The Time I Cut My Finger Off.


The time I cut my finger off, I looked something like this:


Coincidentally, I had just broken my arm falling off of a crazy “on-the-loose” mule… but that’s another story.  On this day, I was running late to school and as I trotted in with a book bag twice the size of my body, I had a feeling someone was behind me.  Being a courteous southern gal, I flung open the large metal doors and put my hand behind me to hold it for the next person.  Unfortunately, my eyes were playing tricks on me and nobody was actually there. When I put my hand back to hold the door, it slipped into the open hinges… and then the heavy metal door slammed shut.

When I realized my hand was stuck, I yanked it out. Thus, causing the sever.  Having just lost a nail from the slamming of my pinky in the car door, I decided to trudge on to class. I told myself, “It’s OKAY.  Don’t get upset.  We’ve gone through this before… your nail is going to turn black and then it will fall off… no biggie.”  Somewhere in the middle of this internal pep talk I finally looked down and all I saw was RED. Turns out- I had been walking down the hall willie-nillie, telling myself it was all good, SANS DIGIT.   Shocked, I began running to my second grade classroom to get help, but I was quickly interfered by another teacher.  She grabbed me by the arm and rushed me to the school clinic. She asked me if my mom was near and I told her she had just left, but that she had one of those super nifty bag phones… Miraculously, for the first time in my life I remembered the number.  I wasn’t even crying. As the teacher spoke with my mom, someone wrapped my finger in paper towels, and my principal carried me in his arms to my mother’s car.

As I sat in my mom’s car about to drive to the hospital, I said, “Mommy?  Am I going to still have a finger?”  She carefully unwrapped the paper towels, wrapped it back up and said, “I don’t know honey. I don’t know.”

The months that followed are a little blurry.  I remember bandaging and cleaning and dealing with the stinging and bandaging and cleaning and dealing with the stinging.  Don’t forget I also had a broken arm in a sling that year to tend to as well.  Also, I was repetitively constipated… but that’s another story.

 Let’s just say it was a year to be proud of.  I remember kids whispering, “That’s the girl who cut off her finger.” and then I’d turn and say, “And broke my arm on a mule too!” and then I’d look at them like this:
As in, “Take that suckas. I’ve gone to battle and lived to tell about it. Where are your glory scars?”
 Long story short, they sewed my finger back on and everything healed.  All in all,  it’s a great conversation starter… and for that, I’d cut my finger off any day.  Just kidding.  But maybe…