On Thursday, July 24, 2014, I fell down some basement stairs in a lake cabin in Minnesota. I was there for my mother's internment, and it was four hours before the ceremony. My fall made quite a bit of noise, as I knocked over a broom and several wood beams that were stacked near the landing, so my cousin, Paul rushed downstairs to see if everything was alright. It wasn't. My right thumb was not in the right place and I couldn't extend it as far as my left. It just looked really weird. My other cousin, Dawn, got two bags of frozen vegetables and some Tylenol, to try to keep the swelling down. My brother was summoned to drive me to the ER, about 20 minutes away in Bemidji.
Remarkably, it didn't hurt that badly, but it just didn't look right. X-Rays were taken, and I learned it was dislocated and fractured. The doctor shot my thumb full of novocaine (or some type of local anesthetic) and then tried to get it back in place. That hurt very badly. I was a horrible patient, crying, tensing up, not breathing. I was really scared. I kept saying "I'm a pianist," and thinking my career was over. Now, my career was not really all that stellar, I was nearly always struggling to make ends meet. I was never going to be a concert soloist, but I was a great accompanist, ensemble player, and a dynamite sight-reader. I had just returned to the Pacific Northwest three months earlier after twelve years in New York City, and wasn't expecting to make much money right away. Though most of my piano work since moving home was volunteer, I was receiving a very warm reception from people I had known in the past, as well as from new musical contacts. I was playing (and singing) in a rock band, a 21-piece pops orchestra, and had a subbing gig coming up at a church. I was told I'd need surgery, which scared me even more. They suggested that I schedule it in Oregon, so the surgeon could do follow-up with me. I scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday, and caught my flight back home the next day.
We were only 15 minutes late for my mom's burial service. I took a selfie at the luncheon following the service, showing the splint and bandage, posted it on Facebook, and lots of sympathetic messages flooded in. (Attention-seeking behavior? Yes, I'll admit it.) After returning to the cabin, I got down to business, looking for a surgeon who was a hand specialist, and looking for a sub for my church gig, just in case I couldn't do the gig. I got the appointment with a surgeon, but not a sub for my church job.
Remarkably, it didn't hurt that badly, but it just didn't look right. X-Rays were taken, and I learned it was dislocated and fractured. The doctor shot my thumb full of novocaine (or some type of local anesthetic) and then tried to get it back in place. That hurt very badly. I was a horrible patient, crying, tensing up, not breathing. I was really scared. I kept saying "I'm a pianist," and thinking my career was over. Now, my career was not really all that stellar, I was nearly always struggling to make ends meet. I was never going to be a concert soloist, but I was a great accompanist, ensemble player, and a dynamite sight-reader. I had just returned to the Pacific Northwest three months earlier after twelve years in New York City, and wasn't expecting to make much money right away. Though most of my piano work since moving home was volunteer, I was receiving a very warm reception from people I had known in the past, as well as from new musical contacts. I was playing (and singing) in a rock band, a 21-piece pops orchestra, and had a subbing gig coming up at a church. I was told I'd need surgery, which scared me even more. They suggested that I schedule it in Oregon, so the surgeon could do follow-up with me. I scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday, and caught my flight back home the next day.
We were only 15 minutes late for my mom's burial service. I took a selfie at the luncheon following the service, showing the splint and bandage, posted it on Facebook, and lots of sympathetic messages flooded in. (Attention-seeking behavior? Yes, I'll admit it.) After returning to the cabin, I got down to business, looking for a surgeon who was a hand specialist, and looking for a sub for my church gig, just in case I couldn't do the gig. I got the appointment with a surgeon, but not a sub for my church job.