Bloody fingernail chronicles

On Thursday, March 1, 2012, my life changed forever. It started off as a normal day. I woke up on time for my 9:30 class (which I hated with every fiber of my being), picked out a cute outfit and was ready to leave at 9:15: plenty of time to make the ridiculous walk to the shady building on Franklin Street where my class was held. Had I known that, at 9:16 a.m. that morning, I would become tragically disfigured, I wouldn't have been taking my perfectness for granted for so long. Now that it's gone I really miss it.

So when I was walking out of Teague 324 (I miss you, my sweet, final, temperature-challenged dorm room), I was pulling the solid, sturdy, faithful wooden door closed behind me, as I had every day beforehand. On this particular morning my reaction time was somewhat decreased, so my middle finger lingered a little too long in between the door and the door jam. The door didn't care. It didn't think about my good day. It just bounced right off my finger. Right off my fingernail, which immediately filled up with blood. At first I had no idea what happened. The sensation was one that I can't possibly explain. There was no pain; it was like some part of my body alerted my brain that something strange was happening. Then when I glanced at my liquid-filled fingernail, I felt it. It was pain unlike any I had ever felt. The pain from my fingertip radiated trough my body, stealing my breath, my vision and my stability. Fearing that other people were around or possibly sleeping in my suite, I muffled my screams because I knew that they could never be anything less than blood-curdling. At this point, instinct took over and I stopped worrying about being late for class. I walked back into my room (the door was standing wide open because the bounce of my finger sent it flying) and sat down on the chair beside my bed and did the only thing my body could do at this point: breathe. I closed my eyes for a second and when my blink was over, it was 9:26. I'm still not sure if I passed out, fell asleep, was invaded by demons (again), or if I just blacked out as a result of the (pity)party that had taken place the night before. No matter the reason for the gap in consciousness, I had to get up and go to class. I had skipped the previous day and the previous week's assignment wasn't a good one, so it was important that I be in class. It was a chilly morning and despite my outfit that was revealing my skin to the bitter wind tunnel that is UNC-Chapel Hill's campus (a chambray shirt, only buttoned halfway, of course; taupe striped shorts with a minimal inseam and black Vans), the cold wasn't affecting me. All I could feel was the aforementioned wind. The wind is always a burden on a brisk Chapel Hill morning, but on this day, it was like all the winds that were blowing across the hill were directed at one point: the fingernail on my middle finger on my right hand. At this point, the efforts to ignore the pain were futile. The slightest breeze sent a jolt through my body so rigid that I thought I would lose my confident stride. And of course this happened on the day of the week on which I had to make the longest walk.

I finally got to class ten minutes late. (Luckily for me, this unique class functioned more as a workshop; my presence was only required when I finished the assignment and had to discuss it with my teacher.) As I waited for my turn to conference with my teacher, I continued to try to take my mind off of the throbbing pain that engulfed my entire hand. I attempted to recount my story to my friends on Facebook, but the pain that came from using any of the fingers on my right hand was so great that typing was near impossible. But then it was almost my turn. The teacher was finishing up with the dumb girl whose name was ahead of mine on the list. I only had to make it five more minutes, then I could go somewhere and pass out. But my body didn't quite understand that concept. At one point I was looking at my computer screen and my entire field of vision looked like the white noise that you see on those old TVs in old movies; the temperature in the usually comfortable room seemed to be somewhere between 90 and 212 degrees. I couldn't take it anymore; even as the girl who signed up ahead of me stood up as her meeting finished, I stood up and walked out the door, down the stairs and out onto Franklin Street. This time the bitter cold was my friend: it was like jumping into a pool after a long brutal day of tanning in the hot sun. It was like turning a fan on during the hot summer. It was the best feeling I've ever experienced. I was finally walking into heaven after being trapped in hell. My stability still was not at 100%, though, and there wasn't a bench in sight. So I just sat down on a small brick wall. I'm not sure how long I was out there or how many people walked by and stared at me, but I finally gained the strength to go back into the classroom and speak to my teacher. I couldn't tell you what he said and I probably didn't change a thing in the assignment. I just left and never returned to that class ever again (I dropped the class for unrelated reasons).

I went through the rest of the day in severe pain every time my finger touched anything of even moved, which was a lot, surprisingly. I don't think anyone realizes how much they use their middle finger until moving it rivals a meteor-induced apocalypse. I went through that day and the next few days using my finger as little as possible and I watched the blood ooze from the point of contact and slowly fill my entire fingernail. Internet research told me that draining the blood by burning a small hole in the nail with a heated paperclip would relieve the intense pain, but I couldn't find anyone who would do it for me. I asked my friend, my roommate, my friend's roommate, strangers... the only person who agreed couldn't do it for several more hours. By the time she came around, the thought of burning a hole in my fingernail made me sick, so I never went through with it. Now my fingernail was just the grossest sight I had ever seen.

When I was at home for Spring break the next week, I decided to spare the world and myself of the terrorizing sight and cover my fingernail with a band-aid. Weeks, then months, went by and eventually the pain subsided. I kept the nail covered with fun colored band-aids and fingernail polish. Then when I finally took the nail polish off to look at the progress of the nail in late April, I noticed something wasn't right. Of course I couldn't exactly tell WHAT color it was, but the nail definitely wasn't a natural color or the color of blood. I began to fear the worse: if it's infected that could mean that I'd have to have the nail removed. That would be horrible. Nails never grow back correctly after they've been removed. At this point I began to panic as the idea of being permanently disfigured instead of temporarily disgusting began to set in. But with a trip to campus health, I found that nothing was wrong with my nail (but I was ridiculed for not being able to properly tell what color it was).

I went into summer with a large supply of band-aids and a halfway normal-looking fingernail (fingernails grow approximately one millimeter per month, so I had about 2 millimeters of regrown nail). The only nail drama I've had since I've been home was when I was peeling old nail polish off of it and some of the nail came with it. It didn't hurt, but I decided to stop before I peeled too much; now there's just a giant hole in my fingernail with an ugly-colored new nail underneath. So I'll be spending the next three months or so with a fingernail with a color that I can only describe as muddy blood with a few specks of leftover black fingernail polish. Luckily I have managed to live a relatively normal life despite my disfigurement; the only time I have any trouble or feel self-conscious is when I forget to grab a band-aid before I head out the door. So if any of you are unfortunate enough to have to see that, I apologize, but at least now you know my story. I hope this inspires all of you; you too can fight through hardships and try your best to be beautiful. Just wait. The universe can't punish beautiful people forever. I'll be back.