A Stitch or Five

A few days ago, one of my fingers got bit by Clive’s cutting machine. It just so happened to be the pinkie – the most innocent digit on my hand, always behaves itself, never does anything wrong to anyone, a cherubic finger if ever there was one – that took the hit.

Fortunately, I already had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for 90 minutes after the biting. Dr. Smith took one look at the wound and said, “Yup. Needs stitches.”

We spent the next hour in a very cold treatment room getting pinkie flushed with saline, numbed up, then watching as the doc put five stitches in with bright blue thread. It was difficult because the cut was almost too ragged to sew (think tuna fish) and Doc Smith had to redo several stitches.

Because pinkie was numb, I thought I could watch the sewing, but the doc kept sliding the thread back out and starting again, and I just didn’t have the stomach for it so turned away to closely examine at a nice white and maroon autoclave, or maybe it was a heart monitor.

It was at about that time that I asked Doc to prescribe a generous amount of painkillers because, what with all that sewing and resewing, I was certain little pinkie was going to be hurting when it woke up.

He wrote the scrip, I filled it, and then… never needed it. It was almost like pinkie had never had an accident at all.

Now, three days out, the wound looks awful, all red and black and bright blue. But, it hurts only when I take the bandage off and expose the stitches to things that catch on them, towels and sweaters and such.

But, in the overall, pinkie is happy. And if pinkie is happy, I’m happy. Things could have been lots worse.