When the nice paramedic walked me back to the room where I would wait for the doctor to sew my hand up, I balked at the sight of the bed. Joyana’s charcoal covered face flashed through my mind, followed swiftly by a wave of panic and fear. Deep breaths. “I’m here for me,” I had to remind myself before I could walk in. It was then that I remembered that Joyana’s suicide attempt was not the last time I went to the emergency room. My last visit to the hospital was with my sister, when I insisted she go in case the bone in her throat was broken, as was sometimes lethal in strangulation cases.

“No one’s hurt,” I thought, as I clutched my hand. Still, it was a struggle to sit on that bed, where I had seen my beloveds. I perched uncomfortably on the edge, wincing as the strap measuring my blood pressure squeezed too tight. I resisted Herb’s suggestion to lay down, giving the flimsy excuse that I was wearing a dress, but fatigue overcame fear, and I settled back against the pillow, bringing booted feet up. One chocolate ribbon in the knee-highs Joyana knit me had come undone. Herb tied it.

Eventually, the past faded, leaving me with gratitude. Gratitude that this hospital trip would end in nothing more than a small scar on my palm. No emotional residue. No reflexive need to clutch at my loved ones, to beg for hugs from angels. Just a simple accident, a simple lesson, and a keener respect for knives.

Laughter soon filled my room, accompanied with a faint desire to flirt with the paramedic who was also my nurse. My first personal injury and brush with shock, my first 3 stitches.

“Besides,” I thought, “now I can write more authentically.”