MY ENEMY, MY THUMB

Maybe I would not have pushed the pen knife into my thumb had I been wearing my glasses while trying to cut a small hole in a milk jug. Or maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Not that it matters, but the blade went in with painless, surgical precision. I didn't know anything was wrong until the blood started flowing.

The bruise in the picture happened back in December when, in spite of not being able to get into a comfortable and clear striking position, I sent a hammer toward a 1" nail that I was awkwardly holding against a gutter hanger. It was outside. It was cold. I was in a hurry to finish something that I didn't think I'd have to do, so I was in my, 'get-this-the-f-done' mode. It was not a strong blow but it struck on an angle that focused the impact of the hammerhead on the phalange like a shape charge. Since the hand was already partially anesthetized from the cold, the full extent of the damage was not immediately felt. Weeks later though, the beauty of bloom showed as the nail grew out of its root.

To be fair, it is not just my left thumb that I seem to be mad at. Recently, the right thumb had a deep splinter removed and had recently finished healing from a series of winter crackings - an ongoing series of small but painful splits which develop on the tip. Each split reopens repeatedly when it is banged against, say, a table, or when you strike a tennis ball with torque, or something less turbulent like wash your hand.

The winter is not kind to my hands but why so much thumb violence? They are faithful workers. They are what separates me from many other animals. I need to be kinder. I need to stop biting the dead skin off them. I need to give them more lotion. I need to call a truce.

So today, in the middle of BE KIND TO YOUR HANDS month, I say to my thumbs, the war is over.