On Sunday night I slammed the car door on my thumb. I stood there in shock for a moment before managing to extricate it and then caught up with my husband and friends who had gone ahead into the restaurant, not realizing my distress. They could tell by my face that something was wrong, and I'm surprised in hindsight that I was so quiet about the whole episode. No screaming or tears. I simply held my breath and waited without success for the wave of pain to pass.

I spent the meal in hazy distraction with my thumb immersed in an icy-cold glass of water. A couple of Advil also helped to mute the throbbing. Still, by the end of dinner I was happy to be heading home until everyone suggested that I get it checked out at Emergency. Unfortunately we were too late to stop by a clinic which in my opinion would have been the lest dramatic of my options. After several hours, avoiding patients who seemed to be smitten with flu and drenching our hands in anti-bacterial wash, the doctor announced that there was nothing broken. However, he did puncture the nail to allow the blood that was pooling underneath to have a way out. Lovely. Truly.

So, for the last couple of nights I've been sleeping with my hand carefully laid on the pillow and trying to avoid bumping it on anything when I turn over. During the day I've discovered a renewed respect for this particular digit as I didn't realize, until it was incapacitated, just how much my thumb is involved in most everything I do.  Although the pain has significantly reduced, it still remains bruised and swollen and I'm unable to put pressure on it. Just another reminder to slow down and do less during the strange season of learning to live life differently.