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??
Sunday, September 18
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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