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Something happened to me this weekend that reminded me of the uncertainties of growing up. As I was heading out of my office to begin my journey home after a long day at work, I proceeded to shut the door, or more aptly bang the door. I did this without realizing that my right index finger was positioned just at the perfect angle to absorb some of the shocks from that force.

What ensued was riveting. The pain was too unreal that my next impulse was to throw up. At that moment, everything in my life became a single reel of intentional focus. The constant throbbing pain that I had been experiencing recently disappeared, almost as a way of paying homage to the latest arrival in town. With the sustained voltage of pain coursing through my essence, I was one with the universe and nothing else mattered. I proceeded to lie on the floor in the fetal position, mustering all of my strength not to throw up. My mouth now left concaved at a failed attempt to cry; no matter how hard I tried, the tears just wouldn’t come. This was the most disturbing for me as tears have always been an easily accessible way to effuse and diffuse most of the things I could not cope with emotionally.

Crying, as I found out when this happened, signified an end to a means; tears to me were akin to when the fat lady sings at the opera. So, it made sense that with this level of pain and how much attention it sought from me, I could not cop my way out of this compulsory life-course by just crying. I had to take notes, sit up straight, and listen — yeah, pain demands all of our attention.

Perhaps, this was the hardest lesson to learn. Before that moment, I could cry on command — a touching scene from the KDramas I watch, any Budweiser commercial with animals, babies, name it — I was guaranteed to cry. But not this time. So, chalk it down to the downsides of growing up or the intensity of the pain. I drove myself to an Urgent Care clinic and $30 later, I was provided with a finger splint and a 30-day supply of painkillers (not opioids, hence, there will be a separate piece of writing on just this). The pain has subsided a lot, and I am able to resume using the finger to some degree.

Moral of the story: Pain is exacting and intentional. Tears apparently are no match to diffuse some pain you may experience. While you are digesting all of these nuggets, might I suggest not to bang your door ever again? And if you insist on doing this, for the love of God and Mexican plantains (or whatever you hold high in your life), do not leave your finger wedged in there.

She writ(h)es,


#MusingsbyMo #Shewritesshewrithes

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I'm ME: replete with the mien of a bard, scholar, Argonaut, Jesus-lover, funfinder, bibliophile, Koreanophile, partner, and wanderer!

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