Mary + Her Mental Health

Tale I
1998 – Chicago
While hurrying to pack a bag for a weekend trip, Left Thumb was maliciously attacked by a falling pink razor from the second shelf of the bathroom cabinet. The all-too-impenetrable plastic protector was not secure, and flew off the sharp predator in a split-second following. Like the bolt of a preying jaguar, the razor leaped as I instinctively tried to catch it with my hand, my left hand. Heaven forbid this ferocious razor hit the floor; what would I do then?! Out of thoughtless instinct, my right hand then reached out to cup the flailing razor into my left hand, when the razor, desperate for freedom, turned over in brutal fashion. In an ironic twist, my right hand pressed the blood-thirsty razor face down into the flesh of…that’s right…Left Thumb. To this day, I have a memoir, a token, or in other words, a bit of a nasty scar just below Left Thumb’s Thumbnail... the size of a pitiful squished lentil bean.

Tale II
2000 – Chicago
3 a.m. and I can’t sleep. Might as well do the dishes. I fill the sink with soapy, hot water and gently, gently, place some large glasses in the sink to wash. As I’m scrubbing, my mind wanders through a maze of semi-conscious notions as I barely begin to register that the water is pink. I have not yet registered any pain as I turn the glass in my right hand over to find the glass I'm holding has a broken edge, a v-shaped jaggedy thumb killer. The glass is vertically broken from its top to its base. I turn my left hand over, the hand holding the sponge, to find that a heart-shaped portion of the skin that covers the inside of Left Thumb’s knuckle is hanging on by a few strands of flesh. I raked poor Left Thumb right over and across the jaggedy edge of that glass. I spend the next hour with Left Thumb held tightly with a dish towel above my head to get it to stop bleeding. Had I insurance, I’m sure stitches would be appropriate. I make a bewildered 4 a.m. phone call to the fire department wondering if it’s a bad thing that it hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. Moral: This tale is especially good for people who have considered living alone. Living by yourself is a great idea provided you don’t buy cheap glasses or have trouble sleeping at night. Incidentally, from this gruesome episode there remains a slightly raised kidney-shaped scar, palm side, over Left Thumb’s knuckle.

Tale III

Feb 2006 – Boston
Meet Red Thumb. That’s not a made-up insensitive reference to Native Americans, it’s actually my thumb…that’s right…Left Thumb. Left Thumb became Red Thumb when I poured boiling, scalding hot water over my hand while trying to make herbal tea for the guests in my living room on a cold Sabbath eve. Thanks to an obliging bag of frozen corn, cold running water administered by my friend Daryl, and the subsequent producing of a local cable telethon, “Save Red Thumb,” providing cash for the purchase of Target-brand Neosporin (thanks for calling, Mom), I’m happy to report that Red Thumb is healing quite well, with little blistering, and very few complications. Red Thumb thanks you for your support.

All these things happening to one thumb. One more nasty thumb injury, and I’m fielding a call from the MCATD (the Massachusetts Center Against Thumb Discrimination) wanting to know why I don’t treat all my thumbs with the same amount of abuse.

It is not intentional! I can’t explain it! Won’t anyone believe me?!