Scratch that location

Do not ever let anyone tell you, "it's just a scratch".

There is no such thing. What there is, is a sliding scale of injury, from "ouch" through to "OUCH" and all points in between. Size, conformation, depth of penetration, length (starting to sound like a Viagra advertisement, innit...) and infected status all matter - it is NEVER "just a scratch".

I have been sliding downhill again lately, hence the sporadic nature of my posts here. I go to bed each night in a state of fear that the dark hours will bring not enough sleep and too much pain, I awaken at 2, at 3 at 4 or 5 in the morning in despair that my fears were once more realised. I burn, I writhe, I ache and I hurt and I commiserate with myself because there is no bastard there to do it with. Even Tommy doesn't care.

And now, freshly acquired, there's The Scratch. It extends down most of the length of my right ring finger, on the underside, in the middle. It is shallow; it is narrow and it is fucking SORE. It is NOT just a scratch but an instrument of torture put there by a sharp piece of wire on the old rabbit cage which I can't quite bear to dispose of cos I like bunnies and might want to have another one one day.

The Scratch has two small companions on my left hand - one is approx 7mm long in the crease of my little finger's first knuckle, around the side a bit. The other is slightly shorter and in the crease between index finger and thumb. I am no wimpy wussy sook, but this Evil Trinity of Physical Violation has disturbed my equilibrium tonight as much as my MS simply because I did not realise how much one uses one's fingers when doing absolutely any bloody thing (including nothing) at all, especially the ring finger. Even sleeping. It's 4am, my finger hurts and I want my Mummy.

No, I am not going to take a bloody picture for you but it's lucky my middle fingers are undamaged, eh. I can still use those. See?