1. Denial
On Saturday night my roommate and I were heading out to dinner as usual. We put on our comfiest sweats — our “groutfits,” if you will — ready for an uneventful meal. She led the way and opened our very stubborn room door. As the door was closing I decided to catch it to prevent it from slamming against the hinges, when all of a sudden I felt this agitating sharp pain coming from my left ring finger. It had gotten caught in the lock. I thought it was just something that would bruise, but as I looked back at my hand all I could see was red. Red, red and more red coming out of my finger. At this point my roommate still had no idea what was happening, other than my unassuming “ow.” (Also, side note: my roommate is very afraid of blood and any type of injuries or medical emergencies.) I stayed calm. Very calm. And I told her I hurt my finger. I got a boo-boo. We were both laughing — she even asked if I wanted her to call GERMS — until I showed her my finger and the blood started dripping onto the blue carpet of the hallway. The whole time we were cleaning my wound I was still semi-delirious, repeating, “It’s really not that bad,” as the blood kept dripping into our bathroom sink. Just apply pressure and wrap it up. I kept pretending like it didn’t exist. My finger was perfectly fine.
2. Anger
And so I lived with it for a whole day, being careful not to bump into it and not to use it, which was surprisingly difficult since I had a paper to write and typing was kind of a big part of that. But on Sunday night as I was taking a shower I felt this inexplicable rage. I was angry at myself for this stupid cut, I was angry at the door, I was angry at the cut itself for not healing faster or being at a more convenient location (it’s very awkward putting a bandaid on the tip of your finger) and just angry at everything in general. I never used to have to think about my hands while doing daily tasks. And I hated that now it was all I could think about. It was all I could see. I thought about it when I brushed my teeth, when I washed my hands. It was an open wound. It was still tender, vulnerable and bleeding a little. It still hurt.
3. Bargaining
I stared at my finger all day, willing the cut to go away. I could almost pretend I didn’t notice it. I tested the limits of the cut. When I was in my room, I tried going without a bandaid, without any sort of protection on the open cut until it would hurt again and I would cave. I tried different methods of putting on the bandaid, hoping some would make the wound more inconspicuous so I could stop thinking about it. It worked sometimes, but most of the time it did not.
4. Depression
Throughout this whole time, I had only been thinking about how to protect the cut, how to keep it dry and clean so that it could heal faster. It never occurred to me how it would heal and whether it would scar. I knew how most wounds heal. When I blister or scab, it takes a week or two for it to heal, then the scar fades over time. But this was a wound that won’t scab or blister. It was a cut with the skin still intact. It just bled under the skin and out the sides. The thought that it might leave a scar affected me more than I thought it would. Maybe because it was such a stupid mistake — trying to catch the door when I could’ve just let it close on its own. Maybe the scar would be a manifestation of how annoyed I was at the wound’s hindrance to my daily tasks. I love my hands and all that they have afforded me, as a writer, a musician and a person who loves working with her hands. I felt grief over the possibility of a scar and I was not sure what to do with that.
5. Acceptance
To be honest I’m still in this phase, but I’ve learned how to live with it. And I think that’s all acceptance really means, especially when it comes to a cut on my finger.