STUBBED TOE, HAMMERED THUMB . . . AND HUMOR AND HOPE

DECEMBER 6, 2025 – Sometimes in the case of acute pulsating pain, such as when you stub your bare right big toe on a block of granite, the best antidote is to find a hammer and smack it down on your left thumb. In short order, you achieve a kind of equilibrium: the throbbing thumb disguises the pain emanating from your toe, and the black toe reciprocates, blocking the nerve endings in the thumb.

Then you celebrate your good fortune: the hammer was stored exactly where it was supposed to be.

The foregoing circumstances are where I find myself in life right now. Time, the great power-sander of pain and angst, will smooth things over, but in the moment, doggone it, !@#$%$#@! could well be the best expression of my mood.

When I take a deep breath, however, I see the wonders and humor—yes, humor—in the present circumstances. As followers of this blog know by now, I’m not an overly “private person.” Or put another way, I’ve always been comfortable wearing my buttoned-down shirts with the top button unbuttoned and necktie loosened enough to resemble a noose from which I could easily escape. I’ve found this “loosened up” approach to life to be immensely helpful: It encourages people around me to “loosen up” as well, first, as empathizing listeners, and second, as fellow travelers revealing their own troubles, giving me the chance to be an empathizing listener.

Despite Elon Musk’s expert opinion on the subject, empathy is an essential human trait and travels up and down a two-way street. Whatever empathy you’re open to giving is the same level that you will receive when you need it; the more you give, the more you’ll receive, and vice versa.

I hope by this post I can provide encouragement to readers who are themselves confronting challenges of abnormal intensity. With that in mind, I’ll dispense with the details of my own circumstances and provide a distillation for the semblance of context. My “troubles,” then, boil down to two arenas: 1. A “relationship crisis” within our family; and 2. My personal health . . . or, if you will, 1. The “stubbed toe”; and 2. The “hammered thumb.” Untold hours have been devoted to the stubbed toe, counterbalanced by the anxiety constantly flowing from the  hammered thumb.

Objectively considered, each of these stressors is serious. Each requires extensive gathering of facts and information and careful distinction between established facts and untested assumptions. Moreover, meeting these current challenges entails reliance on outside experts, and therefore, an ability to evaluate those experts and their expertise. Finally, in grappling with the stubbed toe and the hammered thumb, pain, fear, impatience, frustration, anger, and anxiety need to be held in check—without resort to drugs or alcohol, since the cardinal rule of life should be, “Whatever you do, don’t make things worse.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve faced concurrent “abnormal challenges.” After all, I’m 71 years old, married. I’ve helped rear two sons, practiced law for over four decades, and juggled as many demands and diversions of 20^th-21^st century life as the next Baby Boomer. What’s different now, however, is that the people I must lean on have themselves walked, run, and in some cases crawled, as many or more miles than I have. Their collective experience now runs deeper and wider than ever. They have more finely honed listening skills, greater knowledge, and broader perspective, all of which heighten their empathy, and thus, their support. For the wonder, the sheer wonder of these caring people, I will be forever grateful.

Humor, meanwhile, is the “secret sauce” for successful management of pain, fear, impatience, frustration, anger, and anxiety. I find that sometimes the best way to deal with the stubbed toe, the hammered thumb is to look at each and LAUGH!

One notable laugh occurred early Wednesday afternoon. Some weeks ago I’d been scheduled to undergo (on Wednesday) a cardio-stress test to address a condition that ironically was not part of the “hammered thumb,” i.e. not contributing to my immediate personal health anxiety. When Wednesday rolled around, however, my cold/cough symptoms were in full swing. I worried that with alacrity the treadmill would reduce me to a coughing, wheezing, gasping old man, tripping and falling down, skinning my knees, and being carried down the treadmill belt like a chicken on a conveyor belt of a poultry processing plant and dumped unceremoniously on the bare cold linoleum floor of the stress test room at the Heart Center of Regions Hospital. The only upside to falling down, I figured, was that this untoward scenario would unfold inside . . . a hospital, where presumably the cost of an ambulance could be avoided in transporting me to ER for Xrays before I was admitted to the orthopedic unit, just an elevator ride away and fully decorated for the holidays.

In the event, however, I summoned the mental courage not to cancel but to ferry myself down to the hospital to do the best I could at the stress test. As the technician pressed the electrodes to my upper body, I asked him questions about his background, which sparked a rewarding conversation around several points of common interest. Plus, I learned, he himself had been through quite a cancer journey of his own. His story was an inspiration, and by the time the actual test got underway, my anxiety about it had all but dissipated. What remained I decided to chase away with a bit of humor.

“I have a question,” I said, as the treadmill moved, requiring little exertion on my part.

“What’s that?”

“Just so we’re on the same wavelength here, I know this is the heart center, but I’m here for psychological testing, right? I mean, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and this is a stress test you’re conducting, correct?”

“Only for the heart.” He chuckled. I feigned disappointment.

In the final minute of the test, he cranked up the grade and speed of the treadmill belt. For dear life I hung onto the bar and re-enacted what felt like a Roadrunner cartoon.

“10-9-8 . . . 2-1, Done!” To my relief, the test was over and I was still upright; winded but without having broken a sweat.

“How’d I do?” I asked.

“You did fine,” he said. “For a 71-year-old guy you did really, really well.”

“I’ll take it,” I said. “I’m no longer 20 . . . or even 60, but I figure I have a few more good years left.”

“That you do,” said the friendly technician.

Back on the “stubbed toe” front (family crisis), my wife and I have been informed that our long-laid plans to take our granddaughter to a production at Children’s Theater next weekend might be vetoed. But even in disappointment humor is alive and well: The play? How the Grinch Stole Christmas. But of course!

Despite the dual challenges of a stubbed toe and a hammered thumb, I like to find the humor in life. Add hope to humor and you’ve got a winning combination. I’m hopeful that all three of us will see The Grinch and laugh with joy at his epiphany.

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson