Thumb Études

Thumb etude I.

It was a few days after my Korean exam when I noticed my right hand thumb was swelled up. Home and later doctor’s treatment did not improve its condition; the infection actually worsened and so one morning I found myself on the way to the surgeon’s. It was the first time in my life that I was heading there and my mother soothed me, saying that she knows the surgeon who is a “very nice gentleman” and the “old nurse with a glass eye” is kind too. Approaching my station, she said “Držím palce!” (Good luck), which was kind of an irony, since only touching the right thumb with anything was a toe-curling pain by that point. Shaking my head, I left the wagon.

At the clinic, I rang the doorbell to the surgeon’s office. After a while, the door opened – and a young blonde nurse checked me from head to toe and said in a teenage-like manner: “Well?”

I wanted to “well” her back, but knowing that my thumb was kinda at stake at that point, I smiled and explained the situation. She told me to wait and shut the thick door in my face. I waited for a while until she opened it again and I entered the office at the end of which an old doctor was sitting by his desk. I sat down and clarified the whole thumb situation to him; as I spoke, he hummed in understanding and then began typing a report on the computer. He was the pointing-finger kind of typist, who kept his head tilted backwards to see through the half-moon glasses that were placed on the tip of his nose. Beneath the nose were lips, seemingly glued to each other, creating a prudish look. What I found the most annoying was the centimetre-thick moustache that seemed half-way done. As in, there was still space between the moustache and the lips for a milk moustache. It actually fascinated me and kept my mind occupied until the moment he told me to lie down on the patient board.

I knew he was going to cut it open and as he anaesthetized my thumb, I stared into the ceiling. I promised myself not to yelp, cry or beg for mercy – I liked my right thumb and didn’t want to lose it, as over the past few days I realized how important it is! I mean, I use it to zip up my pants, to button my coat, to comb through my hair when washing it... And the thought of not having half of my thumb was motivating enough to just grit my teeth and endure the strange sensation of the inner thumb freezing and then being cut open. Just listening to the surgeon’s tools clicking against each other, it was an odd feeling to know that blood was pouring out of the poor finger and yet it was rather pleasant. For a slight moment I even thought I might like to re-live that feeling again.

Half an hour later in the tram on my way back home, I was cursing my half-hour back self. “’Pleasant’... pleasant! Stupid, so, so stupid” I thought to myself, twisting my mouth in pain and shaking my right hand furiously as if it were on fire - the nerves began awakening. A mother with a small child sitting nearby were watching me, suddenly the child asked: “Mummy, why is that girl shaking her hand like that?” The mother, after a while, responded: “She cannot wait to have a cigarette, sweetie.” I gave them a glare that they looked away – and once out of the tram in the cold February weather, I continued to shake my hand in attempt to put out the fire of provoked nerves raging within.

Thumb etude II.

I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t feel like eating. The surgeon’s order was not to wash anything and to keep the thumb both dry and calm. But over the next week when the finger was recovering, dirty dishes without mercy piled up beside the kitchen basin, the right half of my scalp was lousily washed and even holding a pen or pencil was slightly uncomfortable so I gave up writing. Luckily I could still work on the computer, noticing at one point that I barely use the right thumb, only to sometimes hit the space bar. It was writing essays and chatting that helped me forget the growing twitching in the little poor finger.

The bandage however began wearing off and loosening, despite my great care of not getting it wet or anything. It was the night before I was to go to the surgeon’s again for a check-up and though the order was not to change the bandage, my mother ripped it off (hence revealing the thumb’s Quasimodo state that made me wince in disgust). Before wrapping it into a fresh bandage, she dipped it into a balm that smelled of smoked meat. Though a passionate carnivore, this liniment I increasingly began to hate. Especially when at the check-up, the surgeon opened the bandage. Again with his head tilted backwards, he examined through his half-moon lunettes the finger that looked as if it were dipped in mustard. After a while of silence, he began swearing rather vehemently.

I shall not put his short monologue word by word here, but I’ll just say that it was a quite racy speech! It concluded with something like this: “Goddamn, why the f*ck did you do this? I told you not to change the damn bandage! Why, why...”

“My mother did it,” I peeped. He looked at me, his head tilted backwards again.

“Your mama did? Ah, but you’re a grown lady! Why do you listen to her?”

“She’s a teacher.” He tilted his white-haired head even more backwards as he laughed.

“A teacher! Oh yes, my wife was a professor too. Luckily she’s dead now, so I’m free.” I imagined Shakespeare’s Ariel in the way he extended the vowels in “free”; I grinned. Suddenly though, he grew serious again: “But the balm mixed with the blood, so this is going to hurt a little bit now.”

“What? Ow!” I hissed through my teeth as he plucked a part of the dried black bump. But I didn’t drop a single tear – this was nothing, compared to a few days ago, right. After again enveloping the finger in a bandage, he said that that should be the last time we’ll see each other and bid me good luck.

“Shame, just when he was becoming fun!” I thought to myself as I left the clinic. “But at least the thumb isn’t hurting anymore” and so I looked forward to getting home and examining the cut-up thumb a few days later.

Thumb etude III

A private school called me up for an interview for a creative writing teaching position. Only 20 minutes from my house and only asking for 2 hours’ of work a week for a more than decent pay, I wanted to make a good impression. My thumb was already set free (meaning it was no longer in a bandage) and I was only very conscious where the dried blocks of black blood were concerned. I did not want to appear unhygienic so I did my best to hide the finger during the interview, but eventually it surfaced. It was terribly itchy and I kept on scratching its corners, though the tickly sensation did not cease even a bit.

“What happened with your finger?” The English teacher behind a light amber brown wooden desk asked. Carefully yet honestly, I responded:

“I had this infection in there... Went to the surgeon’s a few days ago, it’s healing slowly though. I’m sorry that it’s not pretty.”

“Don’t worry,” he squared his shoulders and the conversation carried on. It was obvious that we went along well and I have created a good impression on him. Despite the black thumb. The major moment was when he extended his hand towards me, saying that they’ll let me know. We shook hands. I was excited and happy beyond myself, thinking that the job is mine - despite the black thumb and the bad luck I thought it would bring.

The moment we exchanged final words of goodbye though, an expected thing happened: blood began running from his nose. Like pouring, like water flows from a tap on highest flow or a summer storm rain. He excused himself and began running down the hall towards the bathrooms as I stood there, smiling. Thinking, "So we are kind of equal now" and I left.

PS: I didn't get the job. I suppose the teacher felt too embarrassed about what happened.