In 1993, we were living in Humble, Texas. I know. Strange that a person with MY ego would be living in a town named after humility. Anyway, I had been carving on a piece of wood, trying to cut it into the shape of a cross. This process had been going on for a couple of weeks, and it was really starting to take shape. Needing to do some finer work, I opted for the box cutter. It had a very sharp point, a very sharp blade, and could get into those little cross corners better than anything else I had.
My wife was busy bathing our youngest, who was only two at the time. Lulu was in her room watching television. Me? I was in the living room with my box cutter and my new masterpiece. Soon I would be breaking into the world of sculptors and live in Greece and treated like a rock star. Well, yeah....I was dreaming. And that's when it happened. The box cutter slipped and ran down the outside of my right, index finger. It raced from the second knuckle down to almost the tip. The massive amount of blood that followed the mishap informed me that something might have gone terribly wrong. I was very proud of myself in that I didn't say #@&*#@. And, I didn't say *&$%#. No, I actually said, "Jesus!". Now, it wasn't in vain that I said that. I was really calling on him because I had just committed unintentional hari kari.
Running to the kitchen, I put the mortally wounded finger under running water, only to see the most perfect slice ever cut into human flesh flay open from the faucet's water pressure. I suddenly grew ill....and quite faint. With my healthy hand, I grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped it around my finger and hand. My wife was soon informed that I was bleeding to death and she responded by telling me to go to the emergency room. It would have taken her thirty minutes to get the kids ready so I drove myself.
Emergency Rooms are not pleasant places to visit. In fact, never have I ever looked at someone and said, "Hey! Let's go down to the emergency room and see what's going on." They just aren't places you get a hankerin' to go to. The one good thing about needing a doctor at an emergency room, is that if you're bleeding....you get priority. They whisked me to the triage nurse and I took a seat. She asked me to remove the towel so she could have a look. I did as instructed and she observed the wound. Looking back at me, I swear she had a smirk on her face, she said, "Oh my. Did we try to cut off our finger tonight?" I said, "No. we haven't done anything. I did this all by myself." The next thing I know I'm taken to a curtained 'room' and soon a middle aged female doctor came in and deadened the affected area. I don't know what it was, but when she started pushing the plunger on the syringe it felt like fresh cooked lava was being injected into my system. She left for about five minutes and returned with the suture kit. It took six stitches to close the wound....and $300. We didn't have insurance so it came straight out of my pocket into the hospital's hand. After getting it bandaged up, she said to come back in two weeks and she would remove the stitches. I thought to myself, "Not at $50 a stitch you ain't."
You see, there comes a time when a man has to stand up for what's right. He has to rise up on his hind legs and say, "Enough!" I know I couldn't have put those stitches in. But it couldn't be too difficult to take them out when the time came. So, two weeks go by and I walk into the bathroom in preparation for surgery. Being the good doctor, I scrub up....just like I saw 'em do on M*A*S*H. I then put on the latex glove...on the good hand. I'm not THAT stupid. Retrieving a bottle of rubbing alcohol, I drench the stitched finger in the liquid. Then, I pour some in a small cup and dip and stir the scissors in it. After that, I cut the six stitches with ease. So far, everything is going splendidly well. I placed the scissors on the counter and picked up the tweezers. I took hold of one of the cut ends of the first stitch with the tweezers and......
This is where I made my fatal mistake. I pulled the stitch with the tweezers, through the flesh of my finger and out the other side....without waiting for the alcohol to dry. Now, the alcohol soaked stitch has left behind the fiery residue and it immediately started doing its wicked work. Since it was in a tiny tiny hole in my finger, blowing on it did no good. And, since it was in a tiny tiny hole in my finger, running water over it did no good. The alcohol inside that little hole was eating my soul with an all consuming fire. By the time it finished with its torture....I was beginning to think $300 was worth not going through the agony I had just experienced. Again, not being totally stupid, I wait to make sure the rest of the alcohol on the other stitches has had time to evaporate before extracting them. I can tell you with all honesty the other five were a piece of cake. My wife asked me why I did that. My only reply was that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
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