I Got My Fingers Back

I finally got my fingers back this week. I didn’t really lose my fingers. Not like I sometimes saw people lose fingers and other body parts when I worked on the rescue squad. Over the years I have spent several hours crawling around in roadside ditches searching for missing body parts.

Speaking of severed body parts reminds me of an evening several years ago. I was working a shift on the LaGrange, Kentucky, fire and rescue squad when we were called to an industrial accident. A fellow had slipped his hand into a machine and had his hand severed. We gathered up him and his wayward hand and headed to University Hospital in Louisville.

Having learned in our EMT training that the odds for a successful reattachment were significantly higher if the severed part is cooled on the trip to surgery, we stopped at the most convenient place on route to the hospital to pick up some ice. As the squad skidded to a halt in the parking lot, J. C. Long, one of the best and funniest EMTs I have ever met, piled off the squad and headed into McDonald’s. The sweet little teenage girl behind the counter stepped up and delivered the line she had been trained to say – “May I help you?” Breathlessly J. C. said, “Give me some ice in a plastic bag. And make it quick.” This happened back in the day before McDonald’s sold bags of ice. His tone and his unusual order unnerved the little girl and she shot back, “Why?” J. C. just held up the severed hand. The girl fainted, the manager gave us a bag of ice and we boogied on into Louisville.

Less traumatic was the evening in central Illinois on a run – motorcycle vs. pickup truck. Guess who won? I was helping the fellow who had been riding the motorcycle out of the ditch when his left arm came off in my hands. I was just a tad freaked out. He was very upset. It took me a couple of seconds to realize the arm was plastic but the patient was still very upset and demanded the immediate return of his arm; which I was pleased to do. He explained that he was upset because he kept a couple thousand dollars secreted in the arm and didn’t want it stolen. Weird.

Anyway, my little and ring fingers on my left hand weren’t detached. They were just immobile and pretty much useless. The doctor explained that I was suffering from Dupuytren’s disease – another perk of being of Irish decent. I could add that to my family history of the joys of Irishness – depression, poverty and desire for a beer. Now crooked, locked, useless fingers. Tissue, much like scar tissue, grew around my ligaments and locked them in place. It was amazing what losing use of two fingers on my dominate hand kept me from doing. For a guy who writes regularly for a living it made typing very difficult. I decided to have surgery when I realized that I could no longer reach the “a” key on the keyboard.

Anyway, my surgeon, Bob Rhoad, did an amazing job on my left hand. I know he did because he told me so. All kidding aside, he obviously did because my fingers are moving again. And then there is my therapist, Whitney. Whitney is an adorable little redhead with a love for pain and a heart of stone. The doctor got the fingers moving and she is going to keep them moving. Even if it kills me. And it might.

So, I got my fingers back. I am a happy man. Afraid of Whitney; but happy.

Copyright © 2011, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved