I was simply trying to put on my shorts last night when I slipped, put my hand out on a chair for balance and heard something snap in my middle finger. I tried not to panic, but all I could think was “Oh no – my ‘me time’ hand!”
The tip of the finger was bent and not moving back on its own. Not good. So, is there a doctor in the house? Actually yes. My neighbors are a married couple who both happen to be ER docs, but I promised myself I’d never bother them up with a medical problem, unlike my landlady, who’s a total shnorrer about it. (Consult your Yiddish-to-English dictionary.)
Figuring it might help me avoid a long night in the ER, I sucked it up and went to my neighbors’ place. The wife was home, and after a preemptive apology, I asked if she could look at my hand, and she was happy to. She didn’t think it was broken, but I’ve either moved or snapped a tendon and may have to see a hand specialist. She didn’t have any splints, but kindly made me this crazy makeshift one.
Later, she brought a big bowl of minestrone over to my place. Again, how sweet is she? I’d like to assume minestrone is the chicken soup of middle-finger injuries.
I’ll see how the day progresses with this thing, but it’s already been a bitch just typing this entry. Finger 3/4 extended, I persevere.
