Seven weeks ago, I hurt my finger in a terrible and easily-avoidable accident. (Warning: High yuck factor ahead.) I was using an immersion blender and needed to remove some peanut butter that had gummed up the blade. I should have unplugged the thing, but no. It was off, of course, and I decided to clean it with my finger.
Bad, bad idea.
Darned if the dumb thing didn’t turn on. Ouch! One trip to the ER and seven stitches later, I returned home.
It’s been a slow recuperation, aided by weekly visits to a hand specialist and twice daily soakings in Epsom salts, and fresh gauze and tape. Three weeks later, I graduated to two Bandaids. When I told the doc about our upcoming trip to Siesta Key, Florida, he heartily endorsed soaks in the ocean instead of Epsom salts. How could I refuse? The ocean water helped amazingly.
I’m getting better every day, and this morning I met with a physical therapist to learn exercises that will help my finger gain flexibility and eventually desensitize the pad of my finger, which is ultra tender. All well and good, but the most interesting part of the physical therapy session happened out the window on the ground floor (I was on the second floor) at the apartment complex across the parking lot. There, drama unfolded!
A young woman wearing pajama bottoms and a coat marched outside and headed straight for a car. I couldn’t see who was inside, but it was locked and the windows shut. The woman pulled on the handle and pounded her palms on the window. She seemed to be yelling, and when whoever was in there started to back out, she held fast to the handle. Scary! To my relief, the car stopped and pulled back into its slot. A minute later, the same thing happened again, like an instant replay.
By then the physical therapist and the receptionist were watching along with me, all of us waiting to see what happened next. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I wondered who the woman was yelling at, and why.
The physical therapist and receptionist weren’t nearly as curious. We got back to my finger for a few minutes. The next time I looked out, the car was empty and the woman was chasing a little boy, who looked to be about three, up the parking lot. Was that why she clung to the door handle so tenaciously-because the little guy was in the car? If so, who had put him there, and where was s/he now? My creative juices kicked up their heels at the possibilities.
I’ll never know what really happened, but that’s okay–I’ll make up my own story. Who knows, someday what I saw could become part of a future book.
For now, though, it’s time to get back to work on my current work in process.
Until next time,
Ann