It’s Friday afternoon and I am spent. There is a reason my friend calls it, “the Friday let-down.” I am ready for PJs and a glass of wine by 4:00 PM. So, when my husband and daughter had commitments outside of town early Saturday morning, we found ourselves driving to Boise on Friday afternoon. Sadly, my couch would miss me. 

The drive from Ketchum to Boise is only 2.5 hours and I know every twist and turn like the back of my wrinkled hand. But, it never seems to get shorter or repetitive. Each season brings something new: summer is brown and ice cream at the Fairfield store, fall is orange and the start of harvest season, winter is white and wildlife migration, and spring is green and reservoirs full of water. 

Despite all the nuances and variety, I still find myself lulled to sleepiness by the monotonous rolling hills and plains. Before I know it, it is my turn to drive. I am doing the home stretch to our hotel in downtown Boise. 

After driving 65 mph on country roads to 80 mph on the Interstate we finally make it to the Modern Hotel, a refurbished travelodge in the heart of the city. Boise has changed a lot since I have lived in Idaho, especially in the last few years. Cranes dot the skyline and fancy new hotels and restaurants open daily. There are pros and cons to this new development. The food choices and quality have expanded, and the coffee shops are on par with Portland or Seattle. Yet, the city is more crowded and dirty. The Modern Hotel being one of these examples. 

We pull up to the hotel’s entrance and have to circle around two times, because of construction on the streets leading to the entrance. After all of that, there are no spots available, so we have to park on the street. At this point, I am seeing double and my patience is wearing thin. 

“Do you want me to go check in?” says my husband. 

“Yes,” I plead. The thought of walking all the way to the front desk is excruciating. 

He begins to walk away as I get out to unpack. I open up the passenger side door to retrieve my bag and then slam it shut. “Wham.” 

The car door doesn’t make the sound of metal upon metal. It sounds like it doesn’t shut all the way. Like something was in the way. Then, I look down at my hand.

I see so much blood. It is dripping out of my finger and all over my new jeans. “Damn,” I think. I just bought these jeans. I feel the urge to cry, but I am still too in shock. I crouch down like a wounded animal. 

“Mom, are you okay?” My sweet daughter says to comfort me. 

“I am just so tired,” I whimper between sobs. All the tiredness and stress of the week ooze out onto the pavement. I don’t know what I am crying about more: the pain in my finger or the pain in my chest. 

I take a deep breath and stand up. I look around not knowing what to do. Helping someone else in need would put me into action, but helping myself proves more difficult. I need some way to wash my finger and stop it from bleeding. I head towards the front desk to where my husband is and where I might find a bandaid. 

The lady at the reception desk sees me holding my finger and asks, “Are you okay? Let me see if I have a bandaid.” She rummages through her drawer and pulls out a small, but perfect sized bandaid. Relief washes over me. 

I bandage my hurt finger, take a few breaths, and start over. Sometimes one needs a painful reminder that we are still alert and alive in this moment. Life has a funny way of waking us up.