Splinter

Abstract

Splinter “Do what you need to,” I said. As though this was extracting an arrowhead buried in flesh, not a sliver of wood from a pinky. She my officemate, colleague, friend. But not – it occurred to me as she started to probe – a surgeon. Probably hadn’t fingered a forceps in years. What I warn my patients against every day – not wise to compromise with convenience. I had no fear of pain. A dozen tours in the OR, years of drawing blood – we learn to distance, numb ourselves. Numb ourselves, that is, to the pain of another – my pinky should have taken itself to Urgent Care. Maybe there was hurt, but I never noticed. All I recall is a flood of sweetness, a drowsy warmth, as when the world is about to go dark. Sometimes as we’re falling we hear a voice calling in the distance. “Oh, shit – going vagal,” this one said. It sounded like mine.