The day after I was admitted to Rusk, Dr. Kristjan T. Ragnarsson, my chief physician there, did the first evaluation of me based on my Rockford medical records and his own hospital's neurological, muscle and mental tests. My first question on that day was: ''Will I ever take notes again?'' Dr. Ragnarsson nodded and said, ''Yes.'' ''Will I ever type again?'' I persisted. His rosy face darkened. Then he smiled. ''Oh, well, all you newspaper people are hunt-and-peck typists with two fingers, anyway,'' he responded. I said, ''Dr. Ragnarsson, I have been a touch typist, using all 10 digits, since I was 18 years old.'' He looked somber again. I did not pursue my queries.

For a long, long time, pain was my daily companion. The worst is now over, but Dr. Ragnarsson believes it could be one to two more years, or never, before normal sensation returns to my finger tips and my right foot. The recovery time depends on how far up toxic shock struck my limbs, since the nerve endings regenerate at the rate of about an inch a month.

I have been an outpatient at Rusk five mornings a week since my discharge last Feb. 12.

On Feb. 13, back in my own apartment and alone after 10 and a half weeks of being hospitalized, I totally panicked for the first time. Because of the long Lincoln-Washington holiday weekend, I was not immediately able to arrange for a nurse's aide to help me readjust. I could not turn a single knob on any door, or any faucet, or the stereo or the television set. I could not wash myself, dress or undress myself, pull a zipper, button a button, tie shoelaces. Punching the telephone numbers with one thumb, I called Nancy Sureck, perhaps the most maternal of all my friends, awakening her and her husband, David. ''Help,'' I said. Nancy was at my side within the hour, taking charge. The next week I hired a wonderful nurse's aide for the mornings; afteroons, I was at Rusk; evenings, a half-dozen close women friends took turns coming in to fix dinner and pop me into bed. Harriet Van Horne, another earth mother, always arrived, like Little Red Riding Hood, with a basket of exquisite home-cooked goodies.

It was months before I could open a taxi door on my way to and from the outpatient hand clinic at Rusk. The cabdrivers of New York, with one exception, invariably sprang to my rescue with a gallantry that amazed, amused and touched me. I had decided to try a frontal, selfconfident approach to all strangers in this tough city. I would hail a cab, hold up my hands, and say with a smile, ''I have a bum hand - could you open the door for me?'' Without an instant's hesitation, the drivers would leap around to the back door and open it with a flourish. As we approached our destination, I would hand them my wallet, tote bag or purse and they would hold up each bill and coin like a rosary or miraculous medal or baby to be blessed. ''This is a dollar bill,'' they would say. ''This is a quarter,'' and then return the rest of the money to its place. One driver said, ''Even my wife won't trust me with her wallet,'' and another muttered, ''Anyone takes advantage of you should be shot.''

Once, in bitter cold that turned my fingers purple because I could not bear yet to wear gloves or mittens, or stick my fingers in my pockets, I could not find an unoccupied taxi. An off-duty cabbie finally stopped in the rush-hour crush for my young, beautiful occupational therapist Gail Geronemus, while she explained why he should take me. As we reached one end of my block, we saw a fire engine blocking the other end. A policeman approached the taxi. ''Back up,'' he commanded. ''Hey, hey, this lady's come straight from surgery!'' cried the driver, lying with that brilliant New York penchant for instant invention. ''We've got to get her through to Number 44!'' ''Back up,'' the stone-faced cop repeated. The two men exchanged a stream of obscenities. When I had recovered from my laughter, I told the cabbie that I could make it to my apartment in the middle of the block. As usual, he hopped around to open the back door. I got to my lobby, and burst into tears of fatigue and relief.

The one and only stinker cabbie was an elderly man who refused to roll down his window or open the back door for me. I finally asked a woman on the street corner to help; she complied with alacrity and without asking why. ''You roll down the window, you get a gun to your head,'' the driver said. When I had settled inside, he snarled, ''You got only one bum hand, why didn't you open the door with the other?'' I shrieked back: ''Because all the fingers on both my hands have been amputated!'' He almost dissolved into a heap of ashes. ''I'm sorry, lady,'' he said, while a surge of gratifying catharsis rolled through me. I reflected later that I had finally expressed my deepest, pentup resentments for the first time since my rages in St. Anthony.

Every day of my recovery has brought its frustrations and disasters - and its triumphs. On March 25 at the Rusk Institute's hand clinic, Gail, my occupational therapist, said, seemingly casually: ''Why don't you try out our electric typewriter?'' I was stunned with the enormity of her suggestion. I had thought it would be months before I would be able to attempt such a thing. I went to the typewriter. With incredible slowness and apprehension, I pecked out ''Now is the time ...'' As the letters appeared on the paper, I began to sob. Gail and Ellen Ring, my physical therapist, rushed to my side. ''Are you in pain?'' they chorused. ''These are tears of joy,'' I said.