How often do you use the tip of your right ring finger? No idea? A lot, it turns out. Just typing this is causing a considerable amount of pain.
On Thursday, ten minutes before my OSCE, I slammed my finger in a glass sliding door. It took me about ten metres on the way to hospital to realise that the pain was accompanied by a considerable amount of bleeding.
And a peculiar kind of Raynaud’s phenomenon – I’m telling you, the affected finger really did go all the colours of the American (or French, or English) flag. Right now it is a peculiar shade of purple.
Just a while ago, Mom asked me if I’d be insuring my hands when I’ve graduated. Little Sister commented that then I might as well insure my ass. Uhm, thanks Little Sister.
It all seems kind of serious when you start talking about insuring body parts, isn’t it? I don’t even know the protocol for things like that. Don’t you need to be… GOOD?
Whenever I have lunch with The Boy’s family (who are practically all in the medical profession), they start gushing about how wonderful someone’s hands are. I still find that strange. A couple of months ago a retired doctor shouted at me for chopping veggies “the wrong way”. Apparently I was in danger of chopping a finger instead.
I don’t think I injured my hands nearly as much before they became my (future) livelihood.
As for my injury? It’s taking it’s sweet time to heal, and the fingertip is a little numbed, but despite my initial melodramatic response, all will be well.