pictures or it didn’t happen*

The last thing I remember was reaching up towards the blade. A half a second later I felt the few flecks of warm blood that sprayed up on my face. Maybe not surprisingly, I felt no pain. The paper towel turned red almost as soon as I had wrapped my finger in it.

“Umm, I think we have a small problem,” I alerted my cooking partner as I walked out of the kitchen.

“Shit.” he said when I pulled off the paper towel. “I think you need stitches.”

And that’s when I felt it: Not the pain the cut, but rather the sinking in my stomach. I envisioned myself sitting in the Tang Center waiting room, my finger bleeding embarrassingly as I wait to be led by a overly-peppy student intern back to the back room where an ironically stern, old, cold-handed doctor sits under fluorescent lights, needle and thread at the ready. I did not want to go to the Tang Center, or any center for that matter. But I had no choice.

I gunned it on foot down Bancroft, my paper-towel-swaddled hand thrust high above my head, to land neatly in the Tang Center not long before it shut down. The receptionist looked at my blood-soaked appendage and directed me to urgent care, were I was predictably greeted by the student intern and old, but not cold-handed doctor. Three injections of anesthetic, eight stitches, and a prescription for vicodin later, I was home, all digits intact.

Consequently, the giant, gauze wrapped pointer finger on my left hand is now not only a nuisance but the most popular topic of conversation in my life.

Pre-empting the question inevitably asked by those who know me too well, I inevitably answer: “It’s not bike related!” I then follow up with some close-to-the truth rendition of what actually happened, usually including either an emulsion blender or a food processor or simply a ‘spinny-blade-thingy,’ depending on who I’m talking to and how many times I’ve told the story that day. My injury also seems to have varying degrees of seriousness between times I tell the story. In the morning, the cut is ‘actually not that bad,’ but by 5 PM, it devolves into ‘well, the finger’s back on again at least’.

And sometimes, when someone asks me what happened, I answer with nothing but a grave look and the single, solemn one-word answer: “Blender.”

I’m beginning to believe that the power to make the color flood out of people’s faces actually makes my finger hurt less.

Really, with no allowed  biking or intense exercise (raising your heart rate apparently makes your finger start painfully throbbing) or guitar-playing, my usual stockpile of injury-good-humor is running dangerouly low  on this particular mishap. To further amuse myself,  I’m considering changing my story to one of the following:

“Waffle Iron”

“I was playing with an 18th-century cotton mill at the historical museum, and, well…”

“I’m part of a prosthetic limb experiment. It’s Top Secret, sorry.”

“I do the Dark Lord’s bidding”

Or, of course, there’s the more obvious choices:

“A crocodile bit it off”

“A camel bit it off”

“A child bit it off”

or better yet:

“It’s a long story…but it involves a ring of power, a fiery mountain called doom and a little depraved fellow with sharp teeth. But it all worked out, since I ended up saving the world and all.”

Yeah, you’re welcome.

———————————————————————————————————–

*If you want pictures, let me know. I will post them if consensus is ‘yes’.

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One Response to “pictures or it didn’t happen*”

  1. Avoid the apiary | the daily saga Says:

    […] or smell floral or am unusually inclined to invade bee habitats. First it was the back of my leg, now the cursed  finger.  Essentially, this is not fun for me nor for the bees. I swell up and they apparently die […]

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