By Angela Garwood
The moral of the following story is: It’s better to be late and keep all your fingers in working order.
As I type, I’m intentionally avoiding using two of my usual main typing fingers. They’re temporarily out of action. Thankfully not broken, the tips remain in plasters, partly to spare anyone having to see what’s underneath.
It was a Friday afternoon and I was, obviously, running a tad late for school pick-up. I’d dashed back inside to fetch some water when it happened. Rushing back to the car, I managed to slam our porch door onto my hand, which didn’t quite make it out of the way quick enough.
If this doesn’t make much tangible sense, it’s because it doesn’t.
Water in one hand, I vaguely recall putting my left hand around the edge of the door to unnecessarily guide it shut behind me, as I marched out. (Who does this?)
Whether I’d already begun to slam it or whether this was my rushed, I-can’t-stop-moving way of closing it, I don’t know.
It didn’t need my hand for guidance. Our porch door is fast and furious.
You know that sharp inhale that babies and toddlers do just before they let out the mother of all screams? I did that. And then I screamed.
I screamed so loudly that my poor neighbour came out to check I was alright.
I pulled myself up from my doorstep where I’d begun swearing repeatedly and crying to myself, to tell him I was fine and no I didn’t need help collecting Maia.
(I did, my nails had gone black and I couldn’t move my fingers, let alone change gears.)
After a selection of brief phone calls, a friend collected Maia from school and I sat at my dining room table with a bag of peas, downing paracetamol and feeling rather stupid. Meanwhile, my fingers throbbed like they’d been crushed by a small lorry. By bedtime I was able to move them slightly, so deemed a trip to A&E unnecessary.
Fast forward to Sunday night, and I could not sleep from the increasing throbbing pain. I’d had maximum doses of painkillers, doused them in Arnica cream and had had enough of ice packs.
“Can you make a fist for me?” The doctor asked the following morning after a 111 call.
“Er..no.”
A trip to Minor Injuries for me. Without going into any graphic detail, I’ll just say the x-ray confirmed nothing was broken, and the nail trephination (feel free to Google this if you’re not squeamish) was successful. I left with a lot less throbbing. (Though I did scream again, during the procedure, twice, once for each nail, and felt rather sorry for the other patient in the room. The nurses just chuckled.)
I returned to my car with a weird sense of achievement, as though I’d just done something to be proud of. This rather child-like feeling was not helped when my mum sent a message saying “Well done darling, you’ve been very brave.” It seems injuries lead me to regress slightly.
My mood was dampened somewhat when I opened a lovely note a fellow driver had left on my windscreen. “Your parking is BAD*,” (*it did not read “bad”), “leave space for people to get out.”
The latter part, I suppose was reasonable. Late for my appointment and thrilled to have found what I felt was a legitimate parking space between two cars, I (successfully) parallel-parked. Yes, it was a squeeze, but this is not the season for hate-mail.
Here’s to 2024, with all 10 functioning fingers.
Angela blogs at The Colourful Kind
