My Fingers in The Mixie – Unburdening Through Recollection
It’s been five months since my last memoir blog post here. I have turned to Twitter for micro-blogging instead of writing long blog posts here. I find it easier too to use a social media platform to voice out my random thoughts than this blog where I no longer keep track of my stats. But I want to write in detail about something that happened to me on March 31st. I feel pouring it out here will unburden me a bit. Also, I have been typing this post only with my right hand. Well, I’ll get to the incident now.
I have always wanted to write about the unfolding of my Sundays. Nothing too special or phenomenal in it. My Sundays are the lazier version of my weekdays. The mornings are a bit laidback, unlike the other days. So, March 31st was like any other Sunday at home. In a parallel universe, I might have gone to work on that day, but that was not the case in this universe. I woke up, did my ablutions, prepared breakfast, fed my daughter, and then washed my hair. Later, I took my daughter to the Easter celebrations hosted by one of my neighbours for the kids in my apartment. It was happening in the parking lot. The kids painted the shells of the hard-boiled eggs, then played Find-The-Hidden-Eggs, and ate them too. Then we put on some music and danced to the songs. I never guessed that that would be the last time I’d get to see my fingers intact.
After the celebrations, I went up to my parents’ flat to help with the Sunday lunch. I started stacking up the washed dishes in their right places. Then I suddenly remembered that I had left my flat unlocked. So I rushed to clear up a few things in our bedroom and then lock the house. Usually, I’d finish some more chores at my home before I go to help my mom. But on that day, I cleared up only a bit and rushed back to my parents’ flat.
My mom had filled the mixie jar with four sliced tomatoes and other spices to blend them for rasam. Here comes the part where things could have actually gone right but there are always greater forces at work even if we are observant like a hawk. I placed the mixie jar on the mixie and turned the knob to 1, but then I realised that it wasn’t plugged in. I turned the knob back to 0. But the knob hated the number 0, I assume. It was a bit away from it. So, when I plugged into the socket and turned the switch, the mixie started running. Ka-boom! Whirrrrr! The tomatoes thrashed everywhere. Maybe I was too terrorized to realise that the lid had already flown. I don’t know what came over me in that one second.
MY FINGERS HAD CAUGHT THE SUPERFICIALLY RUNNING MIXIE JAR!!! THREE OF THEM!!!
The words of my mom telling me to turn off the switch never registered in my mind for that one second. Only when my dad (who was gratefully near the sink in the kitchen washing the prawns) turned the switch off, I started screaming. Gut-wrenching wails looking at my severely injured fingers and the blood cascading from them. Still screaming like a banshee, I washed my fingers under running water. By then my husband rushed to the kitchen and caught my shoulders while I cried and washed. In a post-injury daze, I stumbled to the hall crying aiyooo aiyooo valikudhu valikudhu. My mother came running with a handkerchief to tie around the wound. She began crying looking at the blood still gushing down my hand.
NEVER HAVE I EVER LOST THAT MUCH BLOOD FROM AN INJURY!
I sat down on the sofa, mumbling inscrutable words. Later I was informed that I was crying about not being able to do anything thereafter at home or work. I even told my mother that I was scared and that she should accompany me to the hospital. I don’t remember saying any of this. Maybe that was an immediate repercussion of trauma. My husband took me to the hospital on his bike, while I cried all the way in pain and overthinking about all the things I wouldn’t be able to do for a while in my life.
They took me in as an emergency case. A local anaesthesia was registered to my hand immediately to numb the wounded fingers and covered them in gauze. For a while, I didn’t feel any pain. To say in the words of Pink Floyd, I was comfortably numb. They gave me another painkiller injection and a TT injection too. Later, they sent me to take an X-ray of my hand. All through this ordeal, I let down a fresh bout of tears. Uncontrollable crying. When my mother came to console me, I remember telling her that my daughter had her first day of school (class 1) the next day and this misfortune happened. I seriously couldn’t stem my crying though I wasn’t in pain. My mother kept repeating that they were all there to support me and I shouldn’t be worrying about anything then.
But all I could feel was that the world around me was crumbling to pieces and I was helpless to pick them up and stitch them back together. My routine as I know will no longer be the same anymore.
While waiting for the X-ray, blood dripped from my index finger and a droplet fell to the floor. That was enough to send me once again on the worry lane and I cried even more, while my mother chanted words of encouragement to me. Meanwhile, my husband entered the X-ray room and got the X-ray from the staff. Then I was taken to another room for the doctor to inspect the injuries and suture them. Since my hand was still numbed, I couldn’t feel whatever they did with the injuries. The doctor called my mom and husband and told them since the flesh on my middle finger had been cut too nastily, they could not stitch the entire wound, but only at a few places. The impact was comparably less on my index and ring finger.
After the stitches were done, my fingers were dressed with ointment, gauze, and bandage. So, this is what it looked like after I reached home from the hospital:
Then began the endless cycle of suffering. Pain. Shock. Trauma. The screams and sounds playing on a loop in my mind. Fear to enter the kitchen. Restlessness. Sleeplessness. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Every two days once dressing the wounds.
On the 2nd dressing session, the bandage from my ring finger was removed as it was the least impacted. On April 5th, the dressing from my index finger was also removed. A bit of the nail is damaged, but it would heal in the open. But every dressing session of the middle finger was/is/will be a trip to hell. While I’m resting at home, reading books, writing poetry, listening to music, watching movies, and sleeping away, I still have the helplessness gnawing at me that I have to depend on others for wearing clothes and other everyday things that require both hands.
Well, I was told that there was no blood circulation to that finger. So whenever I saw the wound while dressing, it was like a blob of black something. There was always the tingling pain in that finger. So on April 7th, a week after the incident, they cut the nail that was restricting the healing of the wound.
If you think this would have been easy, no, it was not. I wasn’t given any anaesthesia for this procedure. The pain of the real incident was marred by this pain. I cried out my lungs in indescribable pain. A fresh wave of trauma was added. My cries kept echoing in my ears long after I came home.
I couldn’t do anything after reaching home. I just sat and cried for some time, after popping a painkiller. They had also instructed us to take the opinion of a hand surgeon the next day.
Today, the hand surgeon inspected the wound. He even showed it to me. The blob of black was no longer to be seen since the nail was removed and now the original wound was visible. I could see the bone underneath because there was no flesh in the place of the injury. The surgeon told me that the bone too had a minor crack which would heal as the wound heals. Further dressing sessions would be needed. If it doesn’t seem to heal, I would require plastic surgery on the fingertip.
Phew! So that’s it. I’m now waiting for Thursday. Another trip to the hand surgeon would clear things up. I have been prescribed antibiotics once again. When I asked the surgeon about the time taken for this wound to heal, he said it would take a month.
A freaking month!
If you have read till here, please wish for my speedy recovery as I’d love to bounce back asap. I might think about a hundred possibilities where this whole accident could have been avoided or not happened, but certain things are bound to happen. It’s time for me to learn and grow from the pain. I have also written two poems about this incident for National Poetry Writing Month. You can read them here and here.
Love,
Kavya Janani. U
