Snapshots of a Modest Life

Deep Down

I've been doing a lot of thinking recently, most of it as I stare at my scarred finger, poking at the area void of feeling. It's hard to think about it. Every time I do, some place deep down in my stomach starts to tingle, my throat constricts, I feel the urge to cry. I keep imagining what will happen if the motion doesn't fully return to my finger. I might have to permanently change how I hold a pen. My thoughts float to the guitar resting in its stand six feet behind me, untouched since Monday, dust slowly accumulating on the frets grooved from years of love and frustration. Will I be able to play again? It was such a battle when I learned to play; molding my unbending fingers into unnatural positions; sighing in frustration as I came across chord after chord that I knew I would never be able to play; smiling at the strings when I found a way to do what everyone, including myself, thought impossible. Why did this happen now that I've finally gotten to the point where my repertoire is greater than a few three chord songs?

Could this be God's way of taking me down a notch? Stripping me of my pride, I don't seem to want to give it up on my own. Maybe He's asking me to give Him the situation; He made my body, He can fix it if He wants.

It seems dumb to cry over something like this. The stitches haven't even come out yet, it's been four days, of course it won't be healed in so short a time. I just worry sometimes that my hand will never be the same. In public I laugh and say, "It's awesome, isn't it?!?" Don't be fooled, it's just a facade. Deep down, I'm terrified. Every time I bump it accidentally and that electric shock shoots up my arm from what feels like the fingertip when in reality I've just hit the knuckle, will it be like this for the rest of my life? When I turn a page in a book and there's no sensation in my ring finger, will I ever feel the soft touch of paper on that fingertip again?

I bury my face in a bandana, hiding my tear-streaked face. I don't usually cry. I'm a robot, few people have seen me cry, just the bird that sits outside my window at night. I stare at her, she stares back at me with her beady black eyes. I wonder if she's ever cried.