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You Don’t Live There Anymore
This article is part of a two-part series though each stands well enough on its own. If you’d like to read the first article, you can find it here.
The first significant injury I remember happened when I was eight years old.
My twin cousins were visiting from Arizona, and we were running around my grandparents’ backyard. They had a small treehouse built into the plum tree that leaned slightly toward the southern fence line. My cousins climbed up ahead of me. I scrambled up the ladder, eager not to miss out on whatever mischief they were about to get into, and caught my hand in the hinge side of the door just as my cousin wrenched it shut.
Specifically, my right index finger landed between the frame and the hinge. The door didn’t close all the way… because of the bone.
I screamed, which made my cousin let go of the handle. When I pulled my hand back, it didn’t bleed right away, but I thought I could see bone. My misshapen finger started swelling immediately. I don’t remember the car ride to the clinic; just holding a paper towel around my hand and feeling every heartbeat. Then sitting motionless in a vinyl chair, waiting.
They sent us to a different clinic. Then we waited again. Hours passed. My dad sat beside me. The initial shock had worn off, and the pain wasn’t as intense anymore. My…
