The value of all 10 fingers
A few days after my mother was injured in a hit-and-run accident, I had a mishap of my own, one that helped me understand the value of all 10 fingers.
The day after I visited my mother in my hometown, I was heading out for a horseback-riding lesson and decided to fix a quick sausage biscuit for breakfast. I’ve recently discovered turkey sausage and had found some frozen ones at one of those monster warehouse stores.
The patties come in packs of four, and separating two from the four is simple: Pull the plastic apart. Further separating the two is a bit more of a challenge.
Enter Wolfgang Puck. Well, my fairly new and incredibly sharp Wolfgang Puck knife set.
The plastic, single-use, greenish-blue thingy that has a handle with a U-shaped head and an inch-long piece of floss saved me.
I’m not exactly sure the sequence of events, but it went something like this: Grab the two frozen patties between my fingers and thumb, jab the knife into the center, voila.
Gushing blood indicated something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
I dropped the knife and reached for paper towels, which I wrapped around the index finger on my left hand. A glance indicated that the I almost was left with no fingerprint and might have ended up with a deformed fingertip, but for some miracle.
My Army first-aid training kicked in, and I squeezed the makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding.
Because the blood quickly saturated the paper towels, I grabbed more, took off and tossed the old. Several times.
Then, I figured I was doing something wrong. My finger was swelling and still bleeding.
Ice. … Ice stops swelling, but since I don’t like ice in my beverages, I didn’t have ice. An ice pack in water would have to do.
It didn’t.
With only eight functioning fingers, this was a virtually impossible task.
With my hand in water, I called my health insurance company; the representative told me I would have to call a different number. When I explained that I had been bleeding for more than an hour, she looked up the number for me.
The second representative suggested I take my hand out of the ice water for fear of causing permanent nerve damage, and then walked me through the things I had already done.
Finally, she suggested I call 911. Three minutes after I hung up, the medics in their fire truck were outside my house. Oddly, they remembered me from my call months before when I thought I was having a heart attack. Frankly, I had hoped then never to have seen these guys again.
They removed my soaked paper towel, poured saline over the wound and wrapped it in so much gauze that my finger looked like an ice cream bar waiting to be dipped in chocolate. They also wrapped my ring finger, which had a gash at the tip, leaving my middle finger precariously visible. When the ambulance arrived minutes later, the fire/medics indicated they had the situation under control, advising me, as did the health insurance rep, that I could go to an urgent-care center. One was two minutes from my house. Unfortunately, it was closed, so I went to the Grady Hospital emergency room, known for being a good trauma center and usually full of folks needing care.
Two shots to the base of the finger, a scream each time, a passing nurse muttering something about Wolfgang Puck, momentary laughter, five stitches and three hours later, I headed home.
Over the next 12 days, I learned that with only eight functioning fingers, it’s virtually impossible to cup my hands after washing my face or brushing my teeth to hold water; wash the right side of my body, particularly my right armpit (I did learn that my right arm is a bit more flexible than I had known); open jars; type (I’m so accustomed to using the home row keys that I had a hard time with all letters involving the F and D fingers); wash my hair (opening and holding the shampoo bottle while squeezing the shampoo into my hand was too challenging so I learned to simply squeeze the shampoo onto my hair); and many other daily chores.
The impossible task was flossing my teeth. Ugh. I know this is gross, but I didn’t floss my teeth for 10 days.
I felt so … unclean.
I got my stitches out on the 11th day, and my index finger has become a barometer of sorts. When it feels like a razor is slicing it, I need to go indoors … and put on my coat. (Oddly enough, the Wolfgang Puck knife set is so sharp that I never felt the initial cut.)
Since the accident, I haven’t attempted to separate frozen turkey sausage patties, and I’ll put them in the refrigerator before I do cook them.
Three days after the accident, I got up the courage to touch a knife so that could add veggies to my lamb stew. Believe me, I’m much more careful now.
The best thing to come out of this situation is that I have a new best friend: the person who invented the plastic, single-use, greenish-blue or white thingy that has a handle with a U-shaped head and an inch-long piece of floss. While at the same superstore warehouse where I bought the turkey sausage patties, I saw them.
I bought a pack of 360.
The 75-year-old sleuth
A few weeks ago, a hit-and-run driver broadsided my mother’s car, with the accident causing Mother’s vehicle to flip several times, landing on its roof. Two things saved her life. A third closed the case.
On a Friday, hours before I was to start work, I got a text message from a sister that Mother had been in a wreck and was in the hospital. Around 10:30 p.m. the night before, she was driving home after picking up a nephew from work.
She was about two miles from home when a white or silver car plowed through a traffic light and hit her ruby red Buick on the driver’s side.
About a year ago, Mother had decided to get a “new-to-her” vehicle that would have few, if any, maintenance problems. She got it for a steal since my oldest brother is a car salesman.
Not only was the car in excellent condition, it had OnStar, and the service had offered a special to new owners of preowned vehicles. She signed up.
After the vehicle stopped flipping, Mother and my nephew found themselves dangling upside down. A miracle by itself, as Mother hadn’t always buckled her seatbelt. She’s gotten better over the years.
Before the impact of the collision had a chance to wear off, Sherwin, an OnStar representative was on the line, addressing Mother by name, saying he had an indication of a collision and promising to send help.
That exchange, Mother said, was just like the commercial, and Sherwin stayed on the line until help arrived. My nephew was able to escape his seatbelt but couldn’t get Mother out because her door was smashed in.
An ambulance and police soon arrived, followed by a tow truck. My nephew was seen at the hospital down the street and was released. Mother had a brain clot and had to remain hospitalized for 24 hours.
She and my nephew are OK now, but both are in pain. The insurance company totaled her vehicle.
Pain, however, didn’t stop my 75-year-old mother from becoming a sleuth.
When Mother went to the salvage company to claim the contents of the car, she found an item that wasn’t hers: the grill of a Kia in the back seat.
Last week, two weeks after the accident and after hearing nothing from the police, Mother went back to the crash site, driving a rental car the insurance company had supplied. She drove what she considered the most logical path the hit-and-run driver may have taken.
She ended up at another salvage yard and went up to one of the workers, inquiring as if she were looking for spare parts. Conversation ultimately turned to Kias, and the man showed her to one that happened to have been white and missing its grill.
Since it was at the end of a row, Mother slyly said the vehicle must have been there awhile. In fact, the guy told her, it had come in so recently that it hadn’t been processed for parts yet.
Mother called the police investigator to report her findings.
Police arrested and charged the Kia owner with myriad offenses. She claimed to recall hitting something but didn’t know what.
Right. She hit something and quickly tried to get rid of the vehicle. She left the scene not knowing if those in the Buick were even alive.
I’ve heard all my life that seatbelts save lives. My mother has learned that, too.
She’s also looking for another vehicle equipped with OnStar.
-
Archives
- December 2017 (1)
- February 2017 (1)
- August 2013 (1)
- May 2013 (3)
- March 2013 (2)
- January 2013 (1)
- December 2012 (3)
- October 2012 (3)
- July 2012 (1)
- June 2012 (1)
- May 2012 (1)
- April 2012 (1)
-
Categories
-
RSS
Entries RSS
Comments RSS
Random Brain Dumping 