For over two weeks now, something has been seriously wrong with my right pinky. It wasn’t until I took off the bandage for my Thursday night performance that I realized just how bad it had gotten– I’d been flying under the stubborn impression that it would heal itself, as most things that go wrong with this body o’ mine tend to do.
Most of the skin that typically surrounds a fingernail, mainly to keep it in place, has disappeared and there is a painful amount of fluid that’s collected underneath the nail, which wiggles like a loose tooth.
On Friday, I went to a doctor and was given a prescription for amoxycillin, a form of penicillin– apparently, it’s just a bacterial infection. How’d it happen? Not a clue. Not a single, single clue.
But! These pills! My god! It’s a round of penicillin large enough to sterilize an elephant!
In the meantime, I’ve been tempted to cut off the entire finger. It serves no purpose other than to cause me pain and anguish– every now and again, it’ll come into contact with something or other and my entire body tenses up; last night I was stupid enough to go out dancing after my show, and some of my leads would accidentally grab that finger and it was all I could do to not scream and fall writhing to the floor.
And I don’t want that. I don’t want to have things in my life that only cause me grief, that do nothing but hurt me and give me reasons to cry. I waited two weeks before I did something about it, suffered for two horrible weeks, believing it would get better on its own, believing it would return to its normal, wonderful, happy and fully-functional state, before actively seeking a way to change things.
Luckily, a solution was available– but what if there hadn’t been? What if there were no such things as doctors and penicillin? If I knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t going to get better, that it was just going to keep on being a hindrance to my well-being and happiness– what then? Would I have the strength to do away with it? Would I be able to convince myself that the short-term pain of casting it off would be far overshadowed by the long-term pain of keeping it around? Loss is never easy; choosing to lose something deliberately, even less so.
"Useless" appendages, I don’t mind keeping around– things like my appendix, which just hangs out and takes up space, neither being productive nor making me miserable. But boy, you know the *second* that fucker turns on me, I’m having it snipped out without a second’s consideration.