So I’m at work today, and my phone rings. It’s my husband.
Me: Hi Baby! (I’m surprised to be hearing from him because I’d talked to him about 45 minutes before. He’s in Lancaster, about an hour north of L.A., riding his motorcycle at a track out in the middle of the f’ing desert.)
Him: (Sounding despondent) Hi, Love.
Me: How’s it going?
Him: Bad.
Me: Awww, did you fall? (This has happened before at the track, and since he is actually physically calling me, I know it’s nothing to be TOO concerned about. I figure he’s busted up his bike a little bit and can’t ride for the rest of the day. This has also happened before.)
Him: (Sounding despondent) Yeah.
Me: Are you OK?
Him: . . . . . Yeeeeeeah?
Me: Are you hurt?
Him: . . . Yeeeeah? Yeah.
Me: Aww, baby! What happened?
Him: I kinda smashed my thumb.
Me: Aww, sweetie! I’m sorry.
Him: Yeah, they’re taking me to the hospital.
Me: Really!? Shit! Is it broken?
Him: . . . . . . Kinda?
Me: . . . . . . . . ?
Him: . . . . . Part of it is…kind of…not…totally………attached….anymore.
Me: WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Yeah. My husband, in falling off his motorcycle, somehow managed to almost completely sever the tip of his left thumb. Fortunately, the rest of him is whole and unscathed, and this is what I care about most. But I drove the eighty miles out to the hospital and ran into the emergency room in time to see them unwrapping the bloody stump and EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW. He wasn’t kidding when he said it wasn’t totally attached anymore. Gack.
It will end up that he’ll lose about a half inch from the tip of the thumb and will lose the fingernail completely. My brother in law has already called me and asked how I feel being married to an amputee.
A lovely way to spend a Friday afternoon, but at least it was his thumb and not his neck, right?
