back of my hand.
12 more hours and the only swelling remaining in my left hand was between the knuckles. And the residual pain. I know, still whining.
Carry of a handgun on the right would have been just silly since it would serve no more purpose to my right hand than a barbell. So, of course, I’d just put a suitable roscoe on my left hip, my thinking went. At which point I discovered that I did not yet have enough dexterity in my left hand to do much more than pick my nose, which I DON’T because I am an adult. Refer to my hanky comment.
Seems, however, that even my most accessible left-hand holster was more than my thoroughly irritated left hand could manage. So I called a friend who has one of almost anything that could accessorize a handgun. He had a left-hand paddle holster that perfectly fit my S&W 642 J-Frame .38 Special +P Airweight, go figure. He tweaked it a bit so it would hold the featherweight securely during normal jostling but release it with an appropriate straight up pull. And added a grip sleeve to my roscoe. He had a choice of colors. I picked black, of course. It’s a guy thing, honk, snort, pawing of ground!
I know what you’re thinking. Shoot that roscoe with a bum hand? Bum WEAK hand? That’s what HE said, too. Sooo, a quick trip to his garage part-time shooting range to find out. I can tell you unequivocally that with the proper application of magic incantations, commonly known as swearing, it can be done. I wanted to do at least ONE shot with my right hand, but my friend noted that the incision was glued shut, not stitched, and that he would be annoyed if I got blood on his floor, since I had, in fact, invited my SELF over. Point taken.
So, new line of thinking about weak-hand holsters. What if even the weak hand is compromised? For me it came down to a choice of how to carry. Holsters I had were designed for a hand of normal strength and dexterity. Pain and swelling made them too secure for me to use. The borrowed holster does not have a name on it that I can see. The only mark I can find is “SZ 3” inside the scabbard, at the top inner part. It is Kydex, a paddle with aggressive belt-snagging teeth and two tension screws at the bottom rear. It’s a pain – literally – to get off. It has four sets of screws holding the scabbard to the paddle, and can therefore be adjusted for vertical fit. It is well used and my friend only smirks when I ask him why. He said I have to give it back when the hand doc proclaims me fit, meaning that my WEAK hand swelling will have subsided enough to allow me to use my own left hand security holster. Can’t argue with that.
-Backpacker
So, what is the scenario? It’s always, almost, that we’ve taken one in the strong arm and have to do a cross body retrieval of our handgun. Reach behind the back or across the belly, undo the snap, lift the strap, push the button, whatever, then draw out the pistol. It changed the kind of holster security I used. If I couldn’t operate it with my other hand, I dumped it. Thankfully, my employer allowed choices.
All this assumes that the other hand is fully operable. I mean, if you’re having one of those days when The Forces of Evil have made both your arms hors de combat, well, what to do? Clamp the grenade under your armpit, pull the pin with your teeth and chuck it at the Evil Doers with a body thrust and hope it lands among their feet and far enough away from yours.
Just kidding. I don’t get to carry grenades any more, ever since leaving Vietnam, more’s the pity.
BUT, could there be a more mundane reason for bilateral manual incompetence?
Yes indeedy! Whilst pulling triggers I noted that a finger other than my usual trigger finger was experiencing, uh, trigger finger. And no, that isn’t a good thing. The expressive finger (thumb, fore finger, expressive finger, ring finger, pinky) developed a painful dislike for straightening after folding. Went to see the family doc who bounced me to a hand doc who was entirely too enthusiastic about the prospect for surgery since I expressed a reluctance to have expensive-sounding chemicals injected into my hand. Three times. Scheduled me for slice and dice three days hence. Oh joy.
Showed up as instructed an hour before The Event. V-nice RN took copious notes about my physical history. “You were shot HOW MANY TIMES?” Made me show her the scars. “And you were stabbed HOW MANY TIMES?” Made me show her the scars. “And you had HOW MANY HERNIA OPERATIONS?” She wouldn’t let me show her the scars. Took my word for it. My wife was there.
And, of course, started an IV drip. I’m sure that if one goes to the emergency room complaining of a hang nail or plantar wart, they start an IV drip. Sucrose, saline, I dunno. I asked for rum. She said “NO!” Wife concurred.
Now, I’m old enough to remember when IV’s were turkey feather quills stuck into the vena cava or jugular vein at the end of a fire hose. At least it seemed that way. Today they use a teeny needle that actually leaves a hair-thin catheter in the vein on the back of the hand. They even apply a local “numbing agent” (is that like a talent agent?) to the insertion site first, to, ah, numb the pain. THAT should be a warning. AND, since it was my RIGHT hand the hand doc was to do her magic on, all that drippy pricky stuff goes into the LEFT hand. Fine. What could go wrong? Go wrong? Go wrong?
First thought that came to mind as the nurse pushed the catheter-bearing needle thingy into my hand was “Is it a bad thing when the nurse says ‘OOPS!’ ”?
Well, it turns out, yes it is. BUT, she assured me, everything would be fine. Seems the needle thingy passed into and right back out of the prominent vein on the back of my hand. Since she caught it, retracted and realigned it, everything would (probably) be fine.
“PROBABLY?” She watched for a few minutes, telling me that if anything were going wrong, my hand would be swelling up like a water balloon, her term. Since it didn’t seem to be doing that, Everything Was Fine. I focused on her reassuring tone. She telephoned the anaesthesiolologist, uh, aneastetistist, the person who was going to give me the sleepy stuff, and told him about it, “Just In Case.” Like I said, reassuring.
After a while my chauffeur arrived to push my gurney – I HATE that term – to the O.R. I tried not think it meant anything that she was gowned from head to toe. Into the O.R. where they have an ominous many-armed robot dangling from the ceiling with lights and drills and big pinchy things all aimed at me. The nurses there had me scoot from the gurney – I HATE that term - to a table that is about as wide as my spine. They added more IV drips to the spaghetti dangling from my arm and laid my arms out as though I was to be crucified. I was waiting for them to drive a spike through my feet when I hear the aenesthetioloist – the sleepy stuff guy, say “CHEESE AND CRACKERS GOT ALL MUDDY CHIP IN A RIVER OF HISS!” Or something like that. He started saying things about responsible parties and heads rolling as I started losing touch with the world. Turns out that wasn’t necessarily because of the sleepy stuff but because I was fainting. I think.
And what was the cause of this noteworthy outburst? Seems that extra hole in the vein in the top of my hand had taken priority over the normal blood flow and my hand now looked like a water balloon. A purple water balloon. Shortly thereafter I completely fainted or the sleepy stuff finally did its work.
Upon awakening I found my right hand wrapped up like a giant lollypop and my left hand wrapped up in an ice pack. Happily, I could feel neither.
The good news was that my wife fielded the parade of people who came in to see me because I was now infused with world class mind altering very expensive drugs that made them all seem like characters in a Looney Toons cartoon, speaking in silly voices.
My Dearly Beloved relayed to me in simple, single syllable words, that the hand doc had to snip out a nerve ganglion cyst in addition to releasing the trigger finger. Sooo, the scar was longer. Hence the huge bandage and expensive drugs. She was probably thrilled at the challenge. They kept me for four hours, to watch my palpitating heart, they said.
A day later, as the mind and pain numbing drugs wore off, I realized I was not only unable to draw or even TOUCH a firearm with my right hand, never mind actually shoot one, I could not close the fingers of my LEFT hand enough to grasp anything more demanding than a hanky, and I had no need of one of those. Good news, though, the swelling in my left hand subsided rather quickly, leaving only an attention getting purple blotch over most of it. And substantial discomfort . . . OK, I know I’m being whiny, but it was PAIN - in the back of my hand.
12 more hours and the only swelling remaining in my left hand was between the knuckles. And the residual pain. I know, still whining.
Carry of a handgun on the right would have been just silly since it would serve no more purpose to my right hand than a barbell. So, of course, I’d just put a suitable roscoe on my left hip, my thinking went. At which point I discovered that I did not yet have enough dexterity in my left hand to do much more than pick my nose, which I DON’T because I am an adult. Refer to my hanky comment.
Seems, however, that even my most accessible left-hand holster was more than my thoroughly irritated left hand could manage. So I called a friend who has one of almost anything that could accessorize a handgun. He had a left-hand paddle holster that perfectly fit my S&W 642 J-Frame .38 Special +P Airweight, go figure. He tweaked it a bit so it would hold the featherweight securely during normal jostling but release it with an appropriate straight up pull. And added a grip sleeve to my roscoe. He had a choice of colors. I picked black, of course. It’s a guy thing, honk, snort, pawing of ground!
I know what you’re thinking. Shoot that roscoe with a bum hand? Bum WEAK hand? That’s what HE said, too. Sooo, a quick trip to his garage part-time shooting range to find out. I can tell you unequivocally that with the proper application of magic incantations, commonly known as swearing, it can be done. I wanted to do at least ONE shot with my right hand, but my friend noted that the incision was glued shut, not stitched, and that he would be annoyed if I got blood on his floor, since I had, in fact, invited my SELF over. Point taken.
So, new line of thinking about weak-hand holsters. What if even the weak hand is compromised? For me it came down to a choice of how to carry. Holsters I had were designed for a hand of normal strength and dexterity. Pain and swelling made them too secure for me to use. The borrowed holster does not have a name on it that I can see. The only mark I can find is “SZ 3” inside the scabbard, at the top inner part. It is Kydex, a paddle with aggressive belt-snagging teeth and two tension screws at the bottom rear. It’s a pain – literally – to get off. It has four sets of screws holding the scabbard to the paddle, and can therefore be adjusted for vertical fit. It is well used and my friend only smirks when I ask him why. He said I have to give it back when the hand doc proclaims me fit, meaning that my WEAK hand swelling will have subsided enough to allow me to use my own left hand security holster. Can’t argue with that.
-Backpacker
