the pumpkin, the knife and the needle

So there I was, losing weight, feeling like myself for the first time in over two years, having lots of energy and being an all around super mom. My kids were well taken care of, my house was always clean, and my husband had just returned home from his three month National Guard deployment helping with the Katrina aftermath.

It was October. I had sewn matching costumes for me and the girls and we were getting ready to celebrate Halloween. One of my favorite activities in the fall is to carve jack-o-lanterns. I harvest some of the meat from the pumpkin and makes pies to give to our neighbors and to have for breakfast the next morning. (I know, I’m a regular Martha Stewart).

It all started out so wonderful, it was a beautiful fall evening; we had chosen our pumpkins with care. The table was covered in news paper, ready for the squash carving. Light glinted off the serrated edge of our Cutco knife. Emily and I worked together, pulling the seeds and guts out of the pumpkin and soon it was ready for carving. Looking back on it now, I really have to admit that I deserved what happened. In the next paragraph, see how many mothering misdemeanors you can sight.

I was in a hurry because I had dinner in the oven, so I didn’t bother to wash and dry my hands. Covered with the slippery insides of the pumpkin, I picked up the extra sharp steak knife I was using to do the carving. The pumpkin was very thick, so I had it in a very tight dagger like grip, the blade facing upward because I was making an up cut. (I just counted 5) I don’t think you have to be psychic to guess what happened. I thrust my knife into the pumpkin, it got stuck, and my slippery hand kept going and slipped right off the handle and onto the serrated edge of the knife.
(I’m sorry if you feel a little nausea right now, recounting it has made me feel it as well.)

*national geographic moment*
The amazing thing is that it didn’t hurt right away. I knew what had happened and slowly looked at the damage that had occurred on my right pinky finger. The flesh was laid open deep, very deep. It looked like cut raw chicken, then it started bleeding.

Not wanting to alarm my children, I quietly wrapped it in tissue paper and informed my husband that I needed to go to the hospital. After a quick handing over of children to the neighbors, we landed in the local emergency room and then sat there for an hour and a half. This entire time I was really proud of myself for my superior control. I had been calm, collected and had not shed one single tear.

Finally the doctor was able to see me. he took a good look at it, declared that it was, in fact, a deep cut, that they see a few pumpkin related injuries each fall, and that all I should need was a few stitches. Then I informed him that I could no longer move the top part of my finger. "oh," he said, "yep, looks like you cut a tendon." apparently, there was nothing he could do for that, I would have to go to a hand specialist in the city, and that would take a few days to get an appointment. he put two stitches in my finger to keep it mostly closed but still not close all together before we could get it fully checked out. Then he put it in a splint and bid us good day.

I thought we were good to go until the nurse came in and said "I have to give you a shot, and it is going to hurt. Do you want it in your butt or your thigh?" Maybe it was the candid declaration that I would to have to have a shot that would hurt (don’t they usually lie about that sort of thing?) or that I would have to bear my buttock on demand to a complete stranger, but that was the precise moment that I lost it. I mean really lost it.

All of a sudden, the whole situation, mutilating my finger, the blood, sitting in the hospital while I needed help, not being able to move the top part of my finger, needing to get surgery, the guilt of adding to our financial stress and needing to get a shot that would hurt in my ass, all caught up with me. It started with a burst of laughter, followed by tears, and then before I knew it, I was laughing hysterically while tears streamed down my face with intermittent sobbing.

Jim looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. He didn’t know if he should try to comfort me or run. Eventually he decided on trying to comfort me. The nurse, used to these sorts of reactions I guess, nonchalantly put her pen back on her clip board and said she would give us a minute or two and left to go on her rounds. I continued with my bizarre behavior until the laughing died out and only the sobs remained. The people on the other side of our curtain were trying hard not to laugh at my outburst. It’s ok, it was funny, and I was pretty loud. Finally I was ready to accept my injection.

The nurse took aim at my ass with her syringe and..... "Oh, you bent the needle." that’s right, the rhinosaurus hide on my tucus bent her needle! So she had to go get a bigger one! And she was right; it did hurt, like a son-of-a-gun. It was a burning that spread all over my left butt cheek and stayed for several hours. Then I went home.

There were a lot of rise and fall of emotions over the next week. At first I thought I would be fine because I still had the basic use of my hand. I could still eat with my right hand and change Mercedes' dippers and I even took the kids trick-or-treating. Then we found out that my hand needed an expensive surgery that we didn’t know how we were going to pay for. Also, I would need twelve weeks of therapy afterward. Ok, ok, we said, we will get through this. I thought I should be able to keep up with everything I was doing until I woke up in the hospital after the surgery, not with a splint on my finger and a bandaged hand, but a cast that went from my finger tips to my elbow.

Everything that I had been working in went on hold. I had to learn to eat with my left hand, we had to go stay with my mother in law (if you cringe at the thought of staying in close quarters with your grumpy and easily stressed out in-law, you may have an idea of how that was for me) so that she could help me take care of the girls. (Mercedes' diapers? Not so easy to change now.)

I found out how useful two hands really are! I had a hard time making meals, and getting dressed and going to the bathroom. Someone had to help me take my contacts in and out (go ahead, picture it, it’s funny) I couldn’t even wash myself. I stood in the shower with my casted arm held high while Jim washed my body and sprayed off the suds. (Yes, I too am sure he did enjoy it)

It was not long before I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. One little mistake (ok, five) and one second had permanently disfigured my otherwise beautiful hand, cost us thousands of dollars and halted my progression toward health. Do you want to know what snapped me out of that real quick? I was at my therapy session, not looking forward to it because my therapist was a real drill sergeant, determined to get muscle tone back into my atrophied hand and to keep the scar tissue from sticking to my newly constructed tendon (she made me cry). As I sat at the table waiting my turn, I could see other patience going through various exercises for their hand injuries. Across the way was a young man having stitches taken out of what was left of his hand. I watched as his girlfriend held onto his one good hand during the painful process. I don’t know what had happened to him, but all that he had left of his fingers were four little stubs.

At that moment I realized that I had been an ungrateful little girl, and I repented right there and then. I had been so blessed, if my injury had happened even half a year earlier, the doctors could not have reattached my tendon. Do to the complexities of the fingers and hand it has taken doctors a long time to really understand them and the technology to do so was that brand new. I had friends and family to help me, even though it was not fun, the help was there. And more miracles and blessings, the hospitals I had had to go to forgive my debt because of our financial condition. I may not ever be able to fully straighten my finger again, but because of my awesome therapist, I can move the top part of my finger again and have full gripping power. (Your pinky is what makes it possible to grip things. go ahead and try, see how hard it actually is to grip a bottle with just your first three fingers.)

There is a relevance to telling you this story. This moment was sort of a cross roads for me. Even though my hand eventually healed, things were never the same for me after this point in my life. This is where the "crazy" part comes in.

You know, I believe that our lives are meant to have challenges in them. Otherwise how could we know good from bad and happy from sad? I believe God gives us challenges for our good so that we may grow and gain experience. I have come to thank God for the ones He gives me because I know he does it out of love and necessity. Like when I make my girls eat their vegetables or a nurse has to give me a burning shot of medicine. Like I have said before, sometimes I ask "why?" But the answer is I know God has a purpose for me going through this hormone hell, there are probably several of them. And I can accept that. He has never forsaken me. He knew it would not be pleasant for me, but that it would be nessisary for my growth as His child. At that point in my life, in my mind's eye, I can see Him coming to me and saying "Vanessa, daughter, I have to give you a shot and it is going to hurt. Do you want it in your butt or your thigh?"