No Pain

No Pain

He called to her from the porch. The same porch where I spent my summers. Hot, languid, Florida summers. The porch was screened in on three sides, so if there was a breeze at all, you would feel it on the porch. Except for a west wind, which wasn’t desirable anyway, as it would be hot. So he, my father, was sitting on the porch like we all did during most months of the year. And, unlike his usual habit, this time he called to her, my mother.

Minn-Lou, c’mere, he said.

She went immediately. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t really need her.

What is it? she said as she crossed the doorway to the porch.

Look at this, he said, holding his work-weathered hand up toward her.

What?

I can’t feel it.

Can’t feel what?

I can’t feel my fingernail.

Your fingernails don’t have feelings.

Well they do if you cut it too short, which I just did. And I can’t feel a thing.

She looked closer at the hand. Sure enough, the index fingernail was cut into the quick. He must have been paring his nails with his pocketknife, and it slipped. A tiny bit of blood was oozing out from the edge of the nail.

You’ve hurt those hands a million times on nets and boats and fish teeth. Don’t you feel that?

I used to. But now I don’t.

Want to soak your hand in some Epsom salts?

OK.

She went away to get the Epsom salts and a pan of water, and he continued to look at his claw-like hands.

It didn’t seem to occur to either of them that this might warrant a consultation with a doctor, maybe a dermatologist, maybe a family doctor. They didn’t consult doctors if there was no pain. It was just an injury, a curious injury that didn’t hurt. Just part of the mysteries of life. If a tiny worry that this might portend something bigger, some medical problem, neither of them showed it in any way.

She came back with a plastic dishpan filled part way with warm water, and some clear crystals swirling near the bottom.

Here, try this.

Thank you sweetheart.