Band-Aids Please

It occurred to me last night that I used to love Band-Aids.  I don't know why or how, but somewhere in that infinite hour in which it took me to fall asleep this thought just popped into my head.  I used to want a bandage for everything.  I don't know why that was, but I needed one.  If I had a paper cut: Band-Aid.  If I scraped my knee: Band-Aid.  Sliver: Band-Aid.  The list goes on.

Of course, my mother never wanted to give me Band-Aids.  My injuries were never serious or life-threatening, therefore didn't warrant the use of a Band-Aid.

I thought they did.

I helped out in my little sister's preschool class over winter break.  One of her male classmates came into school at eight o-clock already decked out with six fingers full of bandages.  They were bright, colorful little strips that reminded me of litmus paper from my high school chemistry class.  Man, that kid was lucky.  He clearly didn't need those Band-Aids.  What could a three-year-old possibly do to his fingers that deserved all those bandages?

What's worse are the five minutes that followed him.  He began to play and have fun with clay and, of course, the bandages didn't hold up.  Or so he said.  As I watched him peel off each and every bandage and throw them in the garbage, I remember thinking: what a waste.  For one thing, there were no noticeable injuries.  For another, the Band-Aids were, in fact, plenty sticky and would have lasted for at least another half hour.

Maybe I was jealous.  I never got to wear that many bandages for no reason.  My mother didn't want to waste them.  Then, naturally, I grew up feeling weird putting on a Band-Aid, even when I needed it.  I felt like I was misusing them.  Even though my big-kid injuries would be gushing blood, I would always look at them and wonder if it would be okay to just air them out.

Okay, maybe not "gushing," but bleeding significantly.

Nonetheless, that kid was lucky.  His parents humored him and gave him bandages for every little thing. So did the preschool teacher, for that matter.  I think it was that same day, and this little boy claimed he needed a Band-Aid again.  The teacher humored him and put one on.  Then he said, "that's the wrong finger."  Well, the teacher wasn't upset, but she knew she had been tricked.  She put on a second bandage anyway.

I just stood there watching them.  Then, I thought to myself, what a wimp.  At three, I didn't need a bandage for anything.

"A man is not paid for having a head and hands, but for using them." ~Elbert Hubbard

On the Other Hand... You Have Different Fingers

“Wow, look how bad my hands look.  I’ve never looked at them before,” my Grandmother said to herself.  Never really looked at them.  I hovered next to her, camera ready.  I had taken a group picture of just the family hands.  I didn’t know what to say.  Her hands are gnarled with age and arthritis, but I really like them that way.  They don’t hurt.  Despite the way they look, she isn’t in pain.

“Pastor shakes my hand like this,” she says as she grabs the fingertips of one hand with the other.  Now I know why, is what she was implying.  She felt that her hands were too ugly or gnarled for others to want to touch.

“They probably think you’re in pain,” my mother suggests.  “You’re not in pain.”

“No,” Grandma agrees.  “I’m not in pain.”

The disappointment in her hands came after being compared to all the youthful and not-so-youthful hands of the house.  None of them have taken on a gnarled form.  Only hers.  The base knuckles of each finger are enlarged and rounded.  The back of her hand bruised from bumping something.  One of her pinkies has a thin metal rod in it to straighten out the tip.  The rest of her fingers lie at funny angles.

The Thanksgiving meal would have been exhausting for her.  She was dreading it, until the family stepped in.  My mom told her not to worry about it.  We would bring all the food we needed down to Grandma’s house.  She could pick up whatever she wanted to at the store.  I even volunteered to learn the ropes of Thanksgiving to ease her mind.  She was so grateful.  Her tired hands can’t do it anymore.  The turkey is just too heavy to handle.  Her hands don’t move right.  Just the thought of being in charge of making the meal was too much.  She was happy to pass the torch.

In the evening, after the meal was over and cleaned up, we sat at the table in the kitchen.  I shoved a box of crayons, two candlesticks, some coloring books, and forks out of the way and wrangled in the entire family.  A dishtowel was laid out so the hands would be seen easily in a black and white photo.

“We’re waiting on you!”  I shouted to my dad and brother.  They slowly got out of their easy chairs and shuffled to the kitchen.  “Put your hands in a circle.  Ready?  Okay, don’t move.”  I snapped a quick picture.  “Wait!”  I quickly changed the settings.  “Okay, don’t move.  Here I go.”  Flash.  Click.  “Don’t move.”  Another adjustment.  Flash.  Click.  “Okay.  Thank you!”  The boys went back to their easy chairs.  Grandma and the rest of the crew resumed conversations and coloring. 

When I asked my grandmother later, she answered that hands are useful.  They show kindness.  They’re used to do things for others, to be helpful, to care for the sick, to play with grandchildren.  Basically, her life’s work, but she wouldn’t say that.

I realize now the respect I have for old hands, the work they’ve done, the lives they’ve touched.

The Eye

Further Explanation

Now Hear This Part Two

My brother and I used to visit my grandparents’ house every summer for weeks on end.  We would play, laugh, shout, swim, and run around outside.  There was even a time when we took Tarzan toys from McDonalds and played behind the bushes, squeezed between plant and house, pretending we were in a jungle.  We built so many memories with our grandparents and looked forward to every vacation we were able to spend with them.

One summer, my brother and I asked my grandfather why he had to wear hearing aids.  I don’t know if it was the first summer he got them, or if, as children, it was just the first summer that we noticed them.  We were on the stairs going down to the basement to play and he answered in his harsh, but teasing voice: “Because you two kids are too loud!”  My grandma scolded him for that.  She knew that we were too young to understand that he was kidding.  I know I believed him.  It was years before I realized the actual cause of his hearing loss was the fact that he had worked in the factory at Simplicity Mowers for over 30 years, putting things together in an environment that was constantly loud.  No amount of hearing protection could save his ears from 30 years of constant noise.

I finally told him, a year or two ago, that I had believed his joke for all those years.  We laughed about it and I hoped he didn’t feel bad.  Sometimes, behind his rough and tough exterior, I think he is one of the most thoughtful men I know.  He writes anniversary cards to my grandmother, even after fifty-one years of marriage.  Especially after 51 years of marriage.  When she is sick or has some sort of accident, he gets kind of quiet.  He’s attentive.

His eyes watered at the hospital during an emergency last year.  I have never seen him cry and don’t think he ever has.  But his eyes watered one day, and I knew that meant a great deal.  I feel bad when everyone is talking at once and he leans in, one ear forward, eyes squinted, trying to understand what is being said, trying to hear the person who is actually talking to him.  Then, we all stop and wait for one person to speak so the words don’t run together.

He has funny ears, and honestly, my ears resemble his.  They stick out funny on each side and are kind of large.  My four-year-old sister has these same ears as well.  When I put her hair up, I have to laugh, because one ear sticks out at a slightly different angle than the other.  Just like Grandpa.  I love it.

Like I mentioned earlier, I asked my brother what he thought of ears.  Well, Franklin didn’t give me the profound musician’s response that I thought he would give.  I thought, since he loved listening to music, playing and performing music, that he would connect that to the audience that he so enjoys.  Or at least to himself.  After all, he has come just shy of dedicating his life to music.  But no.  Instead, he tells me that he thinks of earwax and soft fuzzy ears.  Okay.  Fine.  He also mentioned extendable ears, which is a Harry Potter thing.  Thank you, Franklin.

I didn’t realize that I was going to write so much about ears.  I honestly didn’t think they were that interesting.  In reality, it’s not the ears that are so fascinating to me, as much as it’s the people dealing with their own issues with ears and hearing.  I have always had a soft spot in my heart for my grandfather and it has recently blossomed fully.  Maybe it’s the connections that I have with the people with their ears…

The room is quiet right now, my roommate off to class.  I hear people walking upstairs.  They are always walking.  Always stomping.  I can hear them, and it drives me crazy.  But then again, I can hear them.

Now Hear This Part One

There is a large truck driving around outside.  It could be a garbage truck.  It could be UPS.  It’s safe to say, though, that I can hear it.  It’s close.  It’s lumbering.  It must be big.

The fridge has kicked into gear in the kitchen.  The whirring of some mechanism inside is a sign that the cooling thing—whatever it is—is working again.

Laughter can be heard from the apartment next to mine.  Sometimes I roll my eyes, hoping the people shut up.  Sometimes I smile and laugh to myself.  Laughter is contagious.  I love the sound of laughter.

I love to be able to hear things, and certainly, don’t take that for granted.  I hate it when I have to ask people to repeat themselves if I missed what they said, and I feel awful if someone asks me to repeat what I have said.  Of course, if they ask me again, I just get annoyed.

I come from a family involved with ears.  My aunt Kim works for an ear, nose and throat specialist.  My grandfather has had hearing aids for almost as long as I have known him.  And the rest of my family is involved in music.  Whether it is playing, listening, or loving it, we all need our ears to hear it.  Not to mention, just every day life.  Conversations in my family couldn’t take place without some form of hearing, as is the same for most, if not all, families.

I asked my aunt what she thought about ears.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask her, because I knew I would get her professional opinion instead of her personal one.  But then again, the professional opinion would be just as valuable.  I was going to counter her response with an answer from my musical brother, but he didn’t prove to be as useful as I hoped he would.  Nonetheless, his opinion counts and I will share it with you soon.

My aunt reminded me that everyone has ears.  [Insert a smiling emoticon here.]  She’s clever.  Ears are all different shapes, sizes and colors.  It’s an anatomical organ that detects sound.  Thank goodness.  They also play a part in keeping your body balanced.  I looked up the ear online, and honestly, with everything else going on right now, I couldn’t make heads or tails of all the medical terminology.  So, if you’re curious about the ear.  Check out the link below.  I'm going to take a break.

More About Ears

Sniffle

When I asked my 12-year-old cousin what she thought about the nose, she asked if she could be gross.  I have a feeling that this is going to be a little harder than I thought.  The nose knows.  Ugh.  Pun intended.  Sure, I replied.  Whatever you think about the nose.  Go for it.

Examine your nose, I told her.

“When I think of a nose, I think of boogers and that they are weird.”  Crap.  How do I work with that?  She also said that noses smell things.  Well, that’s true.  Now what?

I guess you work with what you’ve got.  And that’s all I got.

So, I’m looking up boogers today.

I know that they serve a purpose, otherwise, why would we have them?  According to kidshealth.org, your nose and sinuses make about a quart of boogers—also known as snot, properly known as mucus—every day.  Holy cow.  But fear not, this snot serves a good purpose.  The gunk in your nose captures dust and other particles that could otherwise make it to your lungs and cause irritation or infection.  They do have a purpose!

I’m not going to delve into any more details.  Click the link below if you’re curious.  I dare you.  It’s actually quite interesting.

Now, blow that snot out of your nose and go smell something.  Use your other nasal function!

I really enjoy the smell of breakfast wafting up the stairs in my parents’ house.  There is something about the way the scent is warm, just like the pancakes or French toast that produce the lovely aroma.  I wake up and am drawn to the top of the stairs.  They are hundred-year-old wooden stairs with a straight banister and a turn at the bottom.  I love them and have only fallen down them a few times in my life.

So, as the breakfast wafts, I wander down, take the corner, and go to the kitchen.  Here, the golden light from the sun shines in from the east window and makes the kitchen glow with warmth.  By the time I’ve gotten up, the table has been set, the pancakes have been piled in a mound on a pan, and are sitting in the middle of the table.  Mmmm.  Mom bustles around taking care of finishing touches and I follow my feet to an open chair where the sent of fresh bacon is the strongest, breathe a contented sigh.

What’s your favorite smell?

More About Boogers

Digits

I bend down and tie my shoes, a rare thing.  I usually just shove the shoe right on without even untying it.  I use my left index finger as a shoehorn while the right hand pulls up the tongue.  Then, I jam my foot inside.  It only hurts sometimes.  Next shoe.  Switch hands.  Then, I throw on my coat and zip it up.  I head out of the room, open the door and venture out.  The day begins.

The day first started with me smacking the snooze button on my alarm clock.  Sometimes it’s just out of reach of my short little fingers and I have to swing at it again before it wakes up anyone else.  My hands only hurt temporarily when I miss and hit the wire rack below.

The night before, I spent hours typing assignments and chatting online, my fingers working away much like they are now.  I don’t know how they do it or why.  My brain tells them to do it and they only get a few things wrong.  Even as I sit here typing this, I marvel at the speed at which my brain tells each individual finger to find its own individual letter and push down the key.  Wow.  How strange.  I think I just typed that in thirty seconds.  Now that’s fast.  Fingers are fascinating things.

I opened up these thoughts to one of my cousins, asking her what she thought about fingers.  She immediately thought about life without them and the things she wouldn’t be able to do.  Play piano, draw, write, use the computer.  A devoted pianist, computer freak and locksmith of sorts, she needs her hands.  Obviously.

She contemplated how weird fingers looked.  Hers are short and stubby, with short fingernails so she can better play her music.  “But man, I’d take music over nails any day,” she writes.

Fingers, simple little tools that perform so many things, and really aren’t that simple at all.  There are three bones called phalanges: distal, middle, and proximal.  The thumb doesn’t have a middle phalanx.  There are joints, fat deposits, flexion points, tendons, and blood vessels.  All these things allow for the different movements.  Bend.  Straighten.  Side-to-side.

I watch my hands as I type this paragraph.  They bounce back and forth as I delete and fix my mistakes.  Sometimes the fingers get it wrong.  But that’s OK.  They work hard.  Index bounces to the Y.  Middle finger bounces to the delete.  I never did listen in keyboarding class.  I always moved my entire hand to hit delete.  Numbers too.  I could never match up the correct finger to the number it was supposed to hit.  I kind of hate that.  It takes much longer to hit the key and reposition when you move your entire hand.  Oh well.  Now I use my fingers to navigate the arrow using my computer’s track pad.  Hover the arrow over post.  One click and it will be done.  Marvelous.

More About Fingers