You would think that after cutting off the end of my finger, my story would come to an end. But it didn't!
During the last few weeks I have been reminiscing about my lifelong bumps, bruises, cuts and scars I have received. Last week I shared the gruesome story about the loss of the end of my finger to a boat lift.
My son and I were visiting Uncle Ed and Aunt Brenda for a weekend of fishing at Cedar Creek Lake in East Texas. We were several hours from home and in a place we had never stayed. It was at this location that a part of me will always remain. (Literally, not figuratively)
When the accident occurred, people around me jumped into action. A good group of people always hang around marinas and these folks really came to my rescue. I was seated in a chair near a picnic table and the remainder of my finger was placed in a bag of ice. We began our trip to Athens in an ambulance, with my son at my side and Uncle Ed following behind.
As I arrived at the hospital, the doctor began the process of numbing my finger and I must say the shot process was more painful than the actual accident. Once numbed and bandaged up I was released from the hospital with a prescription for pain pills.
"How long do I have before the numbness wears off Doc", I asked.
"About four to six hours," was his answer – and with that my son and I climbed into Uncle Ed's truck for a ride back to the lake.
As we drove down the road, I began to contemplate my situation. I am a man who enjoys the comfort of my own possessions. My own bed with my own sheets, my own pillow and my own shower. I guess you get my drift, but I knew that the pain would be hitting me in several hours and if I did not get home right away, I could be holed up in a fishing camp, sleeping in a travel trailer for two or three days.
I knew I would not want to make the trip home once the numbness wore off. Yes, I knew I had a pain prescription to take, but since my mind was clear and with no medicine in my system other than the multiple numbing shots in my finger, I made a firm decision to head home. I asked my son to go with me, as he gave me comfort knowing he could at least make a phone call if needed.
With my hand bandaged up, completely numb and a cell phone in hand, off we traveled from east Texas headed toward Hufsmith in my 1982 Chevy El Camino. It was supposed to be a three hour trip.
As we traveled down I-45 south my mind began to contemplate the next few days and then I started to realize how much my life may change.
I had never really looked at the injury and I thought at the time I had lost over half of my finger. I soon began to realize it may affect many aspects of my life from writing, typing, shooting, playing musical instruments, working with certain tools and all kinds of other things.
As my mind pondered on these things, the unexpected occurred again! A BLOW OUT! My right front tire suddenly gave up the ghost and there we sat on the southbound side of I-45 in one of those stretches where there wasn't a building in sight.
My son was about ten years old at the time and he was not experienced in mechanical issues, but as I sat there discussing with him what our task was about to be – the Good Lord is my witness – a large black thunder cloud developed within a few short minutes and dumped a massive amount of rain on us just as we were getting out of the car to start changing the flat!
I quickly wrapped my hand in a plastic bag and started giving my son step by step instructions on what to do.
I dared not strain myself or try to use my injured hand for fear of breaking the stitches open.
The story is still not over! More remains for next week!