by Tom Shafer
December 12, 2020
As mentioned recently in my “Thanksgiving” post (now located under the For Your Consideration tab), I inadvertently cut off the tip of my fickle left index finger that Friday after Thanksgiving. Of course, ‘inadvertently’ is an interesting adverb to use in this situation, as if somehow I may have considered an ‘advertent’ methodology to do it. No matter the intent, cutting off the tip of any of my fingers is perfectly me.
At that time, over the last couple of weeks I had been trying to complete the last of the late-fall seasonal external chores on our palatial property: the final lawn cutting; pulling down dead-fall trapped in trees in our woods; storing garden tchotchkes and furniture in the shed; and finally, grooming our bushes, giving them a final neat trim before winter. I was actually completing that last task – and working on the last bush – when I noticed fluid dripping onto the bush’s dying, scarlet leaves. Upon closer examination, I recognized that the fluid had a scarlet color itself, and quickly (?) realized that I must have cut some part of my body.
Now, you may be asking, “How did you NOT notice that you had cut off the tip of your finger when it happened?” And, I would applaud you for your obvious, albeit appropriate, question. However, if you lived within my body – as I do – your first response might be hysterical laughing. Frequently, I find – or others point out – cuts, abrasions, and bruises on my body, some even significant, and I often have no explanation for nor remember their happening. You see, I am one of those people who is considered “accident prone.” Insensitive persons might call me a klutz or a dolt but those descriptors would be oversimplifications. I’m really not clumsy at all and am in fact quite athletic. What I am, though, is thoughtful to the point of being careless. Some might even call me distracted – and I wouldn’t disagree.
My mind is a constant whir of activity, and I’m not pointing that out as matter of superiority, it just is what it is – and frankly it drives me crazy because I am never at peace. I try to distract it (my mind) as much as I can (with music, reading stuff that doesn’t make me think, and television) but nothing really works. Relaxing and sleeping are both equally challenging, and at best, I perform them poorly. And when I am attempting to complete common chores around the house – like trimming bushes – well, something about those tasks really sets my brain to DEFCON 5.
Add to that a very high level of pain tolerance – and an extraordinarily sharp pair of pruning shears – and you could easily expect the result of a lopped-off digit.
So, back to that “bleeding” bush (actually it was a holly dwarf yaupon), I finally saw blood pouring from my left index finger, wrapped it up in a paper towel that had been tucked into my pocket, and retreated to the garage for a band aid – and doesn’t keeping bandages in your garage just scream accident prone!? When I removed the wrap from my finger, I immediately realized that a bandage wasn’t going to fix this little boo boo. My next thought was, Where is the tip of my finger?
Of course, I walked back to the scene of decapitation – I guess more a reflex and curiosity because I knew it was likely too small to reattach – and quickly perused the site, but I couldn’t find it (and never did). I walked into the house and reported this development to my napping wife, telling (and showing) her what I had done and that I was driving myself to the hospital to have it looked at. She feigned some genuine concern, asked if she should go with me, then slipped quietly back into her coma.
Now, before you start thinking ill thoughts about my wife’s “response,” two things: one, in this COVID world she would have been relegated to the car for the duration of treatment, and two, things like this happen to me all the time. I don’t think I could provide a correct number for my solo trips to hospitals over the years, all from a variety of lacerations, manglings, and maladies. So, this was the expected response for this most recent accident.
Fortunately, from an ER perspective, I had picked a most appropriate time for finger amputation. I was seen and evaluated by ER staff immediately, and noting that my hand surgeon (what, you don’t have one?) was a resident at the hospital, they requested (and were granted) a consult from his office. My doctor was actually in surgery, so one of his colleagues came down to assess my injury. His first thought was that it would probably need a graft (likely from my right palm), but because the finger was somewhat clotting at that time, he wanted to give it the weekend to see if it might heal on its own. I would need to clean and redress the wound area three times a day, keep it elevated as best I could, and hope that by the following Monday, it would be completely clotted over. I was definitely on board with this treatment because the last thing I needed was another surgery – though with the year’s deductible already met, this would be a freebie! So, I did as I was told – for the most part. I did need to finish trimming that last bush and complete a couple of other pre-winter chores.
Okay, by this point, some of you might be wondering about pain, as in “you just cut off the tip of your freaking finger!?” I have to admit that it never did hurt. I only experienced a little discomfort each time I changed the dressing (dried, clotted blood + gauze wrap removal = little discomfort). As I noted early, I have a high pain threshold – a REAL high pain threshold, not one that some people report about themselves until they experience actual pain for the first time. ER staff was a little concerned initially until they read my doctor’s notes about me – and saw my extensive surgical record.
Back to my finger, each time I tended to it, it seemed to look a little better but it was still bleeding and suppurating. On Sunday evening, when I changed the dressing for the last time before my surgical consult on Monday, it actually looked a little worse than it had earlier in the day. Concerned and feeling defeated, I relegated myself to yet another surgery, one that was already prescheduled for Tuesday morning.
My surgeon greeted me on Monday morning with the words, “Now what have you done to yourself?” The last time I had seen him, which was just a couple of months prior for a mallet finger, I had joked that I hoped I would never see him again – words I have used unsuccessfully over the years with a number of other surgeons. Now, he had already performed three surgeries on me (two for carpal tunnel, one for a mangled left pinky) and treated me for two mallet digits and three triggered ones. He knew me (and my sense of humor) well, so his question was perfectly applicable to this current situation.
As I delicately unwrapped the dressing on my finger, I explained what had happened, hoping against hope that it was now clotted and would require no surgery. And, that’s exactly what I saw. For the first time since I had last seen my intact index finger, no blood was seeping from the open – now closed – hole where my tip used to be. My surgeon was pleasantly surprised upon seeing it for the first time, explaining that losing this much of the tip almost always required surgical repair. So, he wanted to give it two more weeks (but wanted updates every four days) to see if it would continue its own restoration.
Over the next several days, it would suppurate a little, but overall it continued to look better and better. At about the ten-day mark, it began healing over and I knew that surgery would not be necessary. I couple of days before my scheduled checkup, I sent another picture to my surgeon with a message stating that due to COVID and a nearly healed finger, I didn’t think it necessary to keep that appointment. He messaged back later in the day, agreeing with my assessment and wishing me a nice holiday. I responded with a message thanking him for all of his help with my digit world and wished him a nice holiday in kind – and also hoped that I never see him again!
Looking back, none of my injuries and accidents should be a surprise to me – or anyone for that matter. I have a long history of calamity reaching back to my earliest years: as a four-year-old falling headfirst onto an end table (requiring my first stitches), then as a five-year-old getting my right ankle caught in the spokes of a bicycle (compound fracture and surgical repair, including a leg-long cast for six months). The world writ large even recognized my accident-proness (yep, just making up words). In high school, I was voted “most likely to suffer needlessly from self-decapitation.” I say amen to that, brother, amen.
