So, my mom called the other day. *Someone* wasn’t thrilled at being mentioned in relation to my amputation incident. Apparently, the day conjures bad memories for her. Go figure. Just in case you are one of the few readers of this blog who don’t also attend Thanksgiving every year with my family and therefore don’t already know this story, I will clarify.
When I was a wee two year old, I was quite, how to say this gently? Spirited. Strong Willed. Hyperactive. Spazzy. Annoying. Most doctors in this day and age would have a child like me on a cocktail of ADHD drugs I am sure. And if my son is even half as spirited as I was as a toddler then my heart goes out to my mom.
So anyway, as most spastic toddlers are wont to do as they wait for their brother to finish up school for the day, I was probably performing my rendition of “Memory” from Cats. That day I was definitely inspecting doors. They aren’t going to inspect themselves. Doors are very cool. They open and shut, you know. And fire exits? All that responsibility for one door? Intrigue! It’s important to find those emergency exits. Especially when you become the emergency. Safety first and all that.
I could not resist the door jamb. Nor could I resist sticking my tiny little fingers in it.
Now without going into all the gory details, I will just say that my middle finger tip and I were briefly separated. I was an amputee. For about two hours.
Now had this happened to Colin, I’ll tell you what I would have done. Me? I probably would have slapped a Curious George Band Aid on that and cried over my son, the amputee. I probably wouldn’t have even looked for the missing part. Five second rule and all that, right? I crack under pressure. And swear. Excessively. In short, I am what you would call “useless.”
However, there is a happy ending to my story. I am not am amputee today. I have a fully functioning middle finger. I use it often and I use it well. Just ask that nice lady at the Target who stole my parking space the other day. The fact is, I am not an amputee thanks to my mother. She brought me to the Emergency Room where she insisted on seeing a plastic surgeon. This was back in the 80’s, y’all. Before elective plastic surgery procedures were gifted to girls on their Sweet 16s. Before Tiger Moms and Lawnmower moms and all that jazz. She demanded to see a plastic surgeon. For a two year old’s fingertip. There was a skin graft people. And nerve related stuff. That’s heavy. My mom was the insurance company’s worst nightmare. And my best advocate.
Which is all to say that today I am not an amputee. Also, I blame my mother for not being able to park in handicap spots. I totally could have used that the other day at Target. 😉 But at least I can type over 70 words a minute. I guess it all evens out.