By Kelsi Folsom
@kelsifolsom

Sweeping sandwich crumbs and coffee grounds aside, I set my pink and purple cactus print beach bag atop the granite counter. Taking inventory of sunscreen, bug spray, snacks and cash, I painstakingly vacillate between a collection of poetry by a Saudi American author and the historical fiction novel set in post-war England I had picked up from the library. Not wanting to sully my library loan with sand, I decide on the poetry. I pause, massaging the ball of my left pinkie finger, aching and tingling from preparing our picnic lunch, then grab my marked up copy of The Tiny Journalist lying near the toaster. My phone begins ringing, and while I normally wouldn’t bat an eye at the interruption, today I am waiting on some news.

Smiling into the microphone like I am a vision of chill, I chirp “Hello, this is Kelsi Folsom.”

A male voice on the other end greets me. “Hello Mrs. Folsom, we got the images back from your x-ray, and your finger is definitely fractured.”

I don’t know why, but my eyes fill with tears. My body feels compromised. 

“We’re referring you to a Hand Specialist,” the nurse continues. “You’ll need to follow up with him.”

Haha, when? I want to snark, but I grab a pen and paper instead, scribbling down the details from the nurse.

“We’re going to the beach today,” I say to him out of compulsion, or perhaps confession. 

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” the nurse counters with a hint of surprise.

If only he knew the half of what I’ve done with a broken finger.

“Yeah I’ll be fine,” I shrug with a laugh. “Mostly I sit on a beach towel and read while my husband plays Moby Dick with the kids.” 

“Okay, well, be careful,” the nurse warns before we hang up.

I stare out the window, begrudging the south Florida humidity as mosquitos nip at my ankles. I should have gone to the ER as soon as it happened. It was about 4 p.m. in a basement apartment in Rockville, Maryland. We were churning out the witching hour with Disney’s Greatest Hits blasting through the speaker while I put the finishing touches on dinner. The kids were dancing, singing along when I heard a knock at the door. Thinking it was the Amazon delivery man, I turned and was shocked to see my husband, home unusually early from his OBGYN rotation at a nearby hospital.

In a stroke of romantic fervor I flung my arms up into the air, leaping over the sprawling kingdom of legos between me and the front door, only to crumple to the floor in a shock of pain.

Queen Elsa was belting “Let it Go” and I was remembering the last time inner channels of my bones felt such writhing intensity—laboring for the arrival of my daughter 4 years ago.

I faintly heard the scramble of my husband fumbling for his keys, yelling my name, and finally pushing open the door that so frequently jams. He rushed over to me asking what happened, and I could only press my face further into the cold tile with increasing moans.

What I had failed to note was the low-hanging swath of ceiling stretching over the center island of our kitchen. I feared the brokenness of my finger, but feared more the amount of money I might have to spend at a clinic, all for them to send me home with an “it’s just badly sprained—take some ibuprofen.” Rather than acknowledge the accident and incur whatever expenses were necessary, I decided it wasn’t broken. I had muscled my way to healing before; pain is primarily mental, right? We would buddy tape it to my ring finger, and call it a night.

 Two months and a cross-country move to Florida later, my pinky is more dangle than digit. I thought of how much I love to play the piano, and how much longer it is taking me to prepare and clean up our meals, and finally scheduled an X-ray to decide what to do next.

Now I had my answer.

“Was that the doctor?” my husband inquires on his way out the back door to grab the puddle jumpers hanging off the clothesline.

“Yeah. So my finger is for sure broken.” I try to sound clinical, but a small fit of fury threatens to break from under my tongue.

“I’m really sorry,” my husband says, reaching to envelop me in his six-foot wingspan. Ironically it is precisely my hunger for his warmth that landed me in this predicament.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, but I call the hand surgeon anyways, knowing I won’t hear back from anyone until probably Monday. While the phone rings, I straighten the black, leopard-print tunic I had pulled overtop my bikini, the elastic ribbing encircling my waist beginning to feel stifling. Nearby, the kids are rustling up swimsuits and sandals, yet I am no longer in the mood for the impending hustle and bustle of beach activities.

After leaving a message with the doctor’s office, I steal away to the bathroom. I don’t need to use it, I just need to be quiet and unseen, to let a few tears fall away from the curious eyes of my children. Powering through the pain no longer feels like an option. 

“Hey my love, we’re loading up the car,” my husband calls out to me.

“Okay, be right out,” I respond with annoyance. Life never stops long enough for me to catch my breath.

Leaving the light off, I press my cheek against the coarse cotton towels slung against the walls. My fingers find a fraying edge and clutch, like I’m holding the lapel of my mother’s blouse.

 My shoulders fold into my chest. I feel so stupid. I don’t have the time or resources to be injured. I had counted on being physically whole this year to handle the wear and tear of regularly moving a family of 5 across the U.S. for the varied hospital rotations of my husband’s third year of medical school. I made all the meals and planned daily outings like it was my job. There was no margin for weakness. 

I wipe snot from my nose as the tears flow. I am so, so tired. I should be praying, but I don’t know what to say—umm, God, I need invincibility like, yesterday?

Let yourself be small for five minutes.

What? I startle at God’s response shushing the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” narrative I’ve been mainlining since childhood. How can I be small when so many responsibilities rest on my shoulders?

I don’t want the little things to matter, but they add up over time and become immobilizing. Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I no longer have any needs, but I have trouble being vulnerable. These seemingly insignificant wounds should be worthy of precise and intentional care, but I didn’t know where would my actual help would come from.

I dab away the dribbles of black mascara under my eyes, and join the rest of my family in the van.

***

A few weeks later, nerves thrum through my belly as I park my car at a hospital about 55 minutes away from home. I unlatch the creaky door of our old Subaru Forrester, stepping out of the vehicle with a bit of disorientation and trepidation. Worries that the Hand Surgeon would find something irreparably awful about my finger that the X-ray had somehow missed gathered around my feet as I made my way to the hospital entrance.

Deep breaths and furrowed brows lead me down a hallway to the office door. I consider bolting, but I don’t really have another choice. The sound of “First Wive’s Club” greets me as I approach the appointment window. Nothing like a little tender-hearted 90s female empowerment to soothe the nerves.

I sign in and take a seat, straining to hear the movie mounted against the wall, while I fill in copious medical history questions.

After waiting for what feels like hours, my name is called. I follow the nurse to a small examination room to wait for the doctor. Soon a young man walks in and shakes my hand.

“What seems to be the problem?” He asks enthusiastically.

 “I broke my pinky,” I shrug, displaying what used to be a straight appendage.

“Shit, yeah ya did,” he laughs. I would normally be skeptical of a physician cursing in the presence of a patient, but the shock of his seemingly unprofessional candor actually puts me at ease. Laughter is a powerful medicine.

He asks more questions, and I recount my dramatic tale as he takes a closer look. I expect him to berate me for not being more careful, but instead of wagging a finger at what I perceived to be “reckless” behavior, he proceeds to tell me what a good mom I am.

My eyes widen. I wasn’t getting Dad vibes from him, but maybe my kitchen escapades sounded like fun, and maybe being a fun mom is just as valid as being a “safe” mom.

Is hugging doctors allowed?

I am ALL IN when it comes to dance parties with my kids. I smile, sensing a bit of personal shame dissipating. He seems confident we can correct the problem with targeted physical therapy eclipsing the need for reconstructive hand surgery. Relief floods my eyes. There would be healing after all. 

I get a referral for a rehabilitative hand therapist and leave the office feeling hopeful and a little less embarrassed that I broke myself doing something so silly. 

***

Brushing up tiny flecks of honey oat bread from the counter into the palm of my hand, I dump the crumbs into the trash can, and place the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches onto plastic plates for lunch. I hear my kids answer a question Dora the Explorer asks them from the television screen. I firmly grip a Mleacintosh apple with my left hand, noting the new strength and dexterity my pinky has after two months of physical therapy. Making quick slices with my right hand, I divvy up the wedges between the plates, hopeful they will nourish bodies instead of lacquer the dining room floor.

I set the plates down and return to the kitchen to whip up something for myself. Deciding on oatmeal, I grab a stainless steel pot from the cupboard, turning the gas up when a fit of little tears enters the kitchen.

“What’s the matter, bud?”

>indeterminable blubbering<

“Can you take a deep breath and use your words?”

>more whimpering and a touch of snot<

I scoop up his wiry frame, small for his age, and press my nose into his neck right below his silky earlobe. I don’t know what he needs, but a good hug cures a lot of ailments. 

“It’s okay to just feel small,” I whisper gently.

He relaxes and clutches the lapel of my blouse.

Guest essay written by Kelsi Folsom. Kelsi navigates marriage and motherhood with black coffee, her library card, and a whole lot of prayer. The author of three poetry collections is published in Wildroof Journal, Motherly, Grit and Virtue, The Caribbean Writer, Mothers Always Write, and elsewhere. Having lived in the Dutch Caribbean, she is here for rum punch, sultry sunsets, and soca music. When she isn’t cooking for family and friends, she enjoys thrifting, doing puzzles, and occasionally putting her B.M. in Voice Performance to good use.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.