9 and a 1/2

That’s how many fingers I now have–for a while anyway. The doctor says it will grow back….

It was a cold and snowy Christmas eve and I was trying to be a good daughter by helping prep Christmas dinner. My mom has this amazing poblano chili/potato recipe that calls for uniformly sliced potatoes, and I offered to chop. Now I could have used a knife like a normal person, but my mom has this awesome contraption called a mandolin that gives you perfectly uniform slices of potato–and finger, as the case may be. At first the blade seemed dull so I was really jamming those potatoes through, but after a few spuds I was on a roll and those puppies were flying through–until… Holy $#%*! I felt the blade tear through my skin and I jumped backwards, hopping and writhing in pain while Andy turned on the faucet for me to wash the cut clean. Only it wasn’t just a cut.

“Uh, Alex? I think we have to go to hospital,” Andy panicked in his cute British accent. He ran past me with his hands cupped together as if he were holding something. “There’s a huge chunk of finger over here!”

I didn’t want to believe it. How could I have chopped my finger off? Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to good people on xmas eve! But after my family assessed the hacked off nub, it was decided that we should put the tip of my finger in a bag with ice and head for the hospital.

Fortunately there’s this emergency care Dr’s office in town and we were seen immediately. Now, the next part of the story won’t be very clear because both Andy and my sister wouldn’t let me see the wound while the doctor peeled off the bloody bandages; cut off circulation to stop the blood flow to my finger; and then cauterized the wound with silver nitrate. But I didn’t have to see it to feel the prickling, pulsating pain running up and down my right ring finger. Ouch. Big time.

I writhed and whimpered, trying to be cavalier while the friendly doctor made lighthearted jokes as he gouged and poked my bloody stub. “You cut off the fat pad of your finger,” he informed. “Cheer up! Most women are glad to get rid of fat!”

About fifteen minutes later (after the doc was sure the bleeding had subsided), we walked back to the car with a bottle of Vicodin and the unused tip of my finger that Andy would later throw away. I spent Christmas day floating on a puffy cloud of painkillers and longing for the days when my fingers added up to a complete set of ten. Ah, good times.

(For a pic of the gaping wound, just ask!!)

About alexgirl

I'm a YA novelist livin' in fabulous Brooklyn with my husband and our two kitties. I love film making, photography, music, chocolate, sushi, friends, cardio, TV, and a bunch of other crap I can't think of. One published novel, Back Talk, available at Amazon. (and another one in progress!)
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to 9 and a 1/2

  1. Andy says:

    Please don’t post that pic! It’s an affront to humanity. For those of you who haven’t seen it – let’s just say that even the nurse thought she could see bone.

    Glad your finger seems to be on the mend. Please don’t let it slow down your blogging output!

  2. Rachel says:

    Oh Alex!
    Dear grief, how is your finger? I’m sorry to hear about Christmas eve. I can only imagine the pain. I love your blog. I have not had any time really to internet. Hopefully soon I will have more of an opportunity. Hope your finger is healing up. read you soon. Rachel

Comments are closed.