I asked for them, so I don’t know why I was surprised when the nurse handed me scissors. They looked strange in my hand—familiar, yet foreign.
I was in the hospital, about 1 month into my recovery. After three weeks in a coma, everything felt like a first time. Simple tasks were no longer simple. I didn’t have much agency—so much was done for me, not by me. My mom’s birthday was coming up, and I couldn’t do anything to celebrate her. I wanted to make her a card, something that came from me.
All I needed to do was cut around a piece of paper I’d made for the card. But staring at this plastic tool, I couldn’t quite remember how to use it. My brain had to work it out step by step: I think you put your fingers in the little holes… then you open and close, open and close.
And then it hit me—my youngest daughter’s preschool newsletter had once described how the kids chanted “open and close, open and close” when learning to cut for the first time.
So that’s what I did. I slid my fingers into the handles, whispered the rhythm to myself, and practiced the motion. Open and close. Open and close.
Eventually, the paper gave way, edges uneven but whole. I smiled. I had done it. I had made a birthday card for my mom.
