The Finger

It is surprisingly hard to type with nine fingers. You’d think that a 10% reduction in facilities wouldn’t make that much difference. But it does. My fingers can’t seem to make up their minds about who is going to type e’s, d’s, and especially c’s. I would hasten to add that I still actually have ten fingers. It’s just that the middle finger on my left hand now has a massive bandage and splint on it, which makes it pretty much useless for typing. Actually less than useless because it keeps getting in the way of the other fingers that are trying to do their job.

I suppose that I should explain how “the finger” got that way. When my nomadic travel takes me to North Idaho, I have access to my family’s sawmill. This sounds grander than it actually is. Our sawmill is only an anodized aluminum frame that holds the log so we can cut boards with a chainsaw. It’s very cleverly designed by the Swedish Logosol company, but there is no hiding the fact that it clings to its sawmill definition by the skin of its ever-dulling teeth.

One would think that cutting off a finger would be the primary risk in using a sawmill. I can assure you that is an ever-present danger about which I am excessively vigilant. However, it now occurs to me that I should have been just as vigilant about the possibility of smashing a finger against that wonderful anodized aluminum frame under a log. I am now wiser. When one rolls a cant (a milling term for a squared-off log), one should watch where one’s fingers are. Words to live by or rather type by.

At first, I thought it was just an ordinary smashed finger like so many I’ve had in my life. I was sure that I could return to milling as soon as the pain died away. But when I removed my glove, I saw that there was quite a bit of blood, and the nail root was completely exposed. On top of that, the tip of the finger wiggled in ways it shouldn’t. I decided it was time to disturb my wife’s morning nap.

“Why did you smash your finger that way?” my wife asked from the driver’s seat on the way to the hospital emergency room. She has an unusual gift for saying the obvious.

If there was ever an opportunity for snappy comebacks, that was it. I could have said, “I just wanted to try out nine-finger typing.” Or the old standard, “It felt so good when I stopped.” But no, as best as I can remember, I just moaned. Some opportunities only come once in a lifetime, or at least we can hope.

The care at Bonner County hospital was excellent. Being the main medical facility in a tourist industry empire makes summer in the ER an almost continuous crisis center. I doubt any M.A.S.H. unit was ever as adept at triage as they are. The cumulative stupidity of vacationers produces an everflowing stream through their doors, so my stupidity fits right in.

The ER doctor expertly cleaned and bandaged my finger, explaining that I had a tuft fracture. I was so thankful that it had a name. Having an idiotically smashed finger is not nearly as prestigious as having a “tuft fracture.” However, a quick Google search revealed that it was a very common injury that usually fully healed in four to six weeks. The word “common” tended to reduce my vaunted impression of my injury but it was somehow comforting to know that I was not the only one to endanger my fingers with such foolishness. And full healing sounded good, although four to six weeks was a long time to type with nine fingers. What if I can’t switch back to ten when the time comes?

I returned home to spend three days planted in our overstuffed chair, mindlessly watching television. My computer and my projects languished. I went stir crazy. How is it that such a small part of one digit can completely control a person’s life? I found an old oversized leather glove that fit over the splint, and I went back to work. I could be careful, right? Again my wife stated the obvious.

You’d be surprised how many things in life depend on your sense of how long your fingers are. Something as simple as pulling a door shut behind you requires the curling of your fingers to prevent them from being caught in the jam. Fortunately, the splint took the brunt of the damage even though my middle finger shouted, “May Day!” for the better part of an hour.

But now I’m back to working on projects that make life meaningful again. I have to maneuver around a lengthened finger, which is fortunately on my less dominant hand. Even so, opening and closing a car door can be a challenge. Knobs and levers arranged conveniently close to the steering wheel provide painful thumps when spinning it with an extended finger that refuses to bend. My left pointer finger now works overtime, handling twice as many keys as it used to. But I am functioning at nearly a normal level.

However, there is an added feature to the situation about which I have not yet decided what to do. You could call it a kind of crude philanthropy. Because of the particular digit that is extended, I find myself giving nearly everyone the finger, friend and foe alike, with the most common of gestures. I haven’t figured out how to compensate for it yet. In truth, I’m not sure I want to.