Wednesday, September 1, 2010

"What's broken can always be fixed. What's fixed will always be broken."

By a strange accident, that I'm still trying to figure out the sequence and reasoning of within my shocked/fuzzy memory, I somewhat mangled (just a bit) my left index finger with my immersion blender. After not reaching my parents (what I do when I first hit the internal panic button), I asked a few medically minded friends what I should do. Then I significantly freaked out Sarah. All of this seems ridiculously silly and useless now. Thankfully, my all-together and whip-smart of a brother snapped me into shape, helping me figure out which of the local immediate care offices took my insurance and generally calmed me down.

At first I thought it silly to head to the doctor of what could be a not so deep cut. My dad gave me a good piece of advice (after the fact) tonight: If you have to ask yourself that question, just go. Even without this advice yet ringing in my ears, an amazing amount of blood for one tiny cut and an intense wooziness found me in a medical facility. I now write this to you a few stitches, some fun magic foam, two helpful front desk people, and one very nice doctor later.

This little incident shook me up more than it should. I've been going through a wave of very healthy emotions since my move to Corvallis. These waves ride in and out all throughout the day. In the moment I cut my finger, I was riding out a quiet tide of confidence, which was sharply halted. In the first minutes of applying pressure and figuring out what to do, there was a finite sense of aloneness. I couldn't help thinking how this scenario would be different if it had happened at home. In my sorority house. With my best friends from college in our apartment. Maybe while making dinner with friends in Brooklyn before we watched Top Chef. In short, I was having a Jens Lekman Your Arms Around Me fantasy. 


But it happened alone in my new apartment.  But ya know what? I was fine. Brian might as well have been there with how much he helped me. And I learned that not everything has to have an entourage. I can call a cab and sit in a waiting room and come home and eat dinner without someone holding my hand and be totally good.

Though, since coming home I have been wavering between two thoughts (excuse my profanity, it felt appropriate):

1. I am so fucking stupid. Be more careful with shiny new sharp appliances, you idiot. 

2. I am so fucking grateful. It could have hit nerves...or swiped off my whole finger (ahem Jens Lekman). It seriously could've been so much worse. Like, much worse. 

Though I still full-heartily agree with article #1, I am trying to let that go...forgive myself. Because beating myself up for the last 5 hours hasn't really been working out so well. 

My finger was feeling rockin' the first hour out of the doctor's office, but the drugs from the stitching has worn off. So, I'm going to go and try and get loopy on some Tyenol PM and fall asleep to the soft lull of my neighbors break up fight....Seriously you guys, neither of you are white trash. So, please stop calling each other that. Not nice. 

love!
jkl


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