So I’m sitting on the couch while Mr. Sandwich and one of his friends are working in the garage. All of a sudden, Mr. Sandwich walks in briskly and says, “We’re going to the emergency room.”
I follow him into the bathroom to learn what’s going on, where he shows me that his left index finger is now missing a chunk of flesh.
What? I warned you.
While he ran water over his finger, I handed him a washcloth and went into the garage to find the piece of his fingertip. There it was, on the workbench. I put it in a baggie, which I wrapped in paper towels and then put in a bag of ice (you want to keep it cold, but not wet or directly on the ice).
That’s when we realized that we had no idea where the nearest ER might be. Fortunately, the 911 operator was able to give me the address and cross street, and away we went. The friend was kind enough to lock up the garage on our behalf.
After an X-ray, some lidocaine, and a lot of forms, the doctor sewed the finger back together. Apparently there’s only about a 25% chance it will heal properly, and there are going to be a number of visits to a specialist to monitor it.
But, hey, at least now we know how to get to that hospital. And guess who plans to wear gloves during future projects!
Kristine says:
Mr. Sandwich is SO, SO, SO damn lucky he married a gal who can handle putting fingertips into baggies. You are Woman, hear you Roar!