Injured!

Although this post deals with a nasty injury, for the sake of squeamish readers, I promise to avoid graphic details.

My last post, “The Playful Pursuit of Passions” detailed my recent fascination with woodworking, but anyone who knows me well is aware that this isn’t a newfound interest. I have been planning and building projects for over thirty years. My garage is a warehouse of assorted saws, drills, sanders, and other noisy, whirring contraptions that spout sawdust like a volcano while they transform piles of wood into things of beauty.

One of the great joys of my life has been listening to Kim describe something she saw in a magazine or on TV and imagining how to bring her vision to life. I have impatiently stood by my workbench on countless Saturday mornings waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m. so I could pull the trigger on one of my favorite noisemakers without fear of angry reprisal from a neighbor.

That is where this story found me on the Monday morning between this past Christmas and New Year’s Day. I was on vacation for the entire week and was anxious to immerse myself in my projects. When the clock struck 9:00, I flicked on my table saw to use in the same fashion I have done thousands of times in the past. This time was different though. Something went terribly, horribly wrong.

For those who are unaware, table saws are one of the most useful tools in a woodworking shop, but they are also the mpst dangerous. In the United States alone, they are resonsible for 30,000 emergency room visits and 4,000 amputations every year. They injure the novice and the expert alike, with the blink of an eye separating a normal use from a life-altering injury.

Trauma has blurred the specifics, but while performing a routine task, my right index finger and thumb contacted the saw blade while it was powered on, spinning at full speed.

Kim was working inside when I stepped through the door and said “Kim! Emergency! I need to go to the hospital.”

Over the next few hours, E.R. staff explained to me that my thumb had suffered a nasty tissue cut, but would heal normally in time. My index finger, however, was very different. The blade had damaged the finger so badly that it would be necessary to amputate about 1″ from the tip, just below the first joint.

Over the next hours, skilled doctors did their best to bandage my thumb and perform the requisite surgery on my finger. My first day of vacation ended at 8:00p.m. as I checked out of the hospital and Kim drove us to the Walmart pharmacy to fill my hydrocodone prescription (a strong opioid for pain relief).

Contrary to popular belief, severe lacerations don’t hurt immediately. The really bad pain takes hours to set in. As the numbing injections wore off that night, drug-induced sleep came in fitful spurts, interrupted by searing pain that was softened every few hours by another dosage. It was the third day before the pain subsided allowing me to form coherent thoughts and begin to venture beyond my bed and favorite chair.

Still mostly in shock and internal denial of my situation, I puttered about the house, busying myself with trivial tasks whose real purpose was to distract me from thinking about what had happened and what it would mean to my future. My priority was to avoid the cringes caused by the recurring, traumatic flashbacks of the fateful moment.

In those times, we realize how little control we exercise over the thoughts that erupt from our minds or the reflexive motions that try to move body parts that are damaged or missing. For the first days, I began the slow process of retraining myself to perform simple tasks that were no longer simple – brushing my teeth left-handed, buttoning my shirt, tying my shoes, and finding a comfortable sleeping position.

I expect to be learning tasks like that for several more months to come. Clumsily typing this blog post is a perfect example.

Two weeks have now passed and the doctor’s office just changed my initial bandages and took x-rays. For the first time, my eyes rested on a damaged thumb and a finger that will never be the same. It was hard to look at them, their damaged form almost uncomparable to the hand I have taken for granted my whole life.

I noticed that the original, white bandages were replaced with skin-colored ones. In a culture that associates health with happiness, it was relieving to camouflage my wounds slightly. I hoped that people wouldn’t notice and stare like they have the past two weeks.

In an instant, my Playful Pursuit of Passion became a devastating injury that will take months to heal and will never recover full function.

My brain knows that I am blessed that the damage was limited. Thousands of people each year are less fortunate. My mouth speaks light-heartedly and optimistically, trying to convince myself and everyone around me that it is all OK. But my soul is sorrowful.

My own carelessness brought me to this point. There is no one else to blame. Lulled into a false sense of security, I got too comfortable with the dangers that surrounded me. No matter how safe I am in the future, this cannot be undone. I am trying to achieve a balance of moving forward against the alarms going off in my head, alerting me to risks both real and imaginary. It is going to be a slow process.

Pain is passing and memories become cloudy in time. Lost innocence is not so easily regained.

I am very good at surviving through tragedy but not in dealing with loss. When violent, recurring memories of that fateful moment haunt my mind, I am tempted to slam my eyes tightly and shake my head until they disperse. The time will come when I need to face these nightmares, but I’m not ready yet. First my body needs to heal further, and when I am stronger, then I can battle my fears.

In the meantime, I pray for God to give me peace and to restore my broken body and spirit.

I wish that I could conclude this blog entry with a brightly colored text box containing a single-phrase Bible verse that is uplifting and encouraging. That would be a lie though. I am not ready for that yet.

All of us hurt sometimes. We have to admit it to ourselves and to others, not just pretend the pain isn’t real and ignore the thick, ugly scars forming around our souls. We must patiently endure a slow healing process that never comes fast enough to a society obsessed with instant gratification.

In the next coming days if you pass me in the hall and ask if I’m OK, then I will probably smile and tell you that I am getting better all the time. The hard truth is that I don’t have the words to capture my complex feelings or to distinguish the people who are genuinely interested from those merely saying hello. The reality is that I’m taking things a moment at a time.

I will continue to stand in faith that the God who gave me playful passions will restore my soul to enjoy them again. Through him, the glee will return. He will not allow my heart to grow cold while I hide from my fears. That will not be my story.

As I cope with the pain, clumsily re-learn to perform tasks that were easy as a child, and confront my new reality, I have thought about what I hope for. As injuries and age diminish a body that will not last forever, I put my hope in God to honor this request.

God grant me this wish – that I grow old with the heart of a young child.

May each of you share that blessing.