Written this past winter:
Upon slicing my finger with a rotary cutter, JUST as I was embarking on some sewing time as my creativity was calling, a few expletives came out of my mouth: Fuck. FUCK.
(The f-word, in my opinion, is one to be used somewhat sparingly, to make it stick. Not, as many use it today, in every other sentence. It’s a strong, forceful word. Used when it’s used, it conveys its strength. Anger. Hurt. Rage. Frustration. Or, as customer Julie said “I swear like a well-educated sailor")
Anyhow, my creativity retreated and the next 30 minutes were spent rinsing, applying pressure, taking the pressure off and realizing more pressure was needed, then finally, wrapping and bandaging and settling in for some much needed sleep.
I sought urgent care the next day, as our sewing technician Jeremy recommended after changing my bandage and seeing it. After an hour and a ½ and 3 tries at places, I gave up and said the word again: Fuck it. (And contemplated asking my niece, who’s a vet tech and has given many animals stitches, to do the job on me.)
So, with the help of my husband that night, liquid bandage was applied by him as I sat on the edge of the tub taking deep breaths so as not to faint as I held the cut together while he glued.
(Why am I sharing the following gruesome picture? Because LOOK at the afghan behind my hand and then LOOK at the same afghan about 40 years ago behind me Christmas morning as I excitedly open my new record player! My grandma crocheted it and it still is like new - that's how our quilts will be in 40 years, right?!)
All is well now - the cut is on the mend, antibiotic ointment and washing and bandaging continues.
While at work 2 days later, though, I’m grimacing with occasional pain from the cut, my limited use of that finger, my arthritis in the base of my thumb, and then a damn PAPER CUT while putting a customer’s fabric in her bag (damn bag). Winter is taking its toll on me.
I realized this happens to me every year at this time. My skin is dry and I slather on cream all day and it doesn’t seem to help, my hand aches, I’m pushing through many days until I can snuggle up under layers of blankets and one homemade quilt and sleep. November and December, and most of January, are fine. I love getting out my hand-knit sweaters and wearing them, sitting by the fire and reading under a warm blanket, drinking hot tea and hot cocoa. But by February, the cold has seeped into me. My joints, my skin, my emotional endurance.
I’m grateful for creativity. It gets me through. Whether I pick up knitting needles, hand embroidery, or my rotary cutter, I’m soothed by the work of creating. And then, in one moment, probably feeling rushed to create, I’m out of commission for a few days.
Today, the bandage came off, the liquid adhesive is doing its job, and I pick up a sewing needle and work on birds - Sweet Little Birds.
