Fingers Crossed

Multitasking has never been my forte, so I'm not entirely sure why I thought it would be a good idea to reach for the dog's collar while my hands were full of hot coffee, chicken feed, and my cell phone. Suffice to say, it didn't work out so well for me or for the chicken feed. The phone, dog, and coffee mug were fine. 

I am excellent in a crisis - calm, cool, collected - I am the gal you call when you need someone in a pinch. These are thoughts that went through my mind as I calmly, coolly, and collectedly gathered up my keys, purse, and kids to drive myself to the ER. I thought briefly about popping my pinkie back into place myself, but just as quickly dismissed that idea, deciding that the kids finding me face down and unconscious in the yard would probably have a slight traumatizing effect on them.

So one Very Exciting Ride to the ER during which I passed out on my neighbor, two hours of staring at my Dr. Seussified digit, three e-rays, and four shots of happy numby time juice later... I was off to the hand surgeon, and considering a new line of children's counting cards.

Typing, painting, writing, everything = impossible.

 Unless something needs to be bludgeoned. That I can do.

There's nothing quite like hearing your doctor casually mention the words amputation, deformity, and permanently crippled in passing. I'm sure she came away from our appointment concerned about my hearing and my intelligence, in addition to her concerns over my pinkie finger. I just know I've never said "Wait, what?" and "Are you serious?!" and "No, Really?!" that many times in one sitting since the time the boys tried to come up with a better explanation for why they'd sent their little sister into the middle of the street than "just to see if she would do it".

So here I am, one lengthy, elaborate, and sure to be expensive surgery later, and I am even more dramamartery than usual, which is really something. I haven't seen what's under my elephantine bandage yet, but I really am hoping they were able to pull off the Swiss Army finger attachment that we talked about in pre-op. Fingers crossed. Maybe. I can't feel my fingers.

I'm off to start physical therapy asap, so, as my surgeon likes to say, my "fingers don't atrophy and fall off!" He always laughs at that point, but I'm fairly certain he's serious about it. If they do fall off, I'm absolutely getting a hook with a swiss army knife attachment. In the meantime, farm chores don't wait. I'm off to wave my club arm around and force the kids into doing my work for me.