My First World Problem: I Got a Paper Cut and It Hurts Like a Mofo

I may not survive the night.

My First World Problem is my series discussing the struggles I face in life that call for your sympathy.

Before y’all get snippy with me over grammar and typos (no need to send me to the Nazi Grammarly Police), I must point out that my left thumb suffers from a paper cut.

The day started like any other. That’s because I’m social distancing and every day is like every other and has been for five frickin’ months. I get the mail and sit down to open, only to remember that my envelope opener is at my desk at work. I can’t go to work because of the pandemic, so I’m stuck opening my mail with my fingers like a feral cat. I really miss that envelope opener. It had a logo from a convention that I’m confident I never attended.

Out of nowhere, SLICE! goes the sound of paper into a few layers of the epidermis. The pain shoots from my left thumb up my arm, through my body, to my brain, and I scream in horror. My right hand grips my left wrist as I instinctively perform the most complex and rigorous medical procedure for this wound: I suck on the cut while cursing four-letter words. I may not have gone to medical school but I’m a…uh…(thinks of the word for a doctor that does skin surgery…cardiologist? neurologist? rheumatologist?) pseudo-dermatologist thanks to hours of YouTube (Dr. Pimple Popper is my homegurl).

I recover from the initial pain and wash my thumb with soap and water. What Band-Aid do I pick? The plastic kind that’s ten shades too light for any skin tone and falls off within the hour? The stretchy fabric kind that cuts off circulation and falls off within the hour? The weird shaped one that just creates a big cone on the finger and…falls off within the hour?

This all too much for me. My body goes into shock. Am I capable of calling 911? I only have nine hand appendages left, I’m not quite sure I can press all those numbers. I drop to my knees, tears pouring down my face, and cry out “why? WHY?” like a figure skater clubbed behind the knee before the Olympics.

Everything fades to black.

Mostly because my kids left the room and turned the lights off.

I awaken in the darkness, Band-Aid fallen wayside, and my thumb throbbing. I crawl to the desk and grab a binder. As my husband watches TV, I throw the binder at him and fall to a heap on the floor. It’s my Advanced Medical Directives in the event I’m too incapacitated to make a decision. He doesn’t need to open it because he already knows: pull the plug when it’s time.

It’s a miracle. I survived.

It’s been a week since my accident. I’m recovering, slowly. There isn’t physical therapy for paper cuts so I try my best to nurse my injured thumb as best I can. The trash bin no longer overflows with Band-Aid wrappers. I no longer scream like a motherfucker when I wash my hands.

The wounds may heal but these psychological scars will last forever.