I can't remember the exact wording of the insult but I do know it was a real curve ball of an insult that hit me hard because the next second, I sliced the top off my thumb. It sat on the chopping board like the cap of a boiled egg. I watched the blood pool for a second before I put the remainder of my thumb under the cold tap and hoped and hoped that I hadn't just had my holiday ruined. A trip to A&E later (the bleeding having refused to stop for several hours) and I was strapped up and confident my holiday was not in tatters.
Because this isn't just a blog about the holiday of a lifetime; it's a blog about my thumb. It appears the holiday will march on in tandem with the thumb's recovery, so the parallels will be many.
The incident with the thumb happened on Thursday night, the night before we were due to leave. I got home from A&E shortly before midnight. I had to keep my thumb elevated which made it hard to sleep and because of my long hours at the hospital, E (my wife) had to do all my packing for me. I have no idea what is in my suitcase. I had organised this holiday meticulously, planned every stop, set up a domino run of what was going to happen. This was not the start we had planned.
In the middle of the night, S, my daughter, went nuts with a nightmare, probably exacerbated by her languishing cold. We brought her into our bed, reducing the chance of sleeping by a further 6000%. The morning greeted us with heavy snowfall, the stuff sticking to the roads and trees. A recent binge on TV series Lost made me question if maybe, the island didn't want us to leave. But we decided to anyway and were on the road at 9, driving through a blizzard. I would have driven, but I was still compelled to keep my thumb elevated, which would have meant changing gear right handed. Which is not too safe in a blizzard.
Seven hours on a plane is a long time but I got to watch films. S was mesmerised by the seat back screen and kept quiet in stupefaction throughout. Pixar's Inside Out made me cry a tiny bit but I think I managed to disguise it with coughing and pretending to rub my head like I had a headache.
At US customs, one of the apparently humourless officials was booking us in, checking our passports, taking our finger prints. When I had to show her my bandaged thumb, exclusively appalling scenarios came to mind. This damn thumb was going to get me thrown back on a plane and deported. I imagined having to remove my dressing and bleeding everywhere or calling her supervisor and refusing to remove the dressing. But in the end it worked out and she even cracked a smile at something, though I can't remember what - probably the fact that I'd sliced my thumb off.
We hired a car and drove out of New York, a stultifying holiday experience, much like being on the M62 on a Friday evening, except without having a clue what's going on in your mirrors and a tendency to stray to the right and encroach on other lanes but I think I'm getting better.
I'm writing this in a hotel in Connecticut. It's half 9 at night but in real terms, it's half 2 in the morning. S is asleep and E and I have just ordered pizza, though I may be too tired to eat it.
My thumb hasn't bled through my hospital dressing so all in all, a really successful first full day of the holiday. And it doesn't hurt at all. Well, not nearly as much as that insult did.
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