thumbs down
dispatches #1 (a new series!)
I sit on the couch, my thumb soaking a paper towel with blood. My boyfriend searches for the part of my finger I chopped off. He gives up but then checks again. He finds it among the romaine I’d been chopping for caesar salad. He shows it to me: “That’s the nail and that’s the tip.” I stare at the beige-colored sliver. “Oh,” I respond, pretending to see it. We decide to go to urgent care.
I turn off the oven, where we are baking stuffed shells. Each of us double- and triple-checks the oven before we leave. It would be a shame to address one emergency only to start another.
We Uber to our nearest urgent care clinic only to find it’s closed. Oh right, we remember as the Uber drives away. Today is Christmas. We call another Uber to take us to the ER. I am thankful it’s not the same driver. We can be the sole witnesses to our error.
The waiting area is near-empty. People at the front desk get my information and check my vitals. They ask if the laceration is on my right hand. I tell them it’s my left. The band-aid on my right hand misled them - that was from a different cooking-related incident when I burned myself. Someone get me out of the kitchen! My boyfriend offers to show them the cut-off part of the finger (wrapped in paper towels in his pocket). They say no.
I thought the quiet waiting room meant we’d be in and out, but that’s never the case in the ER. It’s been an hour and we still haven’t been seen. Every part of the ER is really just another waiting area. At one point, my right hand starts to cramp from applying pressure to my maimed thumb for so long. The pain comes back. I perk up when I see anyone in scrubs washing their hands, prepping medical supplies, or glancing in my general direction. Maybe it’s my turn. It never is.
My boyfriend had wrapped the tiny sliver of thumb in several sheets of paper towels. I find it very funny to watch him sift through the paper towel in a panic when he can’t find it. This happens twice. (He’s able to locate it both times). I think about my skin getting lost in his jacket pocket, like lint or an old receipt. Just more jacket pocket detritus to sift through to find earbuds or loose change.
We remember the caesar dressing we left on the counter, unrefrigerated and vulnerable to our two cats. Our cats’ favorite activity is knocking objects - cups of water, keys, pens, an entire unopened glass bottle of gin - onto the ground. My boyfriend heads home to put the food away. Before leaving, he gives me extra paper towels, my phone, my wallet. He offers to leave the chopped-off part of my thumb. I give him permission to throw it in the trash.
A doctor finally comes to see me. They can’t stitch my finger up, since I’ve sliced all the way through. I’ll just have to let it heal. A physician’s assistant comes by and asks some of the same questions. He says, “We’ll do what we can,” before rushing away. He says it like I’m a lost cause, like my whole hand is no good anymore. I wonder if the PA knows something the doctor does not.
Eventually the doctor puts something on my skin to clot the blood and stop the bleeding, then wraps the whole thumb in gauze. She leaves. I no longer have to grip my hand with paper towels and can finally use my phone. I read the behind-the-scenes history for How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000). Prior to cutting my fingertip off, it was my one wish to watch that movie tonight, my first time seeing it.
I get my discharge papers and sit in the lobby waiting area while I call a Lyft. I glance up at the TV. It’s playing How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A classic case of getting what you want but not how you wanted.
Over the next few days, I become very good at texting with my left index finger (in lieu of my sad gauze-wrapped thumb). I never use my thumbs to type on my laptop keyboard, so my technique goes unchanged. This is improper form, but helpful in this case.
I pay $60 for a follow-up appointment; the doctor unwraps the gauze and inspects my hand for a visit that takes about 5 minutes. Good news: my finger will heal in 4-6 weeks and look like normal. To reward myself for a job well done (eg, healing correctly, not injuring myself worse), I buy two bagels (one for my boyfriend) and a chai on the way home. I blink at the screen when it costs $34. I curse myself for adding lox and oat milk. I add 15% tip to dig myself deeper. It’s only 10:00 am and I’ve spent nearly $100.
I had asked the doctor whether I could wash my hand now. He said yes. I think about this later on in the day, wishing I’d phrased it differently. What I meant was whether I could wash it normally. Did it sound like I hadn’t washed my hand in 6 days?
The doctor told me I could remove the dressing that covered my laceration and use my hand like normal. My boyfriend had been managing nearly all dishwashing duties since I’d gotten injured. I wonder if I should keep the dressing on for a few more days of no dishwashing, like how I’d used crutches for several weeks longer than necessary in high school in order to stay out of gym class.
I get ready for a New Year’s Eve party. I’m wearing a Band-Aid around the dressing to keep it in place. The top of my thumb reveals the dressing - it’s partly silver, part deep red dried blood. I ask my boyfriend what looks worse - when it was wrapped in thick gauze, or how it currently looks. He thinks for a second and says this looks worse. It looks like my finger is dead and will fall off at any moment. I add another Band-Aid so I won’t have to field questions about my necrotic finger.
One night, I start removing the dressing. It’s more difficult than I thought it would be. I quickly begin worrying that I’ll pull it too quickly, tear off my still-healing skin, and start bleeding again. I keep running it under water, gently tugging the edges away from my skin, a millimeter at a time. I’m listening to a podcast about a war crime during the US occupation in Iraq, which does not help with my stress. I feel queasy from the podcast, the smell of stale blood, and the (unlikely) prospect of ripping off my skin. After an hour, I’ve made good progress and pause.
After a few days, cracks slowly form within the scab, revealing the fresh pink skin underneath. It reminds me of when a clay face mask dries and starts to crack off. I have a weird fascination with the scab - fiddling with it but not picking at it, seeing how far I can bend it away from the skin without pulling it off. I wonder if there is some TikTok-famous fidget toy that mimics this feeling.
A center piece of the scab fell off today. I show my mom the healing progress over FaceTime: there are two smaller scabs on either side, with the pink skin revealed in the middle. A little white line runs between my uninjured skin and freshly-healed skin. She says it looks like two eyes and a smile.
I hope you liked this new series I’m trying out :) If you didn’t… that’s fine too. Fingers crossed my next newsletter does not involve the ER.