Drum class. We’d been working on tammuriatas for a month or so, which I connected to hard and felt confident on, but now were back on some beloved pizzicas. I loved the song La Rusciu de lu Mare so much, and wanted to do it justice, but a combo of slothness, slowness and lack of practice had my stamina low.
Teacher: Do you have a callous?
Me: Not yet.
T: Have you bled?
Me: Not yet.
T: Your thumb will bleed, then it will callous and it will be tough. If you don’t want that to happen, wrap your thumb.
Me: I want that, I want that. Bloody thumb summer! Bring it on!
About 45 minutes after class ends, and I’m snacky. Bagel, I think. I pull the sesame bagels out of the fridge, thinking to freeze them so they last longer. Grab the big serrated knife. It’s tough to slice it, being old and refrigerated. I imagine the bagel softening and crisping in the oven, the butter that will melt over it when it is warm. I press the knife just a little harder, and it goes right into my left thumb. The cut is deep, it’s long, and it won’t stop bleeding. I wrap it with paper towels and put pressure on it, my sweetie and kitties watching with concern. 6 stitches, I bet, says sweetie. Damn, says I. It won’t stop bleeding. I have insurance. I call, and there is a 30 minute wait to get to an advice nurse. Their advice is get it looked at asap, but no urgent care without an appointment, and urgent care is either closed or full, so ER it is, in a cab.
Remarkably efficient, and two hours later, almost to the minute, I’m back home with 2 stitches in my left thumb.
The next morning I text J, my classmate and pal, to tell her what happened. SHE SAID YOUR THUMB WOULD BLEED, she texts back. Oh shit, I say.
I should have been more specific.
(Publishing this in August of 2022 but it was written in June of 2021.)
monica b. 