Cutting Deeper

One time, I was cutting a loaf of Rye bread. I think it was late November and the rye taste satisfied a need for warmth and comfort. The loaf was not particularly hard, but maybe a little tough. Somehow my left hand, the hand securing the bread in place, came too close to the blade. I cut deeply into my left pointer finger. We wrapped the pointer in paper towel, and as is typical in a metropolitan area, we simply walked to the nearest hospital. We waited for a long time and I eventually waited alone, as the baby needed to go home. When the doctor did come we had a lovely exchange, where I shared my fascination with bodily wounds and he shared medical school experiences. He got a kick of the way I watched intently as he stitched up my now bloated finger (from the pain injection). "That is so cool" I kept saying "Its like I'm made of wax." I couldn't get over the way my flesh was open and he was threading through it and I couldn't feel a thing. I remember riding my bike to the store for beer later. Talking on my cell-phone with my good hand, steering with my poor hand. Three Monkeys, a great beer with an over-the-top alcohol content that accompanied my grad school days perfectly. It was the first night of River "crying it out." This was a technique that never did work for him. But I sat and drank beer and read Foucault, with earphones on and a bandaged left hand. Tonight, River cut his hand while reaching up on an outdoor shelf. He screamed for what seemed like forever. The cut was superficial and I wanted him to just breathe. But he continued to scream, and scream. I couldn't help but wonder if he was really screaming about the cut or some other, more internal wound. "I almost cut my finger off once" I told him. "Want to see the scar?" "It healed just fine." "When was that mommy, where was I?" "In Philly, and you were a baby, and I was cutting a loaf of rye bread..."