10/2/2004 11:56:41 PM|||Amy|||I recently broke my fingers. Just two of them, mind you. Not all of them. There is no tragic, but witty, re-telling of how my debt came due and instead of taking the child who is obsessed with King Tut and all things ancient Egypt - my debtor's goon simply broke a couple of fingers. Instead, the sordid truth is that I, for several intensely long seconds, became one with the garage door, and this resulted in a few ear splitting screams which were mostly ignored by my neighbors and a fracture each in the first joint of the ring and middle finger on my right hand. For the last week I have neither been able to type or write with any speed, efficiency or minimal sloppiness.

I was taking the kids to a festival. I had promised Bear that I would take him on Saturday, but took him to a movie and dinner instead. So, on Sunday after I stayed up all night cleaning one bathroom and watching Kill Bill, Vol. 1, I decided that it would probably be best to not weasle out of the promise altogether. I dressed and fed Moneky and Bear, then herded them out the door and through the garage. As they stood patiently in the driveway and waited to get in the car, I slammed the garage door down and caught two of my fingers between the panels of the door totally by accident. Really. It wasn't just a ploy so that I could score more Vicodin from a doctor and not have to go to the festival. The Vicodin turned out to be a bonus.

After the door slammed to the ground and locked with my fingers between the two panels and I realized that I couldn't just pull the bastards out, I had to fish for the garage door key (which Thank Fucking God I had just been given the week before), insert it into the lock and then open and pull up the door. This process of finding the right key, turning the lock the correct way and then lifting the door is always a struggle, but for some reason on this one occasion it wasn't hard at all.

My screams brought the one neighbor over who pretty much hates me and my entire family. But, she did help me get the kids back into the house (sorry, Bear, no festival today) and then later hit me up for money for the charity she supports. I didn't even mention Light the Night to her, I swear.

You wouldn't believe how painful it is to break a finger. It's incredible. I screamed and howled all the way to the emergency room, and then tried to howl quietly in the corner while I waited a couple of hours to see a doctor. The er sent me home with enough Vicodin on board to inspire inappropriate conversations in the drugstore where I went to get more Vicodin, and to keep me from just saying to hell with it and chopping off my arm kill Bill style.

Over the past week, I have wrapped a plastic shopping bag over my right hand each morning to keep water off the finger splints and wrappings. I have willed myself to not poop because, well, I'm right handed. And I have cursed my reproductive organs for sending me through the bloody mess of my period at least two days early. But, I adapted. I got used to typing using only my left hand and the index finger on my right hand. I gave up my usual fastidious need to sign my name in a just so kind of way. I asked other people (with actual justification) to change diapers.

On Friday I saw a bone doctor who told me to see a physical therapist for smaller finger splints. That's pretty much all he said to do.

My fingertips are numb. There's coagulated blood beneath the nails. I have to keep bending my fingers to prevent them from stiffening up. I wish I could say that this injury was the work of my debtor's goon, instead of me just being a dumbass and not paying attention.
|||109678204108008846|||The Mummy's Hand