My near-fatal finger splinter

(743 words)

I gave a doctor the finger and Obamacare paid for it!

I had a life-threatening splinter deep in my right hand’s middle finger; the Digitus Me’dius, to you fans of old Roadrunner cartoons.

I wish I could contend it was a steel splinter from an ax-wielding mishap or a fragment from a bullet I tried to catch between my fingers.

But, no, the wound was wicker in origin.

Yes, the fabled fabric of the pharaohs. Wicker has been found in the pyramids and throughout the palaces of European royalty.

I had some under my ass when I was sitting at our kitchen table — and let’s thank God for a moment I was wearing pants or this story would be on a more adult and graphic veer.

I reached down to adjust my position and felt a sharp stab on the palm side of the upper knuckle in the finger angry motorists rely on to articulate road rage is about to bloom.

It was so small I couldn’t see it without a squint. I went to look for some tweezers, but couldn't find any.

Looking back, I should have just gone for the hatchet. Just lopping the damn finger off at the knuckle would have really bolstered my manly bona fides.

But the stub would have been unsatisfactory.

You don’t want a short middle finger. You want a long one. Like “E.T.” long. When you give someone THE finger you want emphasis.

I mistakenly thought it would work itself out. A week later I tried to dig it out with a sterilized needle. That hurt.

The operation left me so woozy I decided I couldn’t type any more that day and went downstairs to the Tin Lizzy and proceeded to get woozy in a more agreeable fashion.

And the tiny wicker splinter continued to fester, throb and ugly up. It was soon looking like the skies do when you see tornado-ripe storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Clearly, I should have gone to the doctor right away, but despite the pain, I was really enjoying myself.

When people would casually ask, “Hey, how you doing?” I’d without explanation raise my middle finger.

I did this with friends, waitresses, mechanics, librarians and most memorably with little Lucy’s Sunday school teacher.

Giving someone — anyone — the bird is always a very liberating feeling. 

People these days are on such hair-trigger alert, I felt like I was conducting some sort of civics lesson.

It was like me saying, “Things aren’t always what they seem. You initially thought I was expressing malignant hostility. Instead I’m conveying a pain I’m feeling of which you are unaware. Many of us are hurting in ways that are sometimes unseen. Let this be a lesson in how you and I go forward in our dealings with our fellow man.”

Ideally, that would have been the reaction, but most people seemed to think I was just being an asshole, especially Lucy’s Sunday school teacher.

So I headed to the Med Express where I was pleased to learn I was out-patient of the day.

Everyone loved me!

First of all, I had an interesting wound. It was by then all swollen and pussie so they were really happy to see me.

Second, I asked them lots of questions about their typical hypochondriac patients and my questions gave them a chance to unload on all the people who mistakenly believe they’ll live forever if they see the doctor every time they come down with a case of the hiccups.

Third, I led them to believe I was one tough son of a bitch.

Splinter? I wasn't going to let that slow me. The only reason I’m here is because all the other kids on the school bus would faint whenever I waved bye-byes to my daughters.

I kept up the tough guy pose right up until I began begging the nurse to bring me a juice box so I wouldn’t pass out.

I’m not kidding. The doc really did a number on my finger. He gouged a hole so big I actually wound up needing stitches.

For a splinter!

I’m stabilized now, thank you, and am due to return next week for stitch removal.

I just thought you’d like to know what’s been going on if you see me over the next week and I for one reason or another give you the finger.

Or what’s left of it.

Related . . .

Bird watching in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

The story of my webbed toes and other human deformities

I am becoming left-handed

A profane discourse on barbers and bartenders

In praise of profanity

Bird watching in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood

Those of us who raise our children in small towns feel superior to the uncouth louts raising theirs in big, rude cities.

This is particularly acute with me because we live in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

It’s true. My mailing address is Latrobe, Pennsylvania, but in fact we live in tiny Youngstown, pop. 981, birthplace of both Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers, two international icons renown for sportsmanship, kindness and proper manners.

I understand it’s unbecoming of the legends, but the association makes me feel snobby.

But along with that social cache comes responsibility. We residents need to live up to these stellar examples. Thus our sons and daughters will be polite, mannerly and kind to strangers -- at least until they’re 16 and start driving in traffic when all bets are off.

That’s why this was such a disturbing weekend. Our youngest -- she’ll be 6 in June -- expressed a cheerful eagerness to give the finger to a neighbor with whom my wife had a nasty public parking dispute.

It happened four doors from the town stop light where someone subversive has altered the pedestrian crossing sign so “don’t walk” appears to be permanently giving everyone the finger.

Yes, birds are flying all over Youngstown.

All this takes place days after I coined a new parenting guideline that came to me when my wound-up daughters were hoochie-cootchie dancing around the living room.

“Girls! Girls!” I beseeched. “How about a little more class and a little less ass!”

As child-raising homilies go, “More class, less ass” isn’t exactly the kind you’d hear Mr. Rogers share, but it rhymes so I find it irresistible.

The parking incident took place on Thursday at the school bus stop. My wife parked along Main Street in a perfectly legal manner. No paint. No signs. No meters.

The girls got off the bus and dashed into our arms. It was a scene of wholesomeness worthy of “The Waltons.” That’s why it was so jarring when the elderly lady came out on her porch and began screaming at Val.

“You can’t park there! You think you can park anywhere you want? I oughta call the cops!”

The girls were alive with interest. They’d never seen anyone shout at Mommy before.

Val responded admirably by pointing out we were only there five minutes and there was no need to be so mean.

I remained quietly alert. I noted the woman’s roof had a satellite dish, which meant she had access to cable news programs. I sensed by her irrational hostility to gentle things like Val she was a Fox News viewer.

That meant she was well-versed in the “Stand Your Ground” laws and would have felt well within her rights to gun Val down in front of her family two days before Mother’s Day.

I began searching the driveway for heavy rocks to chuck in case she drew her Glock.

Val wisely de-escalated, said she was sorry for ruining her day, and we left.

As this is a small town, Val realized on Sunday from her prominent seat at the church organist bench that the crazy woman is a fellow Lutheran who sits about 15 pews from the pulpit.

What we small towners gain in quaint, we sacrifice in anonymity.

The incident occurred during an interesting time in the lives of our daughters. 

The 11 year old, the one who’d never dream of helping her little sister learn things like basic arithmetic, is an avid educator when it comes to teaching swear words and gestures she’s learned during 5th grade recess.

Just last week she taught her how to flip the bird and told her do so whenever anyone makes her angry. I expect I’ll see it tonight when I tell her having a third Oreo might diminish her appetite.

What’s odd is how something that comes so naturally to any adult with a driver’s license is actually a motor skill that requires childish practice.

She intently holds her little right hand up and with her left hand gently pushes the middle finger out. If you saw it from a distance, you might think she’s cradling, not flipping, a different kind of baby bird.

I don’t know who’s strategically applying electrical tape to the cross walk sign, but it’s becoming a local tourist attraction. People gather on the side walk to point and laugh.

You could argue it’s not very classy, but I prefer to think of it as a harbinger of cultural migration.

The big city birds have winged their way clear to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.