Smashing My Fingers

One of the things you find out when you get older is that when you hurt yourself, there is no one there to kiss it and make it better. You scream and move on. Correction, you scream DRAMATICALLY and LOUDLY, fall to the pavement with hand still attached to the garage door, and move on after you have pried your hand from the door.

It all started innocently enough (isn't that how it always starts?) when I realized it had begun to rain and I had left plastic tubs full of flea market items outside in the driveway. Obviously not wanting them to get rained on, I ran outside to bring the tubs into the house. Rain drops pelted my back but luckily not enough to warrant a "torrent." With much cursing under my breath, the three heavy tubs were safely inside the house. It was then I realized that that I had left a 1930's chrome Art Deco ashtray stand out by the garage.

I thought for a minute that I would leave it, considering it was under the deck and may only get a little wet. I quickly thought the better of it remembering how damaged and pitted chrome can get from just incidental moisture. OK, I justified, I will be saving this antique from impending disaster! I wouldn't bring it into the house, but just open the garage and quickly stick it in.

One more time, I ran out the front door, down the deck, with rain drops pelting my back. Almost tumbling down the stairs, I caught myself the last minute from an ungraceful swan dive into a trellis/planter. That was a close one, I thought. Almost home free. OK, quickly open the garage door, and shove the friggin' ashtray stand in and get back inside!

Oh it just couldn't be that easy, could it? I opened the garage door, quickly put the ashtray stand inside and grabbed the outside handle to pull the garage door down. For some reason ... I also pulled the door down on the joint with my left hand ... and forgot to let go. I am going stop here for a minute so you can all digest this. I grabbed one of the many joints of the garage door and FORGOT TO LET GO!

My hand was caught and smashed between two garage door panels while it dragged me down into on the pavement. It all happened in seemingly slow motion but of course went by so quickly. I screamed as I heard popping and cracking sounds as my index, middle, and ring fingers on my left hand were smashed down to the size of a pita bread ... or a duck's webbed foot ... which ever may give you the clearer impression.

I literally couldn't not see the ends of my fingers in garage door and I think I stopped breathing for a minute or two. As I slumped down to the pavement, I realized that I could not pull my hand out. The second thing I realized was "Oh f*ck, I have to open the garage door to get my hand out!!!"

I reached up, saying "Oh sh*t, oh sh*t, my fingers are broken!" and pulled the garage door up and open. My hand heavily fell out with fingers now POUNDING as blood rushed back in. I looked over to see if my faithful neighbor Charlotte could possibly be asleep on the front porch from evening cocktails, but of course tonight, she was out visiting friends! How selfish of her!!!

Cradling my throbbing hand, I ran into the house thinking my next call would be for John to take me to the hospital for X-rays.

Worried as I now know my readers must be, I will put you at ease. My fingers have gone numb ... no doubt from a combination of pinched nerves and 151 rum. But anyway, 151 rum aside, they are swollen, turning purple, and I fear a loss of fingernails may only be a week away. But I have survived.

After John came home, he brought me down to the garage and showed me the dents between two of the garage panels where he got two fingers caught in the joint when we first moved in. Ironically, my three fingers were caught two feet to the right in the same joint. I have three dents down from his two. Can't we do anything different? At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have one more dent in the garage door than him. :)