The Teaspoon Incident

First off, let me quickly say that there will be no Match Report Monday this week as there was no game. Boys are back on the paddock this coming weekend and will be leaving, we desperately hope, with a win against Brighton.

Now a few posts ago I mentioned that Momma Mooselet would be quite concerned to learn part of my job at the Large Grocery Store That Employs Me involves the use of a knife. I briefly mentioned how I had the unfortunate experience of nearly slicing off the end of two of my digits at two different points in my childhood, and MM expanded on the story of me, my left index finger and a teaspoon in the comments. Several of you found that really funny and wondered how I managed it. Here's how it went down...

I honestly don't remember how old I was - I put the age at 7, but if MM says I was 5, then I was 5. That would put Gabe at age 3. MM had brought home a small packet of peanuts for me from the packie after stopping for Poppa Mooselet on her way home from work. The concept of waiting 15 minutes for my mother to finish whatever she was doing with Gabe - she says bathing and I'll go with it as I have no recollection of it - was clearly impossible for my 5 year old self. Now that I have children I understand that asking them to wait is akin to torture. And tortured I obviously was.

Knowing I was not allowed to use the sharp scissors or knives in the kitchen, I turned to the other utensils in the drawer. Why I didn't choose a fork is beyond me, but instead I picked up a spoon and proceeded to try and jam it into the packet of Mr. Peanut nuts. I can't remember if I was successful or not; did the spoon enter my tiny finger - and I was a tiny child, very petite - after it opened the nuts, or did it slide off and slice me? I have no idea. The next memory I have is my dripping bright red blood into the steel kitchen sink. I couldn't tell you if I was opening the packet over the sink or if I had the foresight to go over to the sink as I started bleeding. But it's an image I've never gotten out of my head.

I must have cried out but I have little memory of the incident after that point. I can't even recall if my father was home at the time - he often worked nights and he may have gone to work already, especially if MM recalls having to bring Gabe along. I have no memory whatsoever of policemen showing up at our apartment, although the concept of my mother standing around in her pantyhose and blouse is in total line with how she would partially undress upon coming home from a 12 hour work day in Boston. I can't remember the trip to the hospital, which is pretty amazing considering it would've taken us at least 20 minutes to get there. Nor can I remember getting stitched up, or my mother passing out as she was wont to do after arrival to the hospital emergency rooms.

I remember the huge bandage on my finger for a couple of weeks after, and the nasty black stitches against the red swollen flesh. Maybe I was freaked by all the blood - my mother claimed surprise when I went into nursing, citing my distaste of blood. Was it this injury that spawned it? I have no idea, and I also am no longer bothered by blood. I remember there being some concern if I would regain use of the finger, and my mother not bring me packets of nuts for a long long time.

But I have a lovely memento of that evening - my scar:

Double click for an up close and personal look if your eyesight, like mine, sucks.

The doctors did a really good job of stitching my finger back together, much better than my thumb many years later. As I mentioned in the other post, the scar starts in the middle of the pad and winds its way around to end just short of the cuticle. Makes for interesting fingerprints. I have full use of the finger and have lost no sensation in it, unlike my unfortunate thumb.

So the moral of the story is you can mange to do damage to yourself with the most benign of instruments, if the person in question wants the peanuts badly enough.