If you are squeamish, you might want to skip the next couple paragraphs.
Today I split one of my fingers open to the bone. I was working out and dropped one dumbbell on top another with my finger in between. At first I didn’t think it was that bad—it didn’t hurt too much and all I saw was my nail was completely black. I considered finishing my workout, but then I saw all the blood. Looking at the other side of my finger, I saw I had basically torn the finger above the first joint in half.
I don’t mind blood and have a pretty high pain tolerance. But when I saw what I did—the two sides of the finger basically flapping there with only the nail holding them together…well, I decided I should probably get my stuff and drive to the ER.
Because I made something of a mess, I apologized to one of the guys at the gym, told him I’d done something stupid, and said that I’d be grateful if he cleaned up after me. He asked what I did, I asked if he could handle blood, he said yeah, so I showed him my finger. Seeing it again this time something in my stomach turned and it seemed at least a possibility I might faint or get sick. He suggested maybe he should drive me to the ER. In fact, that was seeming like an increasingly good idea to me too.
I think that perhaps because I was pretty calm (I never did get sick or faint), even though the ER was not busy about 45 minutes went by without their doing anything. They had my name confused with a guy who their records showed was dead (I’ll let my wife guest write that part of the story—this typing with one hand is for the birds). I suggested, not entirely unkindly, that they needed to get this sorted out and do something. They said they were, but I said I failed to see exactly what they were doing. And so it was I finally got the help I needed.
To be fair, once they got to me everyone was exceedingly professional. All the people there were very nice and friendly and I enjoyed talking with them. I had plenty of time to do so, because it took about 2 and a half hours to clean, debreed (cut away the jagged damaged tissue), “de-nail”, and sew my finger back up. In its own way, it was actually one of the most relaxing afternoons I’ve had in a long time. Usually I spend all my time worrying about other people’s problems; this afternoon I just let somebody else solve mine.
Tomorrow I apparently have to have my hand x-rayed (I thought I’d talked my way out of having to have that done—I just don’t want to take the time to do it) to see just how badly I’ve pulverized the bone.
Will the day ever come when I quit doing really stupid things?