It will surprise neither of my loyal readers to learn that I am a creature of habit. I get up about the same time every day. I have the same turkey and pickle sandwich at least four times a week. My Saturday night routine is sadly predictable — ironing shirts and watching “Antiques Roadshow.” Whenever I’m home in Georgia, I get the same haircut from the stylist I’ve been going to since 1986. I seldom change brands of toothpaste. And whether I need it or not, I go to the hospital emergency room at least once every 30 years.
My first visit — at around age 10 — involved a certain splinter incident that was almost written up in the “Journal of Abnormal Medicine.” My latest trip happened two weeks ago, at 10 p.m. on a Sunday. Since my life is usually so dull, I’ll tell this like a film noir narrator.
It all went down like this. I was cruising home from spring break along Interstate 40, with my shades on, my necktie flapping in the breeze and some iced tea in the cup-holder. Passing truckers might have mistaken me for James Bond. About two hours from Searcy, I pulled off the expressway to take care of business. But little did I know that business would take care of me.
I have opened and closed doors all my life, but this time the combination of a fast-moving door and a slow-moving hand proved fatal. If you weren’t in chapel last week when I told the short version of this story, you might want to grit your teeth and get started on a wince. As soon as the door slammed on my left pinky finger, I learned something about fingernails. While the bottom of the nail looks like a half-moon, it is actually straight along the base. Or so I found out when it popped clear out from under the skin.
Fortunately, all my years of watching “MASH” paid off. I ran cold water over the purple mess. After the blood cleared, I saw that nail still hanging on for dear life. So I wrapped the pinky in toilet paper until I could get back to the car. Then, with a Band-Aid holding everything together and a makeshift Kleenex tourniquet, I got back on the road. It didn’t help that Shirley Bassey was singing “Goldfinger” on the radio. I wondered what James Bond would do now. So I took a sip of iced tea, winked in the rear view mirror and kept driving.
I finally made it to Searcy and stopped at Wal-Mart because I was out of milk. Then I went to the emergency room, where I discovered that a lot has changed in 30 years. When the doctor told me I needed X-rays, I grabbed my sport coat (I had also stopped at the house to get a clean blazer). I was thinking that we would go “down to X-ray.” Instead, a guy came into the room with an X-ray cart. I didn’t have to go anywhere. We just looked at the bone right there. I kept thinking, “What about all those old movies where a guy breaks something and the doctor says, “Send him down to X-ray”? They’re meaningless now. This is what I worry about in the emergency room. I’ll tell you this right now: They would have sent James Bond “down to X-ray.”
Fortunately, everything turned out OK. Dr. Rayburn stitched up my lacerations and managed to re-sculpt the nail. He did a lot better than those girls at the salon. Not only did he save my career as a hand model, but he also got to hear the story about the time my sister served punch at a wedding wearing Lee Press-on Nails and came home with only nine. Anyway, everyone was nice to me and patched me up real good. My hat’s off to the night staff: Nancy, Kyle, Craig and Porscha and the X-ray guy whose name I didn’t get. I’ll just call him “Q.”
Who would have thought that a two-inch finger could cause so much trouble? But I really appreciate my medical team. They came through in a pinch, and I look forward to seeing them again in 2043. They’ll remember my name: Clax . . . M. Clax.
