I had the misfortune to smash my thumb ... pretty badly in fact. I know that there are people out there who have had broken limbs, horrific burns and even amputations. In the grand scheme of things a fracture, nine stitches and a dislodged thumbnail seem pretty paltry in comparison, but there was one underlying fact that made this injury special and unique; it happened to me.
The thing is, pain is relative. Everyone experiences it in their own way and has their own methods for dealing with it. I have a high threshold for pain, as long as I can avoid getting hurt. I've given birth three times without benefit of anesthesia, had a broken nose, broken finger and countless cuts, burns, scrapes and abrasions, so I'm not a stranger to discomfort. Frankly, I consider myself to be pretty brave, and despite the fact that this injury came about when I was well into the first day of a bad cold, and so was not only crippled, but sneezing, coughing and feverish, I think I came through it all like a trooper.
When I showed up for emergency care there were twenty people in line in front of me seeking treatment for anything from bronchitis to broken arms. I settled into the waiting room automatically diagnosing and dismissing the complaints of the other patients as trivial. Clearly I was the one in the most pain. It was obvious by my groans, grunts and sighs, which drew stares from even a ten-year-old boy. After what seemed an interminable wait I was called in to have my blood pressure taken, which was one fourteen over sixty, which the nurse reassured me was excellent.
"Well, that's surprising" I said, "considering I'm dying here." Ever the trooper. Enter tantrum number one.
The triage nurse not only diagnosed the extent of my injury as a "contusion" which sounded a lot less painless than it felt, but also nailed my current state of mind, as I found myself hustled into the relative quiet of an examination room with cheerful photos of the Tasmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny adorning the walls. In other words ... "if yer gonna act like a baby, we're gonna put you in the appropriate room."
In her defense I had already had one minor tantrum and was geared and ready for another. I settled in to wait, images of what was going to happen to my battered thumb dancing in my mind as Tas gazed down at me with maniacal glee. I tried to put my mind on other things but it kept returning predictably to my own pitiful state of affairs at the moment.
Lying down relaxed me and took my worries off my thumb, which was singing like a chubby Italian tenor at a bad opera, but due to my cold, clogged my head up like MoPac during rush hour. At which point I began to wallow deeply in self-pity and actually cried like a six-year-old. Which only served to further aggravate my already seriously congested sinuses. The doctor arrived, took one look at my damaged digit, tried not to look at my tear-streaked face, and prescribed stitches.
Introducing tantrum number two.
"Do we have to?" I whined.
"Well, I think it would be best."
"Can't you just wrap it up real good?" Squirming and begging unashamedly.
He laughed a bit and then sobered instantly when he realized I was dead serious.
"We're going to deaden it for you. You won't feel a thing."
And he was right. I didn't feel a thing after the gut-wrenching, toe-curling, exercise in exquisite torture that he referred to as a 'digit block' where a needle is inserted into the joint above the offending injury and a massive dose of miracle drug is pumped in.
Tantrum ... number ... three.
In case you've never had a digit block, pray that you never will, because even as effective as the pain relieving technique is, it is horribly painful. (Figure that one out.) I went home dragging a bandage roughly the size and shape of a Chiquita banana, that glowed in pristine white and shouted to the world that I had done battle with a door and emerged victorious ... kinda.
I spent the next twenty-fours hours alternately holding my hand above my head like the statue of liberty (to relieve the throbbing) and cradling the injured thumb against my chest protectively. I had my daughters waiting on me hand and foot, expressing condolences while I sniffled and reveled in their sympathies, not quite taking advantage of them, but certainly not discouraging their ministrations, either. I repaid them later with a surprise exhibition of the injury complete with a graphic demonstration of how the injury occurred and reminding them as any responsible parent does of the perils of not paying attention to where your fingers are at every given moment.
"This is what happens if you're not careful." I warned. "Now who's up to bringing me a pillow, a glass of orange juice and the remote control?"
Some seventy-two hours later, and with the help of some serious narcotics, and due to the fact that my cold had pretty much run it's course, I once again began to exhibit some semblance of my usual peppy personality. I even began showing off my stitches to any hapless individual who reluctantly agreed to look. Traded war stories with other poor unfortunates who had somehow managed to mangle their own fingers at one time or another.
Clearly in my time of distress my usual fortitude shined like a beacon of example for others who may find themselves so injured and through it all, I think I can safely say that I rose to the occasion like any mature American woman; very bravely and with the highest degree of self-control which proves conclusively what I have said all along. I have a very high threshold for pain ... as long as I avoid getting hurt. [img]/forums/images/icons/wink.gif[/img]
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