I’m writing this in a great deal of pain. It’s not just any
pain, nay, but a pain that has nearly brought me to my knees many times over
the past week. Yet, somehow I have gathered the strength and courage to trudge
on. I have made quite an impression on myself with this bravery I exude. And let
me tell you, I’m not easily impressed.
I know some of you out there can relate to my dilemma. You
understand the sting. The throbbing. The inevitable and uncontrollable wince I
experience every time I hit the space bar. I sense a knowing nod from the
previously afflicted. The tell-tale signs of someone suffering through a desk
jockey’s worst nightmare…
The searing anguish of a nasty paper cut.
On the end of my thumb.
In mid-winter.
The deepest I’ve seen. Ever.
A genuine gaping, yawning assault on my sensory receptors.
A glaring, obnoxious salt magnet.
Oh sure, I’ve heard the horror stories about nail gun
accidents and table saw miscues and small radiation mishaps. There will be the
haters out there who scoff at my misfortune, but I’ve spent enough time on
Facebook in recent years to know that I have been needlessly suppressing any
blatant sharing of my personal drama. I’ve seen some of the stuff that elicits
an “fml” post on the social media site. My predicament has them beat in spades.
It all started after a 60-minute stint at the oral surgeon
last Tuesday. After having my mouth ravaged with multiple extractions and a
giant plastic hayrack inserted over a half score of stitches, I was fulfilling
my follow-up oral check-up the next day. Little did I know that before I left
home, I had inadvertently severed my epidermal layer on the latest insurance
statement. (There is truly no end to the amount of pain Aetna
inflicts upon me.)
After my official okie dokie from Dr. John, I went to the
coat rack to retrieve my beige jacket. (Yeah, I know…it was free from my
employer. They don’t care how I look in beige.) My eye was drawn to the copious
amounts of blood splattered down the back of the jacket and surrounding right
front pocket. After a startled half-beat, I deduced that the grisly stains probably
were my own bodily fluids.
It could only be two things. After quickly eliminating
“slashed jugular,” I spied the splayed abyss winking at me from the only
opposable digit I have on my right hand. My heart sank as the realization came
into focus of how my life would be altered over the next half month.
 |
| Worst paper cut ever. |
I shudder to think of the murky pool that must have been
left behind under the dentist chair.
I am a chronic right-hander. I’m the most right-handed
person I have ever known. My left hand is so stupid it can barely operate a
glass of water. The hurdles I cleared over the next few days were ridiculous,
and would have felled a lesser man.
Washing dishes became a lesson in endurance. Every time I
unconsciously licked my thumb to turn a newspaper page, or operated the storm
door handle, or opened the cap on a bottle of shampoo, Kathy would hear a
staccato “ohwhwww” in the distance. Do you know how hard it is to peel those
stupid Curad bandages from the paper backing with one hand? Trust me, go with
Band-Aid brand.
Hitchhiking became intolerable.
I haven’t even been able to signal my spouse from the couch
whether or not I liked a movie.
But please, I ask that nobody makes a fuss over me. This too
shall pass. The last couple of days have brought marked improvement. It has progressed
to the point where I can barely feel my heartbeat in the troublesome crevice.
And good things have come from this. I can now pet my kitty left-handed,
although she still seems a bit disoriented from the modification.
Yesterday I used the proper hand signal from across the room
to tell a co-worker he was doing a good job.
I’ve learned who my true friends are…it’s astonishing how
few people will help a guy out with his fly in a time of need. (Note to self:
take “no” for an answer the first time. Chasing them with a second request
usually ends up involving local authorities.)
You know the old saying: “what doesn’t kill you…”
I’ll be fine, everyone. Cards and gifts are certainly not
required. Thanks for kind thoughts and words, but if I can help just one office
worker somewhere in the world, then baring my inner soul with tales of my epic
voyage will have been worth it.
It only takes a minute to slip on a pair of nitrile safety
gloves, people.
Believe me, you never miss the ability to
simultaneously eat a hoagie and flip through channels until it has been taken
from you.