A terrible thing happened over the recent Thanksgiving
holiday. It’s almost too painful to talk about, but I feel as though I can use
this column as a cautionary tale, so I will press on despite the mental anguish
this is causing me.
I sustained an injury just before the holiday that set in
motion a chain of events that will undoubtedly end in a lifetime of trips to
the doctor, and countless hours seeing a specialist.
The gruesome injury? Brace yourself. I got a tiny little
splinter in my thumb.
I meant brace yourself for the fact that the initial injury
was not really the problem. It’s how I handled the splinter extraction that
will have me driving back and forth to the doctor for the rest of my days - if
I can even drive myself, that is.
I will do my best to get through this story without any more
sobbing. Here goes...
I had noticed the minuscule piece of wood in my thumb during
the day, and it hadn’t really affected me much, so I ignored it. Later that
night, however, the splinter was interfering with holding my beer comfortably,
so I decided it had to go.
My wife had already gone to bed, so I was thoughtful enough
to wake her up by thrashing around loudly in her sewing drawer, looking for a
needle. She gladly jumped out of bed to help me find one. (Although she claims
she thought I was a burglar and she was coming downstairs to defend her
children and the house with her ninja karate skills, I know better. She loves
to help me.)
Claiming that I didn’t need any more help once she had found
me the perfect size needle, I sent her back to bed with a kiss on the cheek,
and sat down at the kitchen counter to get to work.
There I was, in the dimly-lit kitchen, just before midnight,
digging the splinter out of my thumb with a tiny sewing needle. It wasn’t
working.
Then a thought occurred to me. A horrible thought. A thought
that would unknowingly change the course of my life forever.
There’s something in
that drawer over there that might help me get this thing out of my thumb. But
should I use them? I never have for this kind of thing before, but they could
help...
I thought about it for another few seconds. I should have
just given up and gone to bed right then and there, but no. I am an idiot.
Instead, I went to the drawer and opened it, eyeing the implements
suspiciously.
Might as well give it
a shot. I pulled them out and brought them back to the counter. Sitting
back down, I positioned the devices over the splinter and then quickly snapped
them into place.
“Ahhhhhrrrrrggghhh! Noooooo!!!” I screamed.
“What happened!?” came my wife’s concerned, almost panicked
voice from the top of the stairs.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Sorry to wake you again. I’m just
digging this splinter out of my finger and I put on your reading glasses to
help me see it better. They help A LOT. When the hell did I get old?”
“About five years ago. Good night, old man.”
“Dammit!”
I can probably hold out a little longer, but eventually the eye
doctor and I are going to be on a first-name basis.
They say it happens to everyone around forty. I guess that’s
true, but up until that splinter I was sure it would never happen to me.
Dammit.
See you soon,
-Smidge
Copyright © 2015 Marc Schmatjen
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