It's called a comminuted fracture, which means that S's little finger – which he fractured back in May, and has broken again this weekend thanks to cricket – is in pieces. He's on strong painkillers and won't be swinging a bat or catching a cricket ball for a while. Work will be tricky, too. And so is bathing (I showered him today and yesterday as he sat in the bath, his poorly hand draped over the side).
Anyway, this latest mishap (all sustained while S was fielding or keeping wicket) follows the breaking of another finger (keeping up?) a few weeks ago. That break was a hairline fracture.
So, in summary: we have finger A, which was broken in May, then healed (albeit at a strange angle), then was broken again, badly, at the weekend, and finger B on his other hand, cracked a few weeks ago but now OK. That, hopefully, will be the 'three'. Finger A is blueish red and very fat. Thinking about the shattered, twisted little bones inside makes me feel queasy. He chuckled as he told me about it.
* * * * *
My friend, P, who I have known for 20 years, drove us to have a lovely cream tea at the weekend. We had lost touch for more than five years for various reasons (I had things going on; she went abroad) but I realised in the course of our latest conversation that the good bits of P are very, very good, and that the not-so-good bits (as I had perceived them while not in a great state of mind) were really not at all not-so-good (double negatives necessary, I'm afraid). Perspective is a great thing.
Not one of us is perfect, and it became apparent to me as we chatted and ate scones slathered in jam and clotted cream that we have both grown up a lot during the hiatus. Certain insecurities are not there any longer, confidence has replaced what were growing pains, but most importantly, what made us friends as teenagers hadn't changed a bit.
I don't know anyone who hasn't said something that, if I so choose, I can perceive as hurtful. And I know I can be sharp at times (especially this summer with my insomnia, but the people who genuinely care see past my fug of deepest, darkest exhaustion; those who choose to see the negative, such as my ex-friend R, focus on themselves only, saying things like, "You aren't the only one with problems"...). Hmm, yes. Whatever. This isn't a fucking contest.
If I turn this thing round on its head, maybe P could have chosen to feel victim-y and cast me as a bad person... At the last meal we went to – a meeting of friends – weeks before she took a job abroad, I barely spoke to her despite her best efforts, and I walked away at the end of the evening, putting in place the first brick of a gap in our friendship that was actually quite damaging to me, as I added it to my feelings of being wronged. I remember it clearly. My breath rose in the air as I marched back to my car and drove to the flat I lived in alone. I'd said goodbye to everyone bar her. I don't blame myself for behaving that way, as I had stupefying things going on, but it's not a happy memory.
Anyway, when I contacted P at New Year after discovering her new mobile number (well, I'm not a journalist for nothing), I wasn't sure if I would receive a response. But I did, and when she remembered my birthday, months later, I suggested we meet. She called me up immediately and we met a week later. It was a little odd talking about big events such as my wedding to S. But it was also not odd, not painful, not embarrassing. It was OK, it was really OK. And that spoke volumes.
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