My deadline for the garbage article was 8 minutes ago. I emailed it to my editor, who has been having email trouble for a week or two now. Even though I made my deadline, I am unsure if she will receive it, so I may have to drive it over, or email it to someone else there in the building who can save it to their computer system for her to edit.
Technology trouble is so threatening. After blogging about my news stories (we use the term, 'news,' here very loosely) I remembered an article I had written, that I had left out of my blog. After completing my article this morning, I tried to insert a paragraph into my blog describing that forgotten article. Typed the paragraph, clicked on "Publish" and an error message popped up. "Cannot locate the blog requested." Hmm. Pulled up the entry once again to insert the paragraph. "This isn't so bad," I thought. On writing it the second time, I re-worded some sentences so they were clearer or better written, or more descriptive. In good humor, I faithfully clicked once more on, "Publish." Error message. "Cannot locate the blog requested." Pleaseohpleaseohplease don't let my blog be gone. Logged off and back on. Looked at my blog. It's there, with yesterday's entry, but not today's improvements. Went through to edit again. Third time to write the silly paragraph and I was not as good a sport as the second time. Had the distinct feeling there were some good words I used earlier, that I was not remembering this time. Publish. "Cannot locate the blog requested."
Editor just called. She did *not* receive my garbage story yet and asked me to send it to her co-editor. Did so. Now I am here, mostly to see if it will take a new posting, even though it won't update a prior one. Deep breath, click Publish, and....
Friday, September 30
Thursday, September 29
Stories
DIL1 posted a comment earlier today asking if I have other stories lined up. I decided to blog about the stories I've done and those I am doing.
I have only been free-lancing since about July. The first story was about the cherry orchard in the mountains. It's owned and run by a couple I admire who have written several books about living simply. I had already read their books when the opportunity to free-lance came along. The editor who asked me if I wanted to free-lance had mentioned that day-trips would be good articles to write in the summer. So when I asked about the cherry orchard, she readily approved it.
In August, she suggested that I do a "home and garden" story about my next-door neighbors. They renovated a house a block down the street, then moved next door and started over. In her words, "They must love it." It was easy enough to research and write, being just next door, but the pressure of writing about friends/neighbors is horrific. I read and re-read my copy before sending it in to see if any little thing could be misread and thus hurt their feelings. I personally think they've done a great job on their house but sometimes print can be misread.
Also around that time, DH suggested I do an article on the streetcar that used to come through our neighborhood. We know several 80 to 90-year-olds who remember riding on it. One of our neighbors' father was a streetcar and he still has his dad's money-changer, the little chrome device that hung from his belt so he could readily give back nickels, dimes and quarters.
To do that article, I met with seven 80-to-90-year-olds at the library in a meeting room. I cannot count the times I had to say, "Back to the streetcar..." They really need to get together once in a while. They loved seeing each other again, and recounted many, many stories. "That boy was so good-looking, and he was a good kisser, too." "I never liked him. His chicken used to chase me every time I came down the street." "....Getting back to the streetcars...."
I am working on two articles right now, the garbage thing and a story on NCSSM, the North Carolina School of Science and Math. It is a residential school for high school juniors and seniors who excel in, oddly enough, science and math. They are accepted by invitation only, after applying, taking tests and rigorous interviews. Interviewed parents of one of our town's students this week, and will travel to the school next week.
I'm on deadline for the garbage thing -- it will print in Sunday's paper. The NCSSM thing is out there as I don't even go to the school til next week.
I have not come up with any more ideas for stories. I always despair that I'll never have another idea, and then at the unlikeliest moment, one comes along. How about a story on bloggers.........
I have only been free-lancing since about July. The first story was about the cherry orchard in the mountains. It's owned and run by a couple I admire who have written several books about living simply. I had already read their books when the opportunity to free-lance came along. The editor who asked me if I wanted to free-lance had mentioned that day-trips would be good articles to write in the summer. So when I asked about the cherry orchard, she readily approved it.
In August, she suggested that I do a "home and garden" story about my next-door neighbors. They renovated a house a block down the street, then moved next door and started over. In her words, "They must love it." It was easy enough to research and write, being just next door, but the pressure of writing about friends/neighbors is horrific. I read and re-read my copy before sending it in to see if any little thing could be misread and thus hurt their feelings. I personally think they've done a great job on their house but sometimes print can be misread.
Also around that time, DH suggested I do an article on the streetcar that used to come through our neighborhood. We know several 80 to 90-year-olds who remember riding on it. One of our neighbors' father was a streetcar and he still has his dad's money-changer, the little chrome device that hung from his belt so he could readily give back nickels, dimes and quarters.
To do that article, I met with seven 80-to-90-year-olds at the library in a meeting room. I cannot count the times I had to say, "Back to the streetcar..." They really need to get together once in a while. They loved seeing each other again, and recounted many, many stories. "That boy was so good-looking, and he was a good kisser, too." "I never liked him. His chicken used to chase me every time I came down the street." "....Getting back to the streetcars...."
I am working on two articles right now, the garbage thing and a story on NCSSM, the North Carolina School of Science and Math. It is a residential school for high school juniors and seniors who excel in, oddly enough, science and math. They are accepted by invitation only, after applying, taking tests and rigorous interviews. Interviewed parents of one of our town's students this week, and will travel to the school next week.
I'm on deadline for the garbage thing -- it will print in Sunday's paper. The NCSSM thing is out there as I don't even go to the school til next week.
I have not come up with any more ideas for stories. I always despair that I'll never have another idea, and then at the unlikeliest moment, one comes along. How about a story on bloggers.........
Wednesday, September 28
Riding the Garbage Truck
It's 2:30 and I've been in the chair for an hour. I don't see how they do it.
The route we ran today has 640 homes on it and we ran 2 trucks, the one I rode on, and one other. At the end of the day, we followed the other truck to the dumping station, where each truck was weighed on the way in, and again on the way out, empty. Each truck picked up about 6 tons of garbage today. Typically, each truck is driven and operated by ONE man.
Today, I was a helper. I rode the back of the truck, hopped down and emptied garbage cans, and hopped back up. The driver usually does all this in addition to driving. To empty a can, you roll it to the back of the truck (sounds easy, but when they are heavy, is sometimes difficult.) Then you hook the bar at the front of the can over the lip of the lifter, and press down on the lever. The lifter lifts the can up in the air over the bay of the truck, and the garbage falls into it. You press the lever down and the can returns to the ground. When the bay is full, there is another lever to make the jaws come out and compact the garbage up into the front of the truck. The bay fills up about every 4 or 5 stops.
The platform I stood on, on the back of the truck, is about 32" off the ground. At one point, I was sweating and my jeans were soaked in sweat. Being wet, they had stretched a little and were falling down on my hips. With the crotch halfway to my knees, it was much harder to leap gracefully to the little platform.
There are eight garbage men and they make 10,558 stops a week. The drivers are an awesome bunch of guys: a deacon, a co-pastor, a former football running back (still holds the county record!!) 2 guys who love rebuilding old cars, a fisherman and a fellow who loves to barbecue.
After we all finished, we sat in the office and I interviewed them. They had some stories to tell!! One of the guys had a naked lady chasing him down the street. She had forgotten to take out her garbage before he came. One of the guys chats with the older people on his route. What season do they dread the most? Hunting season. Too much blood and guts in the garbage. What weather do they dread the most? Icy rain.
I learned many things today: for one thing, not all garbage stinks the same. In fact, it's not too awful in general, except when there is vomit in it. (Why do ppl put vomit in the garbage??) We encountered about 6 to 8 vomit-y stops. Another thing I learned was, I never want to get my hand caught in the compacting jaws on the truck. That thing smashed a sofa like it was a matchstick. Bicycles didn't even slow it down. Neither did patio umbrellas. I asked and was told it compacts at a 6:1 ratio. 300 cubic yards is smashed down to 50.
Each of the men was a total gentleman around me. They kidded, they laughed, and they never said an off-color word or made any innuendo. They even hesitated before telling me about the naked lady. The driver who took me along drove that truck like a baby. He went slowly over bumps so I wouldn't fall off the back. He watched for low hanging limbs so I wouldn't get slapped. He cautioned me to let him know when things were too heavy for me to lift. I couldn't have asked for a more thoughtful and kind driver.
DH found us three or four times through the morning and freely used one of the three cameras he had hanging around his neck: the videocam, the digital camera, and the SLR. We've got scads of pics of me hanging on the back of the truck, getting off the truck, getting on the truck, moving cans, raising cans, lowering cans. Pics of my driver, pics of the other driver on today's route. The other driver was a guy named James. Tall, black, attractive, and always smiling, James has been doing this for 32 years. He gets the Everlasting Award. DH told James, "Work her hard!" and James enjoyed repeating this several times.
Being a garbage man is a hazardous job -- not necessarily because of the garbage, the glass or the needles, the fumes or the dust or the puke, but because of the idiot drivers. People pass on the left. They pass on the right. When there are 6 or 8 cars backed up in a line behind the garbage truck, some nut will pass 'em all.
A garbage man was killed last year by a lady who was driving and putting on her makeup at the same time. (Please do not do this.) She did not see the 10-ton truck, the flashing lights, or the dayglo orange shirt. She plowed straight into the back of the truck -- through the man who was standing behind the truck at the time. His torso went into the bay of the truck. His legs lay on the street. These men are brave and tough and funny and very bright -- the one thing that makes them all go serious very fast is the issue of traffic.
Today was a day I'll never forget.
Garbage Day
TODAY is the day I work as a garbage man.
I had the idea about 6 weeks ago to do a story on our garbage men. Our little town has only 7 men and they make more than 10,000 stops a week. The only day that no one among them works is Christmas Day. They smile, wave, and work hard. I thought it'd be cool to write about the men and the work they do.
It was a rather hard sell to my editor. Although I never really knew why, she seemed reluctant to approve the story. I kept asking. Finally, she said yes.
At that point, I had to sell the concept to the City. They finally approved it with one caveat: I can work alongside the "other men," empty garbage, work as if I were a City employee for the day, but I cannot cross the street. Oh, I also have to sign a "hold harmless" waiver of liability.
No problem.
Today is the big day. I have to be there by 6:50, not too bad. I have already packed my bag lunch; at noon I will sit with the "other men" and get their personal stories. From 7 to noon, I will empty garbage. I believe I get to ride the back of the truck!! How cool is that??
More later....
I had the idea about 6 weeks ago to do a story on our garbage men. Our little town has only 7 men and they make more than 10,000 stops a week. The only day that no one among them works is Christmas Day. They smile, wave, and work hard. I thought it'd be cool to write about the men and the work they do.
It was a rather hard sell to my editor. Although I never really knew why, she seemed reluctant to approve the story. I kept asking. Finally, she said yes.
At that point, I had to sell the concept to the City. They finally approved it with one caveat: I can work alongside the "other men," empty garbage, work as if I were a City employee for the day, but I cannot cross the street. Oh, I also have to sign a "hold harmless" waiver of liability.
No problem.
Today is the big day. I have to be there by 6:50, not too bad. I have already packed my bag lunch; at noon I will sit with the "other men" and get their personal stories. From 7 to noon, I will empty garbage. I believe I get to ride the back of the truck!! How cool is that??
More later....
Sunday, September 25
Unbelievable
On Wednesday, I asked DH if maybe 6 weeks out of work were not long enough. His injured finger was sooo swollen; he was having new and unusual pain; his flexibility was not coming along at all.
On Friday, his stitches were out; his flexibility was drastically increased; he played guitar; and resumed driving.
Six weeks seems to be plenty now. What a difference a day or two can make!!
Today, we drove to Capital City to see DS2, who just returned from Iraq. Words cannot express what it's like to see your son after worrying over his being in war.
DH drove all the way. Visited, played with a house-full of grandbabies. Chatted with Nana-in-law and PopPop-in-law. Cheered on kids with pinata. Hung in there for four hours. When he said he was getting a little tired, I quickly packed up our stuff to go.
I tried to drive home -- drove 1 hour, 15 minutes. Whenever I drive into the sun, I get so hugely sleepy. I don't understand it, but I have learned by now that it always happens. Pulled into a gas station to walk around, visit RR. Came out, DH is at the wheel. (He hates my driving.)
So he drove the rest of the way home. I tried not to snore.
BTW, our church has begun a new service. At first we did not think it would be our preference, but now, I like it best of all. We try not to go to any one service all the time, new service sometimes, noontime sometimes, early morning traditional service sometimes. Today we went to new service so we could get on the road. Awesome service. DH is ready to return to music practice on Thursday night.
We might not see a lot of burning bushes around, or wives turning to salt, or giants to slay with slingshots, but miracles still happen. They really do.
On Friday, his stitches were out; his flexibility was drastically increased; he played guitar; and resumed driving.
Six weeks seems to be plenty now. What a difference a day or two can make!!
Today, we drove to Capital City to see DS2, who just returned from Iraq. Words cannot express what it's like to see your son after worrying over his being in war.
DH drove all the way. Visited, played with a house-full of grandbabies. Chatted with Nana-in-law and PopPop-in-law. Cheered on kids with pinata. Hung in there for four hours. When he said he was getting a little tired, I quickly packed up our stuff to go.
I tried to drive home -- drove 1 hour, 15 minutes. Whenever I drive into the sun, I get so hugely sleepy. I don't understand it, but I have learned by now that it always happens. Pulled into a gas station to walk around, visit RR. Came out, DH is at the wheel. (He hates my driving.)
So he drove the rest of the way home. I tried not to snore.
BTW, our church has begun a new service. At first we did not think it would be our preference, but now, I like it best of all. We try not to go to any one service all the time, new service sometimes, noontime sometimes, early morning traditional service sometimes. Today we went to new service so we could get on the road. Awesome service. DH is ready to return to music practice on Thursday night.
We might not see a lot of burning bushes around, or wives turning to salt, or giants to slay with slingshots, but miracles still happen. They really do.
Friday, September 23
Notes
The week wasn't the best. Then DH got his stitches out yesterday and got a good report. He has tried valiantly to be upbeat, but I keep catching him just staring at his hand with the most mournful expression on his face. I have said little. I realize I have to let him just be sad sometimes. When I do ask if he is sad, his reply is always the same: "I'm aight." In case you live on another planet, and don't know anyone who has a touch of MBS running through his veins, "Aight," is shorthand for, "All right," and it means anything BUT.
With the stitches out, today's PT went wonderfully. He flexed his injured finger almost against itself, bending at the middle joint so that the top part of the finger almost touched the bottom half of the finger. This is amazing. The PT's were astonished. And proud.
After running some errands, we came home. I was on the PC working on an article. DH went upstairs to his Music Room. He has had an interest in reorganizing it so I figured he was taking that initiative.
The phone rang and I took the call. As I was on the phone,
I......
heard......
NOTES.
DH came downstairs, playing the guitar all the way. Beautifully.
More beautiful was the look on his face. Pride, and ... amazement, and .... relief.
Things will be fine.
With the stitches out, today's PT went wonderfully. He flexed his injured finger almost against itself, bending at the middle joint so that the top part of the finger almost touched the bottom half of the finger. This is amazing. The PT's were astonished. And proud.
After running some errands, we came home. I was on the PC working on an article. DH went upstairs to his Music Room. He has had an interest in reorganizing it so I figured he was taking that initiative.
The phone rang and I took the call. As I was on the phone,
I......
heard......
NOTES.
DH came downstairs, playing the guitar all the way. Beautifully.
More beautiful was the look on his face. Pride, and ... amazement, and .... relief.
Things will be fine.
Thursday, September 22
Bones
Went to Dr. today and the trip answered many, many questions. DH has experienced so much more pain this week, including a burning sensation in the wounded finger, that I was petrified that we had infection setting in.
This is not the case. Thank goodness. The nerves have suffered severe trauma, of course, and now that the swelling is going down just a little, they have room to "yell."
The thumb, forefinger, and "tall man" finger are all about down to normal. The back of his hand remains a little puffy, and the ring finger is still huge -- particularly at the 2nd joint, the middle of the finger.
The stitches were removed today and we learned that if everything goes well, the plate will remain in there indefinitely. The swelling should go down as PT continues, and the finger should straighten as the swelling subsides. The finger may remain somewhat crooked when healed, but the Dr. does not anticipate significant crookedness; we'll see as time goes by.
DH seems to feel the most pain if the bed where his pinkie used to live is touched, and if the ring finger moves laterally. Sometimes in therapy, he does move it laterally, and his reaction is rather extreme.
Altogether, we feel all this is good news as we can take any discomfort as long as we know it's not permanent.
In response to the burning and pain, the doctor prescribed a medicine that levels out nerve impulses. It was originally a seizure medication, and they have learned over time that, although it's not the best seizure medicine, it's really effective at levelling out hypersensitive nerve endings, which is what he has at the moment. We dropped the Rx off at the local drug store on the way to a neighboring town to shop for the grandchildren's birthdays. On the road we were listening to NPR (of course) , and they discussed this exact drug by name regarding the fact it has not been approved by the FDA. DH is reconsidering picking up or taking this drug and is calling the Dr. to discuss.
He is approved to drive if he is off pain medication and feels comfortable in doing so. At this time, both of these points are marginal -- but not far off.
We continue PT at 3x a week. The people there are awesome and it's a good chance to see people who are worse off than you are -- which is always good for your perspective. Although it does cause DH quite a bit of discomfort, we keep our eyes on the goal.
His next appt is in two weeks. The xray above was taken today and the doctor's comment was, "Excellent."
******
On a different subject, I ride the garbage truck on Wednesday. I believe I have already blogged about that opportunity, but it was originally Tuesday, and has been changed to Wednesday to accommodate photographers better.
I pitched an article to my editor featuring our county's students who attend the state's School of Science and Math. The school is for high school juniors and seniors, and is residential. It's located near the state's capital and is affiliated with the state university system. Of course, attendance is by nomination only, and even then the kids have to pass rigorous testing and interviews to be accepted. The editor loved the idea. I will go up and spend the day. Part of the article will look like a school schedule with times of day and the associated activities.
I spoke with DH about keeping Little One out of school on that day and taking her with us to see the campus and the great opportunity these kids have. Our school has an "educational trip" form we can fill out to ask for permission for the excused absence.
I spoke with the Communications Director today. He emailed me the names of students from our county along with their parents' names and phone numbers. We have about six kids there from this county. This year is the 25th anniversary of the school, which is a nice slant on the article. He is quite enthusiastic about the article -- it seems the "outlying counties" don't get much press for the school.
The thing about writing like this is, I get to have all these adventures, meet people I wouldn't get to meet otherwise, hear all sorts of stories, see all different viewpoints on things, and it's all for.... work!! It has not felt like work, yet, and somehow, I believe it never will.
Wednesday, September 21
Centennial Park
Yesterday afternoon, we went to City Council to present the concept, partnership, and design for Centennial Park. The Director of Parks and Recreation and I presented together. Council's response was so positive. Each councilman spoke in turn and each of them praised the neighborhood for our initiative, for our willingness to raise the funds and do most of the labor, for having an idea and pursuing it. Then the Mayor spoke and her words, too, were very kind. They voted unanimously in favor of the Park.
Now the hard work begins. Phase I requires a total of about $26,000. Phase I includes the entry arbor, the sidewalk leading from that arbor down a little hill to another arbor which houses a kiosk for our newsletters, a sidewalk perpendicular to that sidewalk, to the left, to the playground structure. The playground structure alone costs $16,000, the bulk of the money. We are selling brick pavers, which border the sidewalk, and this will fund the sidewalk ($6,000) and the trash cans ($1,000), because, nobody is going to sponsor a sidewalk or trashcan. Other components of Phase I are the Mommy benches at the playground ($3,000 x 2) and a picnic area. Both of these items are sponsorship opportunities, as are the arbors.
I feel really good about all this. We are applying for four grants, and they are all due in February. Three of the four typically award amounts less than $5,000, and the fourth one can easily pay for the playground structure. If we win them.
Phase II is a formal garden with two circular areas, one housing a sculpture, the other is a sitting / meditation area. Without the art, the cost is about $6,000, most of which can be supported with the sale of more pavers.
Phase III is a wooded nature trail. This land is not in the City land, but adjacent to it. I called the owner and persuaded him to donate it. He will receive a hefty tax write-off and we get the coolest land, too marshy for building on, but a nice, natural setting, something we are short of around here. Phases II and III are separated by a small creek, which will provide Eagle scout candidates service opportunities -- we need two foot bridges to cross it.
I will try soon to scan in the plan for blog readers to see. Right now I gotta ------dash to take Little One to youth group at the church.
~Later.
Now the hard work begins. Phase I requires a total of about $26,000. Phase I includes the entry arbor, the sidewalk leading from that arbor down a little hill to another arbor which houses a kiosk for our newsletters, a sidewalk perpendicular to that sidewalk, to the left, to the playground structure. The playground structure alone costs $16,000, the bulk of the money. We are selling brick pavers, which border the sidewalk, and this will fund the sidewalk ($6,000) and the trash cans ($1,000), because, nobody is going to sponsor a sidewalk or trashcan. Other components of Phase I are the Mommy benches at the playground ($3,000 x 2) and a picnic area. Both of these items are sponsorship opportunities, as are the arbors.
I feel really good about all this. We are applying for four grants, and they are all due in February. Three of the four typically award amounts less than $5,000, and the fourth one can easily pay for the playground structure. If we win them.
Phase II is a formal garden with two circular areas, one housing a sculpture, the other is a sitting / meditation area. Without the art, the cost is about $6,000, most of which can be supported with the sale of more pavers.
Phase III is a wooded nature trail. This land is not in the City land, but adjacent to it. I called the owner and persuaded him to donate it. He will receive a hefty tax write-off and we get the coolest land, too marshy for building on, but a nice, natural setting, something we are short of around here. Phases II and III are separated by a small creek, which will provide Eagle scout candidates service opportunities -- we need two foot bridges to cross it.
I will try soon to scan in the plan for blog readers to see. Right now I gotta ------dash to take Little One to youth group at the church.
~Later.
Up Days and ... the Other Kind
Ok. We are 14 days out from The Accident. Overall, DH has been amazing. His outlook and optimism beat anything I ever imagined. His hand has given him very little pain. On occasion, he will bump it or move it in a way it doesn't like, and he will have about 45 seconds of excrutiating pain. HOW do you spell, "excrutiating"? Hold on -- I've got to look that up....
ex·cru·ci·ate ( P ) Pronunciation Key (k-skrsh-t)tr.v. ex·cru·ci·at·ed, ex·cru·ci·at·ing, ex·cru·ci·ates
To inflict severe pain on; torture.
To inflict great mental distress on.
OK. I didn't think that looked right~!
Anyhoo, overall, he has had great luck with this thing not being too painful, or too constantly painful.
I had worried about depression setting in because, well, because it's my job to worry about things. I think I read somewhere it's normal to grieve when you lose some part of your body, or if I didn't read it, then I made it up and came to believe I had read it. So I have been on my toes watching for any signs of depression.
Monday was Day 12 and It Was A Bad Day. DH was slept quite badly, reliving The Accident over and over in his mind. He couldn't put it out of his mind to get some rest. So on Monday morning, he was exhausted, and to make matters worse, his hand was uncharacteristically painful. To his credit, he tried so many tactics to feel better. He suited up and took a 3 mile run-walk. He spent an hour on the piano. He EVEN .....shared his feelings with me. Nothing seemed to help. I wondered if there is some normal timeframe at which all the adrenalin has receded, all the drugs are out of your system, all the tissue is finally trying to snap into place, and the mind just ... plummets.
I was considering our options, thinking of tactics to combat it, when, bing! He woke up on Tuesday feeling much, much better. Ironically enough, I had spent Monday night reliving it. The most upsetting scenes would flash, strobe style, through my brain, and I was helpless to make the slide show stop. Deep breathing didn't help. Going to another place (mentally) didn't help. Getting up and going on the internet didn't help. On Tuesday I was as crabby as he was on Monday -- with one exception. I had no physical pain and have not lost a finger. It was much easier for me to get over one night of poor sleep than it will be for him to adjust to this change in his life.
We were enlightened yesterday at our visit to Physical Therapy. He has been working too hard at his recovery. He is so motivated to play guitar again that he has done all the exercises to excess, and this is why he has had so much more pain of late. As the PT said, "I almost never have to tell my patients this: 'Back off.'" We both actually breathed a sigh of relief. Ok.
ex·cru·ci·ate ( P ) Pronunciation Key (k-skrsh-t)tr.v. ex·cru·ci·at·ed, ex·cru·ci·at·ing, ex·cru·ci·ates
To inflict severe pain on; torture.
To inflict great mental distress on.
OK. I didn't think that looked right~!
Anyhoo, overall, he has had great luck with this thing not being too painful, or too constantly painful.
I had worried about depression setting in because, well, because it's my job to worry about things. I think I read somewhere it's normal to grieve when you lose some part of your body, or if I didn't read it, then I made it up and came to believe I had read it. So I have been on my toes watching for any signs of depression.
Monday was Day 12 and It Was A Bad Day. DH was slept quite badly, reliving The Accident over and over in his mind. He couldn't put it out of his mind to get some rest. So on Monday morning, he was exhausted, and to make matters worse, his hand was uncharacteristically painful. To his credit, he tried so many tactics to feel better. He suited up and took a 3 mile run-walk. He spent an hour on the piano. He EVEN .....shared his feelings with me. Nothing seemed to help. I wondered if there is some normal timeframe at which all the adrenalin has receded, all the drugs are out of your system, all the tissue is finally trying to snap into place, and the mind just ... plummets.
I was considering our options, thinking of tactics to combat it, when, bing! He woke up on Tuesday feeling much, much better. Ironically enough, I had spent Monday night reliving it. The most upsetting scenes would flash, strobe style, through my brain, and I was helpless to make the slide show stop. Deep breathing didn't help. Going to another place (mentally) didn't help. Getting up and going on the internet didn't help. On Tuesday I was as crabby as he was on Monday -- with one exception. I had no physical pain and have not lost a finger. It was much easier for me to get over one night of poor sleep than it will be for him to adjust to this change in his life.
We were enlightened yesterday at our visit to Physical Therapy. He has been working too hard at his recovery. He is so motivated to play guitar again that he has done all the exercises to excess, and this is why he has had so much more pain of late. As the PT said, "I almost never have to tell my patients this: 'Back off.'" We both actually breathed a sigh of relief. Ok.
Sunday, September 18
Never Mind
NM, I did *not* install the extrusion bolts -- DH did so, and so quickly I could not run for the camera in time. Did not call for a saw! Just a drill and he just did it.
Little One was invited to go to Carowinds for the day with a gf, so DH and I had the afternoon together. We drove around and looked at dining room furniture. I know this is not exciting to anyone else, but it felt good to get out of the house -- and not to my usual (school, doctor/pt, WalMart, Eckerd's.)
BTW, Bianca Jagger thinks US and Iran should find a way to get along?? Who cares??
Little One was invited to go to Carowinds for the day with a gf, so DH and I had the afternoon together. We drove around and looked at dining room furniture. I know this is not exciting to anyone else, but it felt good to get out of the house -- and not to my usual (school, doctor/pt, WalMart, Eckerd's.)
BTW, Bianca Jagger thinks US and Iran should find a way to get along?? Who cares??
Saturday, September 17
More Progress
DH is recovering so well from the accident that took his little finger 10 days ago. In so many short days, he has drastically increased range of movement in his remaining, injured finger; he has decreased his use of pain medication to one pill a day (typically after a lengthy exercise session with that finger); become substantially independent; and increased his own activity. He is now preparing his own soak for his finger; re-wrapping it almost all by himself; playing the banjo for (very) short periods of time; and taking the dog for a walk again.
The stitches in the tip of his ring finger are floppy and loose; we look to have them removed this week. The remaining stitches are doing well and the seepage from the wound seems to be reduced somewhat. Due, we think, to his increased activity, the swelling is 'way down. His thumb seems entirely normal.
His outlook continues to be upbeat and he is interested in doing things. We are installing the extrusion bolts in the casement windows today, soon as I finish cleaning my car. I will also sand and prime the inside of the back door in the kitchen.
We heard from the thermostat-rebuilding company yesterday. They planned to ship it out late yesterday afternoon. DH looks for it to come in on Tuesday, the 20th.
The stitches in the tip of his ring finger are floppy and loose; we look to have them removed this week. The remaining stitches are doing well and the seepage from the wound seems to be reduced somewhat. Due, we think, to his increased activity, the swelling is 'way down. His thumb seems entirely normal.
His outlook continues to be upbeat and he is interested in doing things. We are installing the extrusion bolts in the casement windows today, soon as I finish cleaning my car. I will also sand and prime the inside of the back door in the kitchen.
We heard from the thermostat-rebuilding company yesterday. They planned to ship it out late yesterday afternoon. DH looks for it to come in on Tuesday, the 20th.
Friday, September 16
First Day of PT
We went back to the Dr. today, and back to physical therapy. First visit to pt was just to assess his range of motion and build his splint. Today we got to work.
The Dr. had good things to say. The wound looks good. DH has some severe swelling in all his left hand's fingers, and the doctor said it does not appear to be due to infection -- the hand is "waking up." It's been through a lot!!
The physical therapist was much, much gentler than I had anticipated. She is really a sort of an angel -- in rather unconventional dress. She has long, wavy gray hair, and seems to like hair jewelry of one sort or another. She wore a little leash for her glasses today, around her neck, and it was composed of little different-shaped pieces of metal, each in a different color. Very vive.
She welcomed Little One and me to the table with DH. Seemed happy to have this be a family affair. She chatted with DH in a soft and soothing voice as she flexed his fingers over, and over, and still over. His range of motion has increased, incredibly, already. He can clench all his fingers, even the one with the plate inside, tightly enough so that a small ball could fit inside, smaller than a racquetball, perhaps a golf ball or a ping pong ball. This is amazing to me.
He winced and grimaced as they worked his fingers, but the change in his range of motion in only 2 days, is unbelievable. He has a long list of exercises to perform over the weekend and we go back early on Monday morning. The exercises include such things as using tweezers to pick up small objects, touching each finger to the thumb in turn, laying the hand flat on a paper towel and scrunching it up with the fingers, then, with the hand still on the table, using the fingers to smooth it back out. This one really worked DH hard. He succeeded at every turn and did not utter a word of complaint, -- although twice I did catch him making faces behind the pt's back! Before we went, I gave him a pain pill, and when we returned, we rested his hand on the ice pack.
His daily routine is almost completely independent. I did shave his face again today, but I have the feeling he could really do this himself, as well, and lets me do it to humor me. I do enjoy it. I do help him on with his socks and cut his food if needed. Everything else, he manages, and I think he'd much rather rise to a challenge than ask for help.
I finished painting the screen door yesterday, and installed it myself today. I had the bright idea of using shims underneath to keep it level while I screwed in the hinges. I was quite pleased with myself and DH patronized me just a little, but not near enough to suit my tastes. I touched up the main back door as well -- the shabby spots really showed up next to the newly painted screen door. The doorframe is all unpainted as DH rebuilt it a month ago, and the pressure-treated wood has been too green to paint yet. We are planning my doing that soon, and the back door has not been painted on the inside.
The very cool mullioned windows in the kitchen were rebuilt last week. He had just completed them when the accident happened. I had ordered the little brass "stays" to keep them shut and they arrived today. They are called extrusion latches, and you sometimes see them keeping one of two French doors stablized, at the top or bottom of the door. I believe DH is going to supervise me on installing them tomorrow.
The accident happened a week ago, today, and we have marked the day by saying, "This time last week, we were talking to the surgeon," or "This time last week, we were back in the room." The week has been quite long for me, but DH says it has flown past for him. I asked if he thought perhaps it was the Demerol?
The Dr. had good things to say. The wound looks good. DH has some severe swelling in all his left hand's fingers, and the doctor said it does not appear to be due to infection -- the hand is "waking up." It's been through a lot!!
The physical therapist was much, much gentler than I had anticipated. She is really a sort of an angel -- in rather unconventional dress. She has long, wavy gray hair, and seems to like hair jewelry of one sort or another. She wore a little leash for her glasses today, around her neck, and it was composed of little different-shaped pieces of metal, each in a different color. Very vive.
She welcomed Little One and me to the table with DH. Seemed happy to have this be a family affair. She chatted with DH in a soft and soothing voice as she flexed his fingers over, and over, and still over. His range of motion has increased, incredibly, already. He can clench all his fingers, even the one with the plate inside, tightly enough so that a small ball could fit inside, smaller than a racquetball, perhaps a golf ball or a ping pong ball. This is amazing to me.
He winced and grimaced as they worked his fingers, but the change in his range of motion in only 2 days, is unbelievable. He has a long list of exercises to perform over the weekend and we go back early on Monday morning. The exercises include such things as using tweezers to pick up small objects, touching each finger to the thumb in turn, laying the hand flat on a paper towel and scrunching it up with the fingers, then, with the hand still on the table, using the fingers to smooth it back out. This one really worked DH hard. He succeeded at every turn and did not utter a word of complaint, -- although twice I did catch him making faces behind the pt's back! Before we went, I gave him a pain pill, and when we returned, we rested his hand on the ice pack.
His daily routine is almost completely independent. I did shave his face again today, but I have the feeling he could really do this himself, as well, and lets me do it to humor me. I do enjoy it. I do help him on with his socks and cut his food if needed. Everything else, he manages, and I think he'd much rather rise to a challenge than ask for help.
I finished painting the screen door yesterday, and installed it myself today. I had the bright idea of using shims underneath to keep it level while I screwed in the hinges. I was quite pleased with myself and DH patronized me just a little, but not near enough to suit my tastes. I touched up the main back door as well -- the shabby spots really showed up next to the newly painted screen door. The doorframe is all unpainted as DH rebuilt it a month ago, and the pressure-treated wood has been too green to paint yet. We are planning my doing that soon, and the back door has not been painted on the inside.
The very cool mullioned windows in the kitchen were rebuilt last week. He had just completed them when the accident happened. I had ordered the little brass "stays" to keep them shut and they arrived today. They are called extrusion latches, and you sometimes see them keeping one of two French doors stablized, at the top or bottom of the door. I believe DH is going to supervise me on installing them tomorrow.
The accident happened a week ago, today, and we have marked the day by saying, "This time last week, we were talking to the surgeon," or "This time last week, we were back in the room." The week has been quite long for me, but DH says it has flown past for him. I asked if he thought perhaps it was the Demerol?
Wednesday, September 14
Progress
Last night I had originally intended to write about DH's progress minus one finger. I got diverted, however, by the presence of the grey cat on the keyboard. Ah, a new dawn rises, said cat is hidden in a closet or under a bed, and the keyboard awaits.
First of all, his sense of humor is alive and well. He roared at our neighbor's suggestion that he is now qualified to teach shop class at the local high school.
He seems to be comfortable at all times. Although he is still taking two to three pain pills a day, (not together,) he takes them when he begins to feel some discomfort and the pills manage that discomfort for him. So far, he spends most of the day stretched out with his hand elevated, watching TV.
He is a great sport at having one hand bound up. Our first day back home, I bathed him in the tub, washed his hair, and shaved him. The second day, I helped him prepare for his own shower -- helped him undress, wrapped his hand in a plastic bag. The third day, I returned home from driving Little One to school, to find him clean, shaven, and bright-eyed with the prospect of surprising me.
We went to the Dr. on Monday and physical therapy yesterday. At the Dr. he was curious and optimistic. When they told us they expect near-100% recovery on the finger with the plate, he was ecstatic.
Our physical therapist is quite the character. Broad Queens accent -- and a bluntness that is quite a shock down here in the South. At one point she stepped away, and DH began to assert that he will drive himself to PT next week. I solicited her help in convincing him this is NOT a good idea. "What the hell are you thinking?" she bellowed. "Thank you," I replied. She is matter-of-fact and seems to have seen it all. Although she wasn't quite as gentle with his hand as I would have wished, I believe she will be very good for him.
So far, the only challenge I see is his restlessness with being stuck at home with nothing to do. In the past, home has been a place for him to continually create -- whether it was remodeling the kitchen or making music. All that is on hold for now -- not forever -- but for now -- and being idle is just not his cup of tea.
Yesterday he finally felt good enough to go with me to walk the dog, and we plan to go down the street this week to sit with an elderly neighbor whose wife is in a near-coma state. The neighbor sits on his porch and welcomes any company who might come by. Visiting with him will be a good opp for us to do some good with the idle time.
Meanwhile, my neighborhood work is on hold for a week or two. It can wait.
I have received permission from my editor to proceed with an article I have eagerly sought: riding the garbage truck!! I called the manager of sanitation yesterday and he is optimistic. He will clear it with the Director of Public Works and I am to call back on Tuesday, 20th, to set it up. His exact words were, "In my opinion, you can write it best if we let you actually work as if you were a City employee for the day." He will also set up a meeting for me with the workers inside, around a table, to get their personal stories. More about that later.
First of all, his sense of humor is alive and well. He roared at our neighbor's suggestion that he is now qualified to teach shop class at the local high school.
He seems to be comfortable at all times. Although he is still taking two to three pain pills a day, (not together,) he takes them when he begins to feel some discomfort and the pills manage that discomfort for him. So far, he spends most of the day stretched out with his hand elevated, watching TV.
He is a great sport at having one hand bound up. Our first day back home, I bathed him in the tub, washed his hair, and shaved him. The second day, I helped him prepare for his own shower -- helped him undress, wrapped his hand in a plastic bag. The third day, I returned home from driving Little One to school, to find him clean, shaven, and bright-eyed with the prospect of surprising me.
We went to the Dr. on Monday and physical therapy yesterday. At the Dr. he was curious and optimistic. When they told us they expect near-100% recovery on the finger with the plate, he was ecstatic.
Our physical therapist is quite the character. Broad Queens accent -- and a bluntness that is quite a shock down here in the South. At one point she stepped away, and DH began to assert that he will drive himself to PT next week. I solicited her help in convincing him this is NOT a good idea. "What the hell are you thinking?" she bellowed. "Thank you," I replied. She is matter-of-fact and seems to have seen it all. Although she wasn't quite as gentle with his hand as I would have wished, I believe she will be very good for him.
So far, the only challenge I see is his restlessness with being stuck at home with nothing to do. In the past, home has been a place for him to continually create -- whether it was remodeling the kitchen or making music. All that is on hold for now -- not forever -- but for now -- and being idle is just not his cup of tea.
Yesterday he finally felt good enough to go with me to walk the dog, and we plan to go down the street this week to sit with an elderly neighbor whose wife is in a near-coma state. The neighbor sits on his porch and welcomes any company who might come by. Visiting with him will be a good opp for us to do some good with the idle time.
Meanwhile, my neighborhood work is on hold for a week or two. It can wait.
I have received permission from my editor to proceed with an article I have eagerly sought: riding the garbage truck!! I called the manager of sanitation yesterday and he is optimistic. He will clear it with the Director of Public Works and I am to call back on Tuesday, 20th, to set it up. His exact words were, "In my opinion, you can write it best if we let you actually work as if you were a City employee for the day." He will also set up a meeting for me with the workers inside, around a table, to get their personal stories. More about that later.
To Francie
As I settled into the chair to update the blog, I had to move our elderly cat, Francis. We believe Francis is about 18 years old. She has taken to sitting on the keyboard late at night -- I am not sure just why. It is my habit to go online late at night, and she is likely looking for some petting. Yet there she remains, on the keyboard, 'til early in the morning. As the keyboard emits no heat, I doubt that she is looking for a warm place to roost. The place she has forsaken in its place -- our bed -- is much warmer. Sometimes when I come back to the pc due to insomnia, say, about 3am, there she is -- hunkered down on the keyboard with all sorts of colorful windows displayed behind her, the result of this or that paw pressing on the various keys. Some nights, I remove the keyboard and stand it vertically on the floor. Other nights, I think, "Why not?" and leave it there to afford her one of the few pleasures she can still enjoy.
DS who is in Iraq (still!) brought her home in the jacket of his little glen plaid suit the year he was in 7th grade. He had visited church with his friend from school, and there was a litter of kittens at the church. It was a cold, gray, rainy Virginia day, raw as could be. As I opened the door to let him in, I exclaimed, "I didn't say you could have a cat!" Returning my glare, he said evenly, "You didn't say I couldn't." She had pneumonia, and could not eat. She was so tiny, and her eyes were still shut. We put her in a shoebox with his T-shirt and suspended a light bulb over it. We fed her baby formula from an eye dropper.
When her eyes opened, they were opaque white, like the Grandfather on the old Kung-fu TV show. Over the ensuing months, our patient vet tried mercuric oxide ointment, mercury drops, silver drops, steroids, sulfur drops, and antibiotics. Finally, her eyes cleared so that the sclera, the usually-clear coating over the eyeball, was a translucent greyish color. Her irises twitch and jiggle behind it, we guess in an eternal struggle to focus -- and yet, on a summer's afternoon, she can sit motionless on the bed and pinpoint a fly as he zooms around the room. She used to sit by the hour and watch the ceiling fan in its slow rotation, her head swiveling in imitation of its course.
When DS was about 14 or so, we were seated in our then-stylish Pit-type sofa, watching yet another episode of PeeWee Herman. Francis (or Francie, as we now call her,) walked tightrope-style along the backs of the adjoining couches. She approached the brass chain of a reading lamp that hung over the couch. Reached up with her paw and pulled the chain! ON came the light.
"Turn it off," DS and I said together. Looking at us in the eye, she reached up and pulled it once more. The light turned off.
DS and I stared at each other in perfect silence.
Now DS has three children of his own and is out of the country protecting us all. He'll be 30 years old next year. Francie, with all her idiosyncrosies, lives on. She eats well every day, weighs about 4.25 pounds. Eschews the company of our other cat as well as that of the dog. (Other cat weighs in at a whopping 14 pounds, dog at 8.5.)
"You know," I will sigh to DH, "Francie can't live forever. It's time for me to brace myself for her to go on."
"You've been saying that for ten years," DH laughs. "Keep bracing."
DS who is in Iraq (still!) brought her home in the jacket of his little glen plaid suit the year he was in 7th grade. He had visited church with his friend from school, and there was a litter of kittens at the church. It was a cold, gray, rainy Virginia day, raw as could be. As I opened the door to let him in, I exclaimed, "I didn't say you could have a cat!" Returning my glare, he said evenly, "You didn't say I couldn't." She had pneumonia, and could not eat. She was so tiny, and her eyes were still shut. We put her in a shoebox with his T-shirt and suspended a light bulb over it. We fed her baby formula from an eye dropper.
When her eyes opened, they were opaque white, like the Grandfather on the old Kung-fu TV show. Over the ensuing months, our patient vet tried mercuric oxide ointment, mercury drops, silver drops, steroids, sulfur drops, and antibiotics. Finally, her eyes cleared so that the sclera, the usually-clear coating over the eyeball, was a translucent greyish color. Her irises twitch and jiggle behind it, we guess in an eternal struggle to focus -- and yet, on a summer's afternoon, she can sit motionless on the bed and pinpoint a fly as he zooms around the room. She used to sit by the hour and watch the ceiling fan in its slow rotation, her head swiveling in imitation of its course.
When DS was about 14 or so, we were seated in our then-stylish Pit-type sofa, watching yet another episode of PeeWee Herman. Francis (or Francie, as we now call her,) walked tightrope-style along the backs of the adjoining couches. She approached the brass chain of a reading lamp that hung over the couch. Reached up with her paw and pulled the chain! ON came the light.
"Turn it off," DS and I said together. Looking at us in the eye, she reached up and pulled it once more. The light turned off.
DS and I stared at each other in perfect silence.
Now DS has three children of his own and is out of the country protecting us all. He'll be 30 years old next year. Francie, with all her idiosyncrosies, lives on. She eats well every day, weighs about 4.25 pounds. Eschews the company of our other cat as well as that of the dog. (Other cat weighs in at a whopping 14 pounds, dog at 8.5.)
"You know," I will sigh to DH, "Francie can't live forever. It's time for me to brace myself for her to go on."
"You've been saying that for ten years," DH laughs. "Keep bracing."
Monday, September 12
Life Goes On.....
Today was going-back-to-the-Dr Day. We were anxious on several fronts: I was concerned for DH to see the un-finger. It's one thing to know intellectually that it's gone. It's another to see the hand you have known all your life, differently. He was anxious to get a good report on flexibility for the other injured finger. We were both anxious that the wounds, which have been closed up for four days now, would be healthy.
We got good reports on all fronts. DH knew what to expect with the un-finger, and was not too surprised to see it. We were a little shocked that even the lowest joint of that finger is gone. He took it right in stride. "Now I can reach my hand more easily into guitars for repair," was his only comment.
The flexibility issue was answered by the doctor himself. "I expect near 100% recovery with that finger." The attending PA showed us the x-ray online. He zoomed in to show us the plate. It spans the 1" or so from the base of the finger up to the mid-finger joint. All joints are un-impeded.
I was concerned for the health of the wounds when we had to soak the hand to remove the dressing. Did not want to rrrr-ip it off. Youch. Once the wounds were visible, the doctor had this to say: "I know it looks terrible to you, but it's beautiful to me."
DH only had 3 pain pills yesterday. Today, he went through quite a bit of movement with the examination and all, and had 4. Still, only 4. He made it through the night last night. I awoke him several times and he declared it had no pain -- and he made it from 9:30 pm to 9:00 am.
So we see progress on all accounts. Tomorrow we go to physical therapy at 8am. The doctor told us to expect "no picnic." Then we have to start to soak the wounds 4 times a day. Sooo glad I don't work away from home any more.
Will write more after PT tomorrow.
Sunday, September 11
Delayed Return
My DS who is in Iraq (thanks, W) called this afternoon for 2 big reasons. First of all, he wanted to welcome DH into the I-cut-off-my-pinkie-with-a-power-tool club. The two of them commiserated for a few minutes.
Finally, he got to his real news. He found out, today, 1 day before departure, that he is not to go home yet. The guy who let him know, has known for a month.
DS was pretty upset -- but, typically enough -- his pain was for his wife & kids. "Couldn't they have let me know before we got the chain down to 3 links??" he called out. Sorry, DS, nobody's listening. The Repubs are in charge. W has a point to prove. Myself, I don't get the point, but then, I'm a Leftie.
If only he can stay in the good Lord's bubble of safety til returning home, I can wait.
Finally, he got to his real news. He found out, today, 1 day before departure, that he is not to go home yet. The guy who let him know, has known for a month.
DS was pretty upset -- but, typically enough -- his pain was for his wife & kids. "Couldn't they have let me know before we got the chain down to 3 links??" he called out. Sorry, DS, nobody's listening. The Repubs are in charge. W has a point to prove. Myself, I don't get the point, but then, I'm a Leftie.
If only he can stay in the good Lord's bubble of safety til returning home, I can wait.
Saturday, September 10
The Accident
Those of you who know us personally will remember that DH is a talented musician. I don't believe I've mentioned it here. Guitar, banjo, a little violin, harmonica, even piano when he feels like it. He was just born with music inside him, and when it comes out, he is most at peace with himself.
I remember many nights when Little One couldn't sleep, he grabbed his guitar, sat beside her bed, and played until she fell asleep. Lullabyes, classical, Beatles, anything soft and soothing.
Many winter nights as I washed dishes and she finished up her homework, he strapped the guitar around his neck and strolled around the house, playing for hours.
He never seems to tire of it.
Those of you who read this blog, but don't know us personally, will remember that he is a talented carpenter. While it doesn't take a lot of skill to knock down walls (having done it myself), it does take some to put them back up correctly, to re-engineer floor joists, ceiling beams, install crown molding, dismantle and rebuild old doors, take out the doorframes and put in all new wood -- you get the idea.
Well, musician and carpenter -- they are an ironic mix. A carpenter always has safety concerns in order to keep all his fingers intact. A musician needs those fingers.
You got it.
On Thursday afternoon, I presented our Centennial Park plans to the Advisory Board for City Parks. They asked questions and we answered. Finally, they voted with a resounding "Yes," in support of the park. Next step is presenting to City Council on the 20th. I arrived home at about 2:45. DH and NDN were in the garage door looking at something when I pulled in. Shared our good news with them and went upstairs to change clothes. I've been painting our screen door and it just needed one more coat before hanging it back up.
I was in the bedroom talking with Little One about her day and changing clothes at the same time. Suddenly, DH and NDN were shouting in the basement. Loudly running up basement stairs. I ran out in panties, socks and shirt. DH was holding a very bloody hand upright with the other. "OH GOD," he said, "We've got to go. I've cut my hand." NDN was right behind him. "I'll take him," he yelled.
I was trying to pull on my pants. "I'll take him -- you take Little One home with you." Grabbed my phone and keys and ran with DH out the kitchen door and down the stairs, pulling on my pants as I went.
The drive to the hospital took no more than five minutes, but in our memory, it took forever. Turning on my emergency flashers, I went as fast as I felt I could safely go. Hit every damned red light on the way. Finally, we began to hit some red lights that we could safely run. I lightly tapped my horn as I did so.
During all this, I prayed out loud. "Dear Lord," I began, "Thank you for this husband of mine. Please, Lord, protect him. Save him from losing too much blood. Please don't let him go into shock. Please have people ready who can take care of him. Thank you, Lord, for this man. Please save him for me. Thank you, God, Thank you, God, that you have promised you will answer our prayers." I was literally yelling at God -- the rush of adrenalin was so strong I couldn't recognize my own voice.
Having prayed first, I grabbed my cell phone and called 4-1-1. Luckily, I did not get the automated attendant recording that asks for the city of your request -- I got a live person. "Connect me directly to the Emergency Room at ** ** Medical Center!" I said, "Please don't say all the crap you're supposed to say -- just connect me!!" She complied and I was put straight through to the Emergency Room. "I am 3 minutes away from the hospital," I shouted at her. "My husband has severed at least one finger. Please have a triage team ready." She said one word, "OKAY!" and hung up on me.
During this conversation, DH inspected his fingers. Both his ring finger and pinkie were laying, bloody and limp, in the palm of his hand, pinkie on top. His pinkie looked like raw beef -- I couldn't see any skin anwhere. He calmly picked up what was left of his pinkie, lifted his ring finger to the upright position, and placed the remains of his pinkie back in his palm.
"Remember to breathe, Honey," I said. "Remember to breathe." He began deep breathing and said, "Honey, I'm going into another zone. I'm okay." He continued to breathe deeply and placed himself into a state of calm.
I pulled up to the ER door and the attendant took DH in a wheelchair and I left to park the car. Running across the street in my sock feet, I missed my shoes, but thought how glad I was that I got my pants on!
By the time I got inside, the team was busy cutting off DH's wedding band. It seems it had saved his finger. A Patient Advocate was there immediately to help me with anything I wanted. I asked her to contact one of our pastors.
The pastor was there in less than five minutes. He was incredible support to me, emotionally and physically. On occasion I would appear overcome and he would lean me against him. He prayed with us. He stayed with me through the whole ordeal -- which in the end was about 4 and 1/2 hours.
NDN arrived, bringing my shoes. Thank you. He was overcome with guilt, as DH was cutting a board for him when all this occurred. NDN was so fearful that DH would "hate him." Trying to convince him that we value his friendship and hate is just out of the question, was futile. He was overwhelmed with grief. Cried. I was unable to console him.
We were in the ER about 2 hours. In that time, they removed his ring (took 'way too long, hurt him 'way too much, and was the only thing my dear brave husband had to cry over), cleaned up the wounds, examined them, took the explanation of what happened, and x-rayed him. Once the x-rays were done the orthopedic "hand man" was called and he assessed the x-rays. He arrived at the same time the anesthesiologist came.
The surgeon explained that he was going to take the pinkie off. There was just not enough left to reconstruct well, he explained, and rather than have a stiff and useless finger there, it would be easier for DH to adapt if it were just gone.
The ring finger, though sliced up, was saved by his wedding band. The knuckle attaching that finger to the hand was crushed, though, and he would have to gather the bone fragments with a plate at the base of the finger.
The anesthesiologist explained he would not be using total anesthesia on DH, that instead, he would administer a "nerve block" in DH's shoulder that would totally deaden his arm and hand. This would not only prevent any feeling for DH, but would keep the hand totally still for the surgeon to perform his work. DH wanted to be involved in these decisions, having had a lot of choices removed from his control, and asked lots of questions about the block. "Please just say ok," I thought, "Please just go on and get to the operating room." Finally, he agreed to it.
DH signed the permission forms and they were off. Pastor and I headed to the "Surgical Family Support Center," where an older lady in a pink smock waited for us. Despite the hour, she remained there until everything was over. Surgery started about 5:30 and at 7:20, the surgeon came in to tell us everything was okay. He described the miniscule plate he applied at the base of the ring finger. The screws for this plate measure in at 1mm. He described the importance for DH to gently move that finger, which was bandaged to the tall finger for support, so that the damaged finger would not "bind up." He advised me to call for a Monday appointment for followup.
We are at home, now, and it's Saturday morning. We spent Thursday night at the hospital, where they administered huge doses of antibiotic, assuming the table saw was not sterile. (Good assumption.)
Yesterday is a blur of coming home, receiving guests, answering the phone, going out for prescription medication, trying to straighten up the house, helping dear one-handed husband (the other hand being all bandaged up and we don't want to bump it!).
It seems if we let that pain medication lapse at all, he will experience terrible pain. Fortunately, we learned that at the hospital when the nurses were slow in responding, so I have been aware of staying right on the clock with meds.
His pattern seems to be: several hours of good, positive, thoughts, followed by a flashback and remorse over having been careless. The good news is that he is communicating these feelings rather than internalizing them. By now, the periods of self-blame are becoming further and further apart.
For now, he is accepting my help very well, and the macho beast hasn't reared its head.
A few people have mentioned his guitar. It's the hardest thing for me to deal with, probably because I am afraid it will be so hard on him.
Everyone, universally, seems to need to tell us about everyone they know who has ever lost a digit. For some reason, it really tries my patience. I don't care about Uncle Homer's lost finger. We are in the middle of this and hearing about someone I don't know, doesn't help right now. Although I was able to be patient through the first re-telling of someone's relative who lost fingers, by now I have heard 10 or 15 similar stories and they wear thin. If you are reading this, please make a mental note: "Don't tell people of similar tragedies. It doesn't help."
The good news is: this man is incredibly strong. He knows the power of positive thinking. He has overcome all kinds of adversity in his life, and I know he will rise from this, too. In our short time together, (recently celebrated our 10th anniversary), we have experienced good things from each and every bad thing that has happened. This will hold true here, too.
Well, DH has waked up and is trying to make his own coffee. I should have made it earlier. Gotta dash--
I remember many nights when Little One couldn't sleep, he grabbed his guitar, sat beside her bed, and played until she fell asleep. Lullabyes, classical, Beatles, anything soft and soothing.
Many winter nights as I washed dishes and she finished up her homework, he strapped the guitar around his neck and strolled around the house, playing for hours.
He never seems to tire of it.
Those of you who read this blog, but don't know us personally, will remember that he is a talented carpenter. While it doesn't take a lot of skill to knock down walls (having done it myself), it does take some to put them back up correctly, to re-engineer floor joists, ceiling beams, install crown molding, dismantle and rebuild old doors, take out the doorframes and put in all new wood -- you get the idea.
Well, musician and carpenter -- they are an ironic mix. A carpenter always has safety concerns in order to keep all his fingers intact. A musician needs those fingers.
You got it.
On Thursday afternoon, I presented our Centennial Park plans to the Advisory Board for City Parks. They asked questions and we answered. Finally, they voted with a resounding "Yes," in support of the park. Next step is presenting to City Council on the 20th. I arrived home at about 2:45. DH and NDN were in the garage door looking at something when I pulled in. Shared our good news with them and went upstairs to change clothes. I've been painting our screen door and it just needed one more coat before hanging it back up.
I was in the bedroom talking with Little One about her day and changing clothes at the same time. Suddenly, DH and NDN were shouting in the basement. Loudly running up basement stairs. I ran out in panties, socks and shirt. DH was holding a very bloody hand upright with the other. "OH GOD," he said, "We've got to go. I've cut my hand." NDN was right behind him. "I'll take him," he yelled.
I was trying to pull on my pants. "I'll take him -- you take Little One home with you." Grabbed my phone and keys and ran with DH out the kitchen door and down the stairs, pulling on my pants as I went.
The drive to the hospital took no more than five minutes, but in our memory, it took forever. Turning on my emergency flashers, I went as fast as I felt I could safely go. Hit every damned red light on the way. Finally, we began to hit some red lights that we could safely run. I lightly tapped my horn as I did so.
During all this, I prayed out loud. "Dear Lord," I began, "Thank you for this husband of mine. Please, Lord, protect him. Save him from losing too much blood. Please don't let him go into shock. Please have people ready who can take care of him. Thank you, Lord, for this man. Please save him for me. Thank you, God, Thank you, God, that you have promised you will answer our prayers." I was literally yelling at God -- the rush of adrenalin was so strong I couldn't recognize my own voice.
Having prayed first, I grabbed my cell phone and called 4-1-1. Luckily, I did not get the automated attendant recording that asks for the city of your request -- I got a live person. "Connect me directly to the Emergency Room at ** ** Medical Center!" I said, "Please don't say all the crap you're supposed to say -- just connect me!!" She complied and I was put straight through to the Emergency Room. "I am 3 minutes away from the hospital," I shouted at her. "My husband has severed at least one finger. Please have a triage team ready." She said one word, "OKAY!" and hung up on me.
During this conversation, DH inspected his fingers. Both his ring finger and pinkie were laying, bloody and limp, in the palm of his hand, pinkie on top. His pinkie looked like raw beef -- I couldn't see any skin anwhere. He calmly picked up what was left of his pinkie, lifted his ring finger to the upright position, and placed the remains of his pinkie back in his palm.
"Remember to breathe, Honey," I said. "Remember to breathe." He began deep breathing and said, "Honey, I'm going into another zone. I'm okay." He continued to breathe deeply and placed himself into a state of calm.
I pulled up to the ER door and the attendant took DH in a wheelchair and I left to park the car. Running across the street in my sock feet, I missed my shoes, but thought how glad I was that I got my pants on!
By the time I got inside, the team was busy cutting off DH's wedding band. It seems it had saved his finger. A Patient Advocate was there immediately to help me with anything I wanted. I asked her to contact one of our pastors.
The pastor was there in less than five minutes. He was incredible support to me, emotionally and physically. On occasion I would appear overcome and he would lean me against him. He prayed with us. He stayed with me through the whole ordeal -- which in the end was about 4 and 1/2 hours.
NDN arrived, bringing my shoes. Thank you. He was overcome with guilt, as DH was cutting a board for him when all this occurred. NDN was so fearful that DH would "hate him." Trying to convince him that we value his friendship and hate is just out of the question, was futile. He was overwhelmed with grief. Cried. I was unable to console him.
We were in the ER about 2 hours. In that time, they removed his ring (took 'way too long, hurt him 'way too much, and was the only thing my dear brave husband had to cry over), cleaned up the wounds, examined them, took the explanation of what happened, and x-rayed him. Once the x-rays were done the orthopedic "hand man" was called and he assessed the x-rays. He arrived at the same time the anesthesiologist came.
The surgeon explained that he was going to take the pinkie off. There was just not enough left to reconstruct well, he explained, and rather than have a stiff and useless finger there, it would be easier for DH to adapt if it were just gone.
The ring finger, though sliced up, was saved by his wedding band. The knuckle attaching that finger to the hand was crushed, though, and he would have to gather the bone fragments with a plate at the base of the finger.
The anesthesiologist explained he would not be using total anesthesia on DH, that instead, he would administer a "nerve block" in DH's shoulder that would totally deaden his arm and hand. This would not only prevent any feeling for DH, but would keep the hand totally still for the surgeon to perform his work. DH wanted to be involved in these decisions, having had a lot of choices removed from his control, and asked lots of questions about the block. "Please just say ok," I thought, "Please just go on and get to the operating room." Finally, he agreed to it.
DH signed the permission forms and they were off. Pastor and I headed to the "Surgical Family Support Center," where an older lady in a pink smock waited for us. Despite the hour, she remained there until everything was over. Surgery started about 5:30 and at 7:20, the surgeon came in to tell us everything was okay. He described the miniscule plate he applied at the base of the ring finger. The screws for this plate measure in at 1mm. He described the importance for DH to gently move that finger, which was bandaged to the tall finger for support, so that the damaged finger would not "bind up." He advised me to call for a Monday appointment for followup.
We are at home, now, and it's Saturday morning. We spent Thursday night at the hospital, where they administered huge doses of antibiotic, assuming the table saw was not sterile. (Good assumption.)
Yesterday is a blur of coming home, receiving guests, answering the phone, going out for prescription medication, trying to straighten up the house, helping dear one-handed husband (the other hand being all bandaged up and we don't want to bump it!).
It seems if we let that pain medication lapse at all, he will experience terrible pain. Fortunately, we learned that at the hospital when the nurses were slow in responding, so I have been aware of staying right on the clock with meds.
His pattern seems to be: several hours of good, positive, thoughts, followed by a flashback and remorse over having been careless. The good news is that he is communicating these feelings rather than internalizing them. By now, the periods of self-blame are becoming further and further apart.
For now, he is accepting my help very well, and the macho beast hasn't reared its head.
A few people have mentioned his guitar. It's the hardest thing for me to deal with, probably because I am afraid it will be so hard on him.
Everyone, universally, seems to need to tell us about everyone they know who has ever lost a digit. For some reason, it really tries my patience. I don't care about Uncle Homer's lost finger. We are in the middle of this and hearing about someone I don't know, doesn't help right now. Although I was able to be patient through the first re-telling of someone's relative who lost fingers, by now I have heard 10 or 15 similar stories and they wear thin. If you are reading this, please make a mental note: "Don't tell people of similar tragedies. It doesn't help."
The good news is: this man is incredibly strong. He knows the power of positive thinking. He has overcome all kinds of adversity in his life, and I know he will rise from this, too. In our short time together, (recently celebrated our 10th anniversary), we have experienced good things from each and every bad thing that has happened. This will hold true here, too.
Well, DH has waked up and is trying to make his own coffee. I should have made it earlier. Gotta dash--
Tuesday, September 6
Random Situations
Really, how many people get a greeting card from the grandfather of the guy you bought a stove from? Not too many, I'd hazard a guess. We have the most extraordinary experiences. Like the UPS guy in the elevator at Carnegie Hall, who asked us if we were talking to each other telepathically?? (We were. He shocked us as much, by knowing about it, as we shocked him, by being able to do it!) ...But that's another story.
So, today we got a greeting card from Salvador Molinar. The man whose wife is the namesake of our stove, or the other way 'round, I never can get that one straight.
I hope all is well when you receive this card. Am just fine myself, thanks be to God.
My children and I want to thank you very much for buying our faithful old stove. We were satisfied with it. My dear wife, Rachel, bought it from our insurance agent.
One of my nieces wanted it but Gabriel, my grandson, chose to bring it to Houston. Again, thank you and may your stove give you good service.
Sincerely,
Salvador Molinar
ps. Rachel was born on May 1, 1924 and passed away on May 7, 1987. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Clearly, we will save this card.
So, today we got a greeting card from Salvador Molinar. The man whose wife is the namesake of our stove, or the other way 'round, I never can get that one straight.
Houston, Texas
August 31, 2005
Dear Jody & Maggie,I hope all is well when you receive this card. Am just fine myself, thanks be to God.
My children and I want to thank you very much for buying our faithful old stove. We were satisfied with it. My dear wife, Rachel, bought it from our insurance agent.
One of my nieces wanted it but Gabriel, my grandson, chose to bring it to Houston. Again, thank you and may your stove give you good service.
Sincerely,
Salvador Molinar
ps. Rachel was born on May 1, 1924 and passed away on May 7, 1987. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Clearly, we will save this card.
Sunday, September 4
I Can't Say it Better Myself
Hate to be a big lam-o copycat, but this woman said WHAT I would say, if I COULD say it as well as she. To save myself the embarrassment of trying, I'll just send you to her eloquent viewpoint:
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/03/opinion/03dowd.html?n=Top%2fOpinion%2fEditorials%20and%20Op%2dEd%2fOp%2dEd%2fColumnists
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/03/opinion/03dowd.html?n=Top%2fOpinion%2fEditorials%20and%20Op%2dEd%2fOp%2dEd%2fColumnists
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