Just before the pandemic, I cut my thumb. While it’s ok to take some pride at the speed with which you can dice garlic, it’s also important to keep focus and look in the direction of the knife.
My wife and I disagreed about the severity of the injury. To me, a chunk of flesh and nail was now mostly separated from the rest of my body, hanging on if not by a thread then by an appropriately unsafe amount: the threat of a painful and violent separation was real. I yelled in pain and shock and cursed my own stupidity as we rinsed the appendage under the sink; the surprising amount of blood made me queasy and light headed. Lying on the floor with my thumb up in the air made it all feel better, like the dying cyborg Arnold at the end of Terminator 2, melting dramatically into a sea of hot pain.
My wife thought I was being a baby. “This is just a scratch” she said, as she’d experienced much worse. Doubtful. She calmly applied a mysterious Chinese powder which we keep right next to the American band-aids, and wrapped my thumb in a few layers of gauze. Lying in bed, convinced a hospital visit was unnecessary, the steady rhythm of dull pain throbbed me to sleep.
Every day thereafter the thumb was wrapped in layers of clean, fresh gauze, both to keep the wound safe from the world, and to keep the world safe from having to look at it. Wearing layers of protection that had to stay clean meant that nothing could touch it, and that in turn meant I effectively did not have a left thumb.
Your thumb is a critical digit. Without it, your index and middle fingers need to step up and work together in a forced and unholy partnership. Buttoning up a dress shirt in the morning is like buttoning up your shirt using a pair of chopsticks. Taking your phone out of your pocket is a test of strength and dexterity, while typing on your phone with the inner left side of your index finger puts that new dexterity to immediate use. Holding things became precarious: a cup of water could just fall out of your hand at the slightest provocation. Commuting to work, my compromised grip on the subway pole meant that the risk of falling over was real. And finally, showering at the end of a long thumbless day, I washed my hair with my right hand while my left thumb, wrapped in both gauze and plastic, extended as far from the showerhead as possible: I had discovered a terrible dance move, and was holding it for all to see. The feelings of vulnerability and embarrassment do not easily wash off.
This mildly traumatic experience can be made to seem somewhat like the coronavirus pandemic, though it’s admittedly a huge stretch. The knife hitting the thumb could be the virus arriving on North American shores. The ensuing panic, trauma and confusion is like the bleeding that immediately followed, with everybody scrambling to find ways to manage, successfully or not. And that awkward period without the use of a thumb is our current reality without the use of physical closeness, our mask-covered faces as the gauze-covered digit. Anything could be the coronavirus these days.
What’s interesting about the comparison is what happens next. Slowly, after a month or so, my thumb gradually healed. The chunk of nail that had been cut through had grown out, and the thick layer of dead skin underneath came off with it, revealing the fresh, virgin thumb underneath. My biggest fear was nerve damage, and as I now have a small dead spot in the corner of my thumb it sadly seems like this was the case. Very little time was spent dwelling on the loss however, both because it really wasn’t that bad but also for reasons that are a bit more revelatory.
The joy in getting back the use of my thumb overshadowed the fact that it’s not what it used to be. I had long since adjusted to doing things the hard way: dressing slowly, texting poorly, dropping objects and falling down on the subway. Being able to do things normally again felt like I had gained superpowers of speed and efficiency. With my newly opposable thumb I have reclaimed my homo sapien status, standing proudly next to my human brothers and sisters. So what if part of it is a little numb? I can button shirts and hold cups again.
Similarly, though the coronavirus pandemic may not end soon, it will also not last forever. One day, when the virus has been effectively managed, the world will pick up the pieces and return to some semblance of normalcy. Some parts of the life we once knew and loved will never come back, and we will miss them dearly and mourn their loss. But it’s important not to discount the joy of all the good things that will survive and rush back into our lives all at once: Running into friends unexpectedly at a crowded bar or restaurant, shouting greetings over the noise and bustle, seeing their smiles on uncovered faces and hugging them hello without guilt or fear. Children making new friends in a park, where the watchful eyes of nearby parents provide the only safety they need. Boarding a crowded flight being only worried about the few hours of discomfort before arriving at your destination. And returning to the office to see your coworkers face-to-face, riding a crowded subway while tightly gripping the handle.
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