It is a Sunday afternoon, the only day off for Sid, Adip and I. We are in the kitchen to prepare rice and chicken curry for lunch. Adip starts to clean dirty dishes from the day before. Sid, an epicure of chicken curry, takes the role of chef. I cut onions and other ingredients needed for curry, and defrost an 8-pound chicken quarter bag in a microwave. To make our routine chicken cutting job easier, Sid has brought a meat cleaver from his last trip to New Orleans. The cleaver is sharp, heavy and shiny. While in the kitchen, Sid often recalls being hesitant about bringing the cleaver home due to its size and sharpness. I begin cutting the chicken into small pieces. As I cut the meat, the cutting board and the cleaver become slippery. I hold the last piece of meat with my left hand and go for the final strike. And, BOOM! There lays a detached piece of my finger amid the pieces of chicken.

The cleaver has chopped the top left part of my left thumbnail. Unprepared for the emergency, we panic. The initial pain is not as bad as one would expect, but it increases with time. The kitchen floor looks like a bloodbath. Adip passes me a roll of tissue paper and says, “Hop into my car! We are going to St. Francis Emergency." I curse myself all the time on our way to the hospital. “You guys think it will grow back?" I ask to my roommates in despair. We reach the emergency room with the blood continuously dripping. After a nurse injects six shots of anesthesia around the injured finger, I feel relief. A physician assistant looks at the finger and says, “I’m gonna use this Silver Nitrate stick to burn the open nerves. It will help to stop the bleeding." We return to the apartment with vials full of prescribed antibiotics and painkillers. I cry in stinging pain the whole night while my cut finger throbs like a grain of sand in a beating drum. Only later do I realize that it was the beginning of a painful and helpless life, which would afflict me for months.

After the accident, not only do I miss my junior level classes, but also have to cut back on my job, which is the only source of income to cover my tuition and living expense. Due to five painkillers and four antibiotics a day, I become so fragile that I have to ask my roommates to bring me food in my bed. At times, I can do nothing but get mad at myself thinking about the accident. I do not have the courage to tell my parents, who are 8000 miles away, about my situation. I assume the news will create distress in the family. I become depressed thinking about poor physical condition and financial hardship. After two weeks, I return to my classes but am unable to perform well resulting in poor midterm grades.

The wound becomes a month old. I learn to change the dressing single handedly, pick up on my studies and prepare quick microwavable food on my own. I start to notice and learn about the response of people towards my impotent condition. I find my best friends in class who help me recover the missed assignments and class works. I learn that no matter how tough life gets, having patience and strong determination will help one overcome the trouble. I realize that it’s not the amount of money one makes but the number of lifelong friends that matters the most in life. I start to feel positive about my accident. It makes me mentally and emotionally stronger than ever before. I find myself working more diligently on my studies and performing better in my job than before. As a result, I end up making a perfect 4.0 semester GPA.

After two months, my wound heals, and the nail shows sign of growing back. Whenever I think of those painful days, I become more grateful for having everything that I have today. I am able to focus more on positive aspects of my life and be less worried about things that do not matter. Sometimes the worst experiences teach you the most valuable lessons in life.