I have to make the peace sign with my right hand for another week. Of all the moronic injuries this one embarrasses me the most. Avocado hand.

Note to self, don’t wield a knife when your toddler is climbing the baby gate to the kitchen, shaking it, and screaming at you as you cut into an avocado. The irony is that we just got done watching the Bob’s Burgers episode about him accidentally giving himself a “finger crotch” as I tried to then prepare dinner for the kids and gave myself my own.

The web between my forefinger and middle finger suddenly was waving a flag of flesh and I was surrendering. I flushed out a chunk of avocado wedged underneath my skin and doused the open pocket in my hand with rubbing alcohol. The adrenaline kept me steady as I squeezed a clean washcloth between my fingers, hung my hand above my head, said a silent thanks that my right hand was unharmed, and called my husband.

The knife sank so deep it didn’t bleed right away. That’s never good. When you suddenly turn your body into a science exhibit and see the layers of your flesh without paying admittance, it’s time to pass out. But when you’re home alone with kids it goes like this, “Hey, Jamie, were you coming home soon?”
“Uh, I didn’t plan on it, why-….”
“Well, you are now!”

I got that cold, woozy, sweaty feeling of shock after the initial “goddamnit you gotta be fucking kidding me” feeling. My body basically asked my circulatory system if it wanted to bleed and it responded, “Can you believe it? This stupid bitch wants a piece of metal between her fingers?!”

The calculations of how long it would take for Jamie to get home and how long I might be waiting at the E.R. clicked through my head and I realized I would have to drive myself so Jamie could put the kids to bed. I lowered my wounded hand clutching the towel, peaked below the fabric and a bit of blood spurted out. The E.R. would take too long and I was bleeding more than I thought. Luckily we have a really cool urgent care company with a chain of locations in Portland called Zoomcare so I was seen an hour later while the kids looked like they were acting out a scene from “Cool Hand Luke” sweating out in my twenty year old box of a car.

Owen was excited to skip out on bedtime and drive so fast. He shouted “WEE!” from the backseat as we hit every bump. Nora apparently passed out for awhile but was awake once they stopped to pick me back up. She fell asleep shortly after they dropped me off so Jamie drove around with her asleep and Owen chatting away excitedly.

I climbed in and shared some details about my visit. How my insensitivity to painkillers and numbing agents struck again and how tidy the stitches were. How the physician assistant was shocked at how many shots it took to numb me and couldn’t believe I was cracking jokes as I felt the needle with every stitch. I looked in the side mirror and caught Nora’s expression. It startled me and I began asking her a flurry of questions.

“Nora, are you ok? Are you too hot? Jamie, did you bring her water bottle?! Honey, are you ok, answer me!”
“Is your hand ok, mama? Are you going to be ok?”
She was worried, sick with it and here I was cracking jokes.
“Of course, baby! Is that why you’re upset? Oh no, don’t worry about me, I’m good! I’ll give you a big hug once we park the car and prove it! I’m so sorry!”
She smiled unconvincingly and looked carsick. I silently hoped that we would get home without any delays.

The moment we stopped I opened her door to hug her. She smiled and said, “You’re ok, mama? Oh good, you can still cuddle me and cook.” She’s got her priorities in order.