trigger finger

Sometimes one part of one of my fingers - like, the little section from one knuckle to the next, or one knuckle down to the base - will spontaneously bruise. It turns purple and gets tender, then after a couple of days resolves. It started happening the first year that Mike was sick. I mentioned it once to my nurse practitioner, who shrugged. She and I were pretty much on the same page during Mike's aggressive and often symptomatic illness: it was natural that I had various unusual body ailments while coping with chronic acute stress, and it was natural that I worried about them, and it was worth investigating some even though stress was a far more likely cause than cancer for my skin problems, hair loss, and back pain.

It's annoying that my hands bruise, but I had relegated it to a low and rarely considered area in my anxiety cabinetry, the weird-body-stuff-that-isn't-dangerous-and-you're-supposed-to-quietly-endure-now-that-you're-in-your-forties drawer. Open it occasionally, toss something else in, maybe consider the other items in there briefly, and shut it again. Moving on. But a couple of nights ago I was snuggling up with Beatrice before saying goodnight, and when I stood up I noticed I could barely bend my middle right finger. It was swollen and starting to turn purple. Both sections, from my hand to my main knuckle and up to the second knuckle, were mottled and numb.

My fingers had never swollen before. I walked down the hall, concerned. What the heck?

I came downstairs where the older kids were reading in the living room. I sat at the foot of the stairs and asked my phone to tell me about spontaneous finger bruising and swelling. Gabriel drifted over to me and rested his chin on my shoulder, looking down at the phone.

What are you doing?

Just looking up why my finger might be so swollen and bruised like this.

Of course Google produces a number of questions when one enters medical symptoms in the search bar, such as what are the signs of cancer? when does spontaneous bruising mean cancer? and what are the symptoms of leukemia?

It might as well have topped the list with an article designed to squeeze all the peace out of my boy's heart: Your Mother Has A Bruised Finger; She Probably Has Cancer Too. Say Your Goodbyes Now While You Still Can.

Geez. I hadn't even thought it was cancer. Maybe some rare neurological disease that would leave me twitching and drooling within the year. Possibly a bleeding disorder that will drain me of all color and make it very ill-advised for me to use the mandolin/spiralizer I just bought myself as a present for making it through the holidays. But cancer? Naw.

But now that we had both already seen the cancer references, I felt we should keep looking until we found a more reasonable cause for my sausage-like digit in order to assuage our fears. Finally we hit on something called Achenbach's Syndrome that occurs most often in women over forty. It is benign and merely annoying, though patients usually get freaked out and will relax if you (the doctor) tell them the condition has a name. Achenbach's. Ah. Toss it back in the middle age irritations bin.

I could feel Gabriel's whole body relax next to me. Mine probably did, too. It's not cancer! Whew.

After Mike died, the kids slept in my room with me for about six months, until we moved to this new house. We rotated who slept in my bed and who slept on mattresses on the floor. We all had a lot of fears (still do), which were especially insistent at night (same) but one the kids held that I didn't always fully recognize (which is silly because I had and have the same worry) was that something terrible would happen to me and they would be left without any parents at all. I would die in the night. A heart attack maybe, or a deranged murderer would climb in the window. A freak fall out of bed in which I landed exactly wrong. They had to stay close to ensure my safety. Because as we all now know - and as I have known since my dad was diagnosed with cancer when I was seventeen - anything can happen at any time. Sometimes one must monitor the remaining parent out of sheer self-preservation.

They're still afraid. Nightmares abound. There is a heavy fear-door that one very bad thing happening to you will pry open, and afterwards it is always left ajar. You can't shut it again. It's not supposed to open up when you're only five years old; you're supposed to enjoy your childhood without knowing in your bones, beneath language and logic, that the people you love best can and will die.

When Mike and I would linger in a hug, Beatrice would laughingly squeeze herself between us and push us apart. Mike called her The Hugbuster. It was a little joke that developed a life of its own, as she would occasionally laugh and hugbust other people and absolutely loved to get squished inside the hug, whereupon she would always announce it's dark in here!! So funny.

But we were always her favorite huggers to bust.

When I cry these days, Beatrice will go to great lengths to make it stop. On December 23rd, we spent the night at Mike's parents' house. As she was getting over pneumonia, Beatrice slept in bed with me to spare everyone else her nighttime cough. I was snuggling with her at bedtime, and after a busy day, in the quiet and dark, I felt the sadness pushing on me from all sides. I must have made a sound or gesture that tipped her off before any tears actually appeared because suddenly she sat up, turned towards me, and said in a voice set comically deep, Meagan, this is Michael. It IS! This is Mike. Can you get me a peanut butter sandwich? Anyway, Meagan, there's no crying allowed on Christmas. NO CRYING! 

Mike, you know I cry a lot. Can't I cry now at Christmastime? I'm so sad that you're not here.

Nope! No, not at all. This is Mike. Meagan, no crying at Christmas. Only being happy. I'm being funny right now! So you should be laughing!

I could only converse with my dead husband via our five year old daughter's heartbreaking imitation for about a minute before I really did start crying, despite the strict prohibition, and then Beatrice dropped the whole thing and pleaded with me to stop. I pulled it together eventually. I tried to tell her it was okay to be sad because her papa wasn't here at Chrismas, but she wasn't buying it. No crying on Christmas. (Funny, I can easily imagine Mike saying that with gusto and exagerrated authority, though more in response to a tantrum over a broken toy or general holiday overload).

I'd always thought that her strongly expressed objections or seeking after distraction in the face of my sadness was just about her general discomfort with my powerful grief. I've had vague worries about her intolerance of negative emotions. But the more I think about it, a puffy purple finger and my tears and even my lingering hugs with her Papa in which we would relax and some of our many feelings would begin to seep out in that island of quiet safety all amounted to the same thing: an awful, undeniable vulnerability that she is powerless to stopper. It's terrifying. It threatens her very survival. All my cracks, physical and emotional and spiritual, point - albeit, at times, circuitously - to my mortality. I won't be here forever. I think for my youngest, it is better to try and paper over them with some crazy song and dance number rather than confront that reality.

Who among us can unblinkingly consider the impermanence of those we love best for more than a moment or two anyway?