Sabbath

Sabbath: 15 February 2023

This is week three of what I’m calling my sabbatical. A time of rest and reflection, a time just to be, to take care of me. I started off strong with morning meditation, a commitment to twice weekly yoga, and a promise to get in shape to run a 5K with Emma in April. I hit a snag on Thursday when I had a little run in with an immersion blender, which left me with an adrenalin spike of fear, a healthy dose of humility, a ton of gratitude, possible scars, nine stitches and a great recipe that I will definitely make again, though with less spice and more attention.

We were leaving soon for a friend’s surprise birthday party, and I was fixing supper in case there wasn’t food there (there was) and so that Jack, who wasn’t going, would have something to eat (he chose cereal). Distracted while blending the wet ingredients for the cornbread topping (yum) I cleared the immersion blender blades with my left forefinger, forgetting that those blades were still attached to the wand in my right hand, and when I braced against the left finger swipe, well. Nanosecond of disaster. Not sure you know this, but fingers bleed a lot. I rinsed it off, put a lot of pressure and bandaged it, and then, of course, finished the recipe, put it in to bake, cleaned the kitchen, changed clothes, and then changed the bandage since the blood was seeping through.  A splash of hydrogen peroxide, more gauze this time, more first aid tape, turn off the oven, get everyone to the car.

Mark was slightly annoyed to be driving but I said I was starting to feel a little dizzy after cutting my finger pretty badly. Then he was super annoyed that I hadn’t told him and he wanted to stop at Urgent Care. Which is why I hadn’t told him. I said, “No, I’m fine. I took some acetaminophen plus we’re a little late. I’m just going to close my eyes for a little bit.” My poor husband.

We had a great time at the party! Before bed I wrapped another couple of layers of tape around the telltale seepage and swallowed some prophylactic acetaminophen. The throbbing woke me up at 1:00 am. Ibuprofen this time, and a convoluted attempt to elevate the finger in a way that was comfortable enough to sleep. Friday morning, I got everyone off to school and went straight to Urgent Care. It was going to be at least an hour wait, but so was every other location, so I did my Duolingo in the parking lot, read my book in the waiting room, and eventually met Katie, my doctor. She asked if I’d kept the immersion blender. That wasn’t the question I’d anticipated, but I allowed as how I had. She said that when the same thing happened to her mother-in-law, she’d thrown hers away. Being, myself, a thrifty Scot, that had never occurred to me.

If my upbringing were a tasty cornbread topping, this would be the recipe.

Dry ingredients: ¼ cup each: traditional Southern gender/race/power roles; Protestant work ethic; inherited status and wealth. 2 Tbs patriotism and obligation to society. 1 ½ tsp Calvinist theology.  ½ tsp World War II rationing and shadow of the Great Depression. Sift together and set aside.

Wet ingredients: 1 large love of family, room temperature; 1/3 cup modesty; ¼ cup sense of humor, melted and cooled; 2 tsp curiosity. Whisk together.

Combine love mixture into dry ingredients, possibly fold in scant pinch of one optional spice. Pour mixture into designated proper dish, cover and bake. Serve sparingly, hot or cold, as appropriate for occasion. No substitutions. Enjoy!

I’ve tried to change up the recipe a fair amount for my own children’s upbringing.

It took Dr. Katie awhile to remove the layers and layers of gauze and tape. She was very gentle, very calm, said I’d need stitches, explained how she’d do the numbing, suggested I take off my wedding rings in case the hand swelled, and asked about the recipe.

“Vegetarian Tamale Pie. New York Times Cooking.”

“Sounds wonderful!”

“I’ll find it for you,” I said. “Blood optional—that’s the enemies version.”

While waiting for the finger to numb sufficiently, I opened my Centering Prayer app. I’ve been trying to start most days with this. The first guideline is: Choose a sacred word as the symbol of your intention to consent to God’s presence and action within. That seems like such a low bar and yet it’s so hard.

A lot of days I can’t get to the consenting part because I’m still working up the gumption to intend to consent. And some days, I’m a step even further back—I’m trying to remember to have the intention to consent. Jeezy creezy.

Some days I skip the guidelines and opening prayer altogether and go straight to the beginning bell chime. I’ve been adapting a meditation based on Isaiah’s prayer, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” I’m not as far as “send me” yet. I’m focusing on “Here I am.” Here I am in this chair in this room with this fragrant candle and that snoring dog and a bit more gray dawn each morning. Here I am in this stage of life, wife and mother, currently unemployed, allowing myself to feel whatever the hell I’m feeling. And some days I get to “Here I am, Lord.” I feel the eyes and presence of God, loving me back into shape. At some point, I’m confident God and I will get to the “Send me” part. But neither of us is rushing it.

The nurse came in with a Tetanus shot, since I couldn’t remember when I’d had my last one. Now I will.

“You taped that finger pretty good.”

“I figured I’d have back up the next time it was unwrapped.”

“I know what you mean. I cut my fingers real bad the day before my daughter’s wedding, but there was no way I was able to leave. So I used some surgical glue and taped them up and went on to the rehearsal dinner. Must’ve done okay because it healed pretty good.”

“My husband offered to glue it; I didn’t know we had surgical glue.”

“Some folks use super glue.”

“Ah. Mark’s an English professor, and I think deep cuts aren’t in his wheelhouse, so I declined, but told him he could use this for an essay if he wanted.”

Dr. Katie came back in and prepped for stitches. I felt pressure but not pain. After the first stitch I stopped her and said, “yeah, I actually can feel that a bit.”

“Do you need more numbing?”

 “How many more stitches? Like one or two?”

“Like seven or eight.”

“Yeah, okay, I need more. I could have braved it out for a couple, but for that many I’m going to need more.” While waiting for it to take effect I sent some folks a good gory picture of one-stitch-in.

Friday night we went to a fancy ball celebrating the Scottish poet Robert Burns. There was not much Scots thrift on display. Tartans, scotch, bagpipes, toasts, haggis, table banging, music, laughter. And I in my floor length midnight blue spaghetti strap gown, sparkly earrings, and ET finger, eventually calling for home.

The ET finger downsized to a swaddled finger and on down to now, a small gauze pad with normal big band aid. Stitches can come out next week. I’ll probably just take care of it myself.

The finger incident is one more reminder to slow down. Pay attention. Rest, take care of myself, so that my wounds can mend. I’ll keep them clean and moist, give them time to heal, remove the stitches and honor the scars. I treasure my scars, because they remind me that something went wrong, that someone helped, and that I recovered.

You know something else great about the finger incident? I didn’t realize how hard it was to type on a keyboard until five days afterwards. That means that I haven’t needed a computer. Because I haven’t had to work. I had time to go to Urgent Care and spend the necessary 5 hours there without worrying if I had enough leave. I’ve had time to go to yoga and volunteer and walk with a friend and still prepare Valentines for my family.

I have time to change my bandage and brew tea and pet my dog and enjoy a rainy afternoon. I have time. For the first time in a long time, I have time. It is a great gift.

My big ET finger is pointing to home, pointing me right back to myself.