The mid-afternoon call was a surprise. “Is this Mr. Meyer?” “Yes.” Then, “You have an appointment with Dr. MacDonald on October 23. There’s a problem with the appointment. I apologize; we’re going to have to change it.” I’d been having pain in my foot for weeks. “Why?” I ask. There’s more hesitation. “The appointment was made with the wrong doctor.” “Wrong doctor?” “Yes, I’m really sorry,” she says, “It’s my fault.” “But it took so long to get the appointment.” “I know. I really am sorry.” “Who was the appointment made with?” Again, hesitation. “Well, actually it was with a hand doctor. I put you in with Dr. Adler.”

With that, she laughs, “We’re trying to change his profession.” My mind begins spinning with the implications of seeing a hand guy, when there’s a foot problem. I’m on an examination table, the appendage stuck from beneath sterile sheets. The doctor eyes the elongated, stubby-fingered “hand” and exclaims, “Nurse, we have a Triage One emergency here. Prep this patient for surgery.” And then, calmly to me, “Mr. Meyer, you’re in luck. We received the hand of a young man who expired this morning—one of those IPod, cell-phone, texting in the EZ Pass lane mishaps. It’s a perfect fit Sir, a young southpaw, iced and ready to go. We’ll get you fixed. Is there anyone you would like us to contact?”

I try to imagine what a hand might be like where my left foot is. There might be benefits. I could never do cartwheels as a kid. How could you miss perfection in this area, starting out on a third hand? On that note, nothing with me would ever be second hand again. It would all be third hand–removed yet another tier from the actual source, like doctor to patient–all funneled through a nurse or receptionist: “The doctor would like you to…”; “Dr. So-and-So requires your signature on…” I could suddenly be completely off-handed with people, limiting legal and personal exposure. Not bad, I’m thinking. I’m turning cartwheels in my head.

And my apartment furnishings, some carefully restored “by hand,” would never again have to be considered “second-hand.” With this new, once-removed quality, they were suddenly taking on the subtle characteristics of “antiques”—being now technically a generation deeper in antiquarian thinking. My whole abode seemed to be taking on a deeper hue, its objects infused with historic significance. Nothing to thumb one’s foot at.

But then I realize there would also be a down side to any new extremity dexterity. All my stories would have a distant quality to them. Everything I’d attest to, including tales related among friends, could rightfully be called into question as third-hand information. If the operation were allowed to go forward–if this mistake was allowed to stand, everything I ever said—every remark made, would henceforth be off-handed. This would not be ideal in personal relationships, or when contesting parking fines.

The other shoe was about to drop. Suddenly I’m unsure about gaining double-southpaw status. Aside from outlandish dreams about a late-life run to the mound in Big League baseball–or developing an unorthodox windmill motion and burning up some fast-pitch softball lineup, the costs might outweigh the benefits. And, mistake or no, the expense of such surgery for one individual’s relatively small problem would certainly be steep. Surely that hand doctor would be cranking out a bill of Frankensteinian proportions at some point.

Who would foot that bill if it was rejected by the insurers? That seemed a real possibility, and it would leave me with hardly a leg to stand on considering my resources. And, even if that third hand did fly by the actuaries–should I rightfully expect society to shoulder the cost of what would ultimately be a cosmetic or elective surgery? Many of us desire a third hand, but are we really entitled to one simply because they’re more readily available?

Mr. Meyer? The phone brought me back to reality. “Mr. Meyer I can get you in with Dr. MacDonald on the 31st at 3:20. Will that work?” “Sorry,” I say, I was just mulling over the possibilities of having a hand attached where my foot is—cartwheels, that kind of stuff.” “Oh, that would be interesting,” she offered, “And, there’d be other stuff you could do too,” trailing off with an honest snicker. “Wait, that’s Halloween isn’t it?” I say, “Are you sure I’m not going to come in and get rushed through because the doctor has to shove off for trick-or-treating?” “Oh no, I don’t think so. Dr. MacDonald is not like that at all.”

I scratch down the appointment time. “Hey, maybe I’ll come dressed up as I hand,” I say. “That might work,” the receptionist replies. “OK, I’ll see you on Halloween! And remember: keep your eye on your work.” “Oh, I definitely will–that wouldn’t have been good. Bye Mr. Meyer.”

So I’m thinking of maybe turning this office visit into a real trick or treat phenomenon. But then again, maybe I’ll stop and see my primary care doctor first. It seems he has too much work. I just read a notice stating he’s currently only seeing “existing” patients. Which very much leaves me wondering just exactly who he was seeing before..? Clearly, this guy could use an extra hand.