So, this is me. Typing without a middle fingef on my lft han. This is what it’s like to type with a plastic pointy apparatus — a splint to b4 exact. Wow! I sure use that middle left finger for a lot fo keys. But look at how goor I’m getting — I’m starting to finagle this. Here and ther.
So Monday late afternoon (I’m going to focus harder now), I was spot cleaning the rug in Isabel’s room. She had eaten a fudge pop in the midst of a chaotic afternoon which meant she was wandering around eating it which as we all know is pretty much a death wish when it comes to me and my psychotic need for clean floors (to know me is to love me). Why would I not put her at the dining room table to have her eat it? That’s… a no brainer. It was one of those times, where you are handing Child F something so you can take care of the needs of Child C (while telling Child B and D to stop the bickering or you will make them write a page of scripture. Again.)
Isabel came and found me at some point with the popsicle stick and I knew it was time for a seek-and-recover mission (not seek and rescue) as that fudge pop was now most likely some giant puddle of sticky. I found the mess in her room, several large spots of chocolate on her (mostly) white rug. So while I was on the phone with our neighbor Tom discussing some new neighbors in the rental unit across the street (sigh. long story) I was spot cleaning the rug and I felt this POP.
Just like that, no pain. Just a pop in my left middle finger. I kept listening to Tom while I picked up my hand to inspect and what the heck the tip of my finger was pointing straight down. I couldn’t move the finger, it felt like a charlie horse (without the pain) and try as I might I couldn’t maneuver it. At. All.
“Um, Tom,” I said, “I just did something to my finger. I need to go.”
I hung up and took a breath and decided, okay, there is no need to freak out? Right? There is NO! NEED! TO FREAK OUT. But there was. There was totally a need to freak out because the top of my finger was just dangling there and I couldn’t move anything.
Long story short (this is the part where yadda yadda yadda me calling my husband and my parents and my friend Bill the Doctor who I now owe a large bottle of something high in alcoholic proof) and we figured out that I had torn the tendon in my finger. I had torn the tendon spot cleaning the rug. Lame.
Our friend Dave (another of Paul’s old roommates, along with Bill and Fr. Tim and some other guys) is a hand specialist occupational therapist. Which I always thought was, you know, interesting or whatever. I mean, it’s cool, but honestly just never gave it too much thought. Y’all, Dave is the greatest person in all the land (right up with all those other folks listed above who had to field frantic phone calls from me about my freaky finger and could we all just converge immediately in my driveway where I am currently pacing and trying not to flip my wig).
Dave came over and assessed the situation which was awesome because a) I didn’t have to wait overnight to get things figured out (the thought of my wee little fingertip just sort of dangling there was very likely going to prevent me from slumber) and b) this has helped me side-step (Lord willing) a whole relationship with an orthopedist’s office. Dave told me what to get at the drug store so my dad drove me there (me clutching my left hand to keep freaky finger in place, stay freaky finger, stay). And then Dave came over a while later and came up with a plan.
All day yesterday I wore this contraption and I won’t lie, I started feeling really sorry for myself. Dave said this is a six-week recovery and I felt like the world was coming to an end. Can you imagine? Some people have real problems and me, I can barely handle the thought of six weeks in a finger-brace.
Here was yesterday, which made my professional obligations almost kaput (the laundry wasn’t looking too hot either):
And then last night Dave came back with a splint that we fitted and now life is a lot better. It’s not going to be nearly as bad as I thought:
I am feeling very Margot Tenenbaum, minus all the secrets.