Around the age of six, at least what memory can serve me, I had this thing on my left index finger. It was a little, red bump that just bothered me. I can’t explain why it did. Additionally, I can’t really say why I took a pair of fingernail clippers to it. I figured, cut it off and it will go away. It’s just a small, red piece of skin right? Months later, that tiny bump became infected and very painful. Four shots of novocaine and minor surgry, the scare is still visible.
Around the age of nineteen, I was helping my ex-girlfriend’s dad out with his paintball business. To catch the paint dripping off of the shooting gallery he had set up, he used a huge piece of sheet metal, bent like a cookie sheet to save the pavement from turning green. Tearing down the event, he and I carried this coated, half-witted idea, only to have the slippery contraption fall away from my grip, slicing the skin between my thumb and index finger on my left hand, all the way down to the tendons. I can still count the five stitches, and she lost her Goonies shirt to my blood loss.
A few years later, I got out of the same ex’s car, sleep deprived and all-day-starved on a late summer day, not paying attention to where my hand was at as I closed the door. My first reaction upon feeling my left index finger wedged between the door and the frame was to pull away, only to have a few, warm drops of blood splatter onto my face. They pulled what fingernail was left out of the cuticle and sewed the rest up in the emergency room, leaving a piece of severed bone from my fingertip to the healing miracle known as the human body.
Yesterday, three hundred pounds of pressure from a single power supply to our new FM transmitter added to this list of trauma that my left hand has seen. It lasted nearly five seconds, but at this point, it’s the three cuts on the tops of my knuckles that sting more than my grossly swollen index finger. Three x-rays later, things should be alright after a matter of days. My sense of my estranged pain tolerance makes things like typing not too bad, but that’s about all I can do with it.
Somewhere, some one is trying to tell me that I should never consider being a musician. It took me a long while to get up to the point where I could play my bass after the last finger incident. I think this is just another sign that I live a curse of many faces.