By Vicki Rogers
I stare at the band-aids wrapped around my left index finger now blue and bulbous after smashing it in the door leading to my garage. Mother Nature sent a sudden blast of air to the open garage which caused some sort of suction which then caused the door to slam much faster and harder than it normally does, thus smashing my finger. I’m sure she didn’t do it on purpose.
Unfortunately this type of thing happens to me all too often. While at the University of Arizona, my Alma Mater, something similar happened. It was 1997 -- I had gone back to college post-children and a few decades of life-living to obtain my much desired beckoning degree. It was time for my quarterly furniture rearranging. While moving stuff by myself, somehow -- between shifting my grip and tripping -- I landed on the floor with the leg of the antique hutch in the middle of my palm. (ouch!)
I remembered the year before when I hurt my right hand by slamming it in the front door while running to a neighbor’s house for ice. (I borrowed often because with my tiny freezer it was either ice or food.)
Now, while I sit in front of the computer, I struggle to type with my right hand and hold the mouse in place. I’m left handed and this is a daunting task. Sometimes in the afternoons, like back then, I forget my left hand is injured and I bang the wrapped finger into my eye or thigh or head. I have to be careful with my hands because when I’m not paying attention, they work against me and end up crushed between a door or panked on the twisted claw foot of an antique china cabinet.