The yell emanated from the basement where Hubby was doing some finishing remodeling work. No honey. No sweetie. Just my first name, at the top of his lungs. This could not be good. Either something had happened to him, or he just found my last receipt from the outlet mall. Like I said, not good! So, I expected the worst as I waited for him to trudge up into the kitchen.
You see, the basement remodel has become somewhat of an albatross for the family. When we started the construction, our basement resembled a Silence of the Lambs cellar. If you closed you eyes, you could imagine that blonde weirdo murmuring, "She puts the lotion on her skin . . . and . . .then she places it in the bucket." Creepy, to say the least. So, when it came to home improvement projects, I started Hubby on that scary basement first. I needed a pretty place for the kiddies to play during the frozen months of a Midwest winter. He assured me that it would be no problem. During the planning and measuring stages, Hubby and a friend actually even said to me, with a straight face, "Oh yeah. We can knock this out in a weekend." And, me, being the naive, hopeful person that I am, believed them. Ha! That was on Labor Day of 2008. Let's just say it has been one loooooooong weekend.
Anyway, Paul arrived, face ashen, in the kitchen with his left hand wrapped in paper towels. His right hand clung tightly to those towels, but even through his vice-like grip, I could see the blood coloring the towels red.
"What happened Paul?"
Gravely, he said, "I cut myself with the table saw."
I tried to stay calm as he paced back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. Visions of ER reruns were flying through my head, and I hoped that I would not have to view anything that grisly. "How bad?" were the only words I could muster.
"Well, I don't know. I haven't looked yet. I need you to."
Dear Lord, I prayed silently . . . please contain my gag reflex for the next few moments. Puke could only make this situation worse. Thanks.
So, I bravely, stood next to him as he unwrapped his mangled, left, index finger. And all I can say is, I am glad that God was with me. The best word that I can use to describe Hubby's finger was shredded. Like I said, not good.
While I did my best with neon blue band-aids, I calmly tried to do the impossible . . . get Paul to a doctor. "Hon, I really think that you should have that looked at. "
"Nah. It's not bad," he said as he helped wrap the fourth band-aid around the mess.
I raised my right eyebrow and stared at him. What??? His finger looked a bit like ground beef, but, it wasn't that bad? He reminded me of that Monty Python knight. The one that after having his arm completely severed remarks, " 'Tis just a flesh wound." Ridiculous. I half expected to see men clapping coconuts together galloping through my living room.
"Paul. Really. This. Could. Be. Bad." I tried to slow down my words in the hopes that a change in pace would confuse him into agreeing.
He went to see the school athletic trainer, a man we lovingly refer to as Doc. A man, and this needs no saying, that Ethan believes is his actual, M.D. doctor. Doc cleaned and patched him up, and now he sports a huge mass of gauze and tape on his left, index finger.
And, therein lies the rub.
"Annie, you think that I can golf with this thing tomorrow?"
"Hmmmm. I don't know. Maybe you'll have to give it up this week," I replied. Inside, I was a little giddy at the prospect of having him home on a Thursday night, instead of starting up his golf league.
He took a couple of practice swings and pronounced, "Yeah, I should be OK." I grimaced while he reflected, "You know, that was the first thing that went through my mind when I cut it."
Not understanding him, I said, "What was?"
"Golf tomorrow," I said incredulously. "Golf tomorrow was the first thing that you thought about? Not about losing your finger, or being maimed, or . . . or . . . pain?!?"
"Well, what was the second?" I countered.
He paused and wiggled his bandaged finger at me. "My left finger."
Not getting it, I repeated, "Your left finger?"
"Yaaa-esssss. My left finger."
I said nothing and waited.
He smiled and said, "It's my wing hand. How am I supposed to eat wings?"
So, hubby gets injured and his first thoughts are about golf and wings.
And then he left me with this tidbit that belongs in the Hubby Hall of Fame, "At least it is not my right index finger. I would never be able to pull down my pants when I need to go the bathroom."
Lovely mental picture.
What can I say? I love my guy.
He makes me laugh . . . even when he doesn't try.
Author's note: (If this makes no sense, please read On a Wing and A Prayer, an earlier March post, and all will become crystal. Clear, that is.)