I sat in the driver’s seat and reached my left hand back to grab the seatbelt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the driver’s door start to close, but it never occurred to me that my hand was in the way. Not until I felt searing pain in my fingers. The realization that the door had slammed shut on my fingers coincided with the thought that screaming wasn’t going to get the door open. I fumbled with my right hand for the catch and bounced out of the car the instant I was free.
I was trying so hard to not cry, not scream, not freak out the kids. I stood behind the car and squeezed the throbbing fingers of my left hand in my right hand. I was doubled over in pain and focusing hard on just breathing and not screaming. M ran to the kitchen to get me some ice and I slowly unclenched my hand. I was terrified to look, terrified that my finger might be bent the wrong way.
The fear was justified. After all, I’ve broken my finger before. (In an unfortunate accident that involved me sitting in a chair that didn’t exist. And no, I wasn’t drunk at the time. Well, not too much at least.) But by the time M came back with a bag of frozen peas I’d assessed that the finger was not, in fact, broken. I flexed my hand a few more times to make sure I wasn’t mistaken and took the peas back into the kitchen to exchange them for a bag of ice.
And as I stood at the ice machine, waiting for it to spit out it’s bounty, I wondered about what I would have done if my finger had been broken. It wasn’t so much the baby care I was worried about, or even the housekeeping. My real concern was this: how would I have been able to blog tonight if I didn’t have my left hand to type with?
See? I need help. Don’t you agree?