Perhaps a better description would be when a limb "goes to sleep" on you, and the feeling is being restored. I am sure that is due to an old injury.
I realize, of course, that I don't heal up as fast as I used to.
In fact, as a young man, I disregarded a number of injuries and continued with whatever 'work' I happened to be doing.
In my youth, those injuries would produce nagging aches for a few days, and then they would just "go away." Did they, or is it those that I feel now on cold mornings standing knee deep in water retrieving a muskrat?
Kathy and I were discussing some of these the other night while she endeavored to crochet an afghan. I told her that I had once crotched, and had actually gotten pretty good at it. That discussion sort of led to this BACKWOODS REMEMBRANCES.
My first few years in the Army I was a Forward Observer/Fire Direction Specialist in Field Artillery. I was assigned to the 2nd Armored Division (Forward) in Garlstedt Germany. It was a mechanized outfit, which is to say that everything was "self propelled."
I drove an M577 Command Post. It was a tracked affair, weighing in at about 13 tons. Like most "tanks" (best way I know to describe it), it had doors, and hatches everywhere. The rear door operated on hydraulics and acted as a ramp when opened. The 'TC' (track commander) had a 'cupola' (hatch), as did the driver. These hatches weighed about 200 pounds apiece, and like the rest of the track, were designed to repel small arms fire and shrapnel.
Is everyone getting the picture now? I mean, this was a "big mamma jamma" designed to go anywhere and do anything.
The problem with big machines designed to protect their operators and passengers, though, is that they can also hurt you. Anytime you got around the things you knew, anything from a cut finger to something more serious could occur.
One day, while "rail loading" the tracks and guns I was securing the vehicle to the train, making sure the hatches were all closed when one of the guys dropped the TC Hatch on my hand crushing it.
X-rays showed that almost every bone in the palm of my right hand was broken and in order to ever get full use of the hand again, months of physical therapy was going to be necessary once the cast came off.
As was explained to me, first strength had to be restored; this was accomplished through numerous painful attempts to 'crush' a tennis ball. Once that had been pretty much accomplished (after several weeks) it was time to work on dexterity and manipulation of the fingers.
On the day I was to start this exercise I reported to the therapist's office. She (yes, I said she) had in a little box some crochet needles, thread, and a book I am sure was entitled "101 Doily Patterns (and then some)."
I asked if she were kidding, couldn't I just take a typing class or something? After she showed me how to "chain stitch" and "double crochet," she turned me loose to "create works of art with multicolored threads". She made a joke about her house being decorated by the works of her patients.
Well, being the "good little soldier" I was, I followed her orders and began to learn how to do this thing. My first efforts, of course, weren't all that good, and explaining to the guys in the barracks (and the fights that resulted) I am sure did nothing to speed up the healing of my hand.
After several weeks, however, I was turning out some pretty 'pieces' of work. It wasn't long until I took up embroidery and some of the other sewing skills. It wasn't long before all the guys in the barracks quit making fun of me, and were bringing me uniform shirts to sew patches on, embroidery names on, etc.
Of course, all of this was designed to increase my ability to use my hand.
One day, when I presented my therapist with a finished doily, she announced that I was done, and she had done all she could do. The rest was up to me.
I haven't picked up a needle and thread (nor yarn) in a great many years, but watching Kathy work on that afghan sort of makes me think about it from time to time. Let's see, I wonder if a coon shaped doily would go over very well, or better yet, one with a skunk pattern.