As the years go by, I find that events are often recalled in association with something Smuffy has done.  In mid-conversation, one of us is bound to insert, “Wasn’t that around the time that he…?”  As we near the close of August, my mind returns to the events of August 29, 2015 and, I imagine, they always will.

It was a leisurely Sunday afternoon – for some of us.  Pookie had asked if she could come by and have my assistance with an artsy little project that took four hands – well, maybe six, but we had four.  I was happy to oblige.  She wanted to put a fun, fabric cover on a new planner and, like her mother, she aims to be chic at all times.  Why sit at your desk and look at leatherette when a bright and modern print is just a can of spray adhesive and a pair of pinking shears away?  Being the end of August, it reminded me of the good ole’ days when we would prepare for a new year of homeschooling by caressing our shiny new books and covering our binders and folders – a pleasant way to stave off the inevitable fact that anything, even if it’s interesting, takes on a certain dullness when the day-to-day routine really gains a foothold.

I had worked really hard the day before at deep-cleaning the carpets and had claimed this day as my own for rest and rejuvenation.  A craft project, followed by a mug (or two) of my fabulous Not Apologizin’ Hot Chocolate, sounded pretty much ideal.  (The recipe, by the way, can be found here.)

Smuffy, that love of my life, didn’t have it so easy.  One of his summer goals had been to pour a concrete pad under our porch steps, an area that had been nothing more than dirt ever since we’ve lived in this house.  That would’ve made this project overdue by…hmm…let me see…do I need a calculator? …oh yes, that’s right, thirty-six years.  Not that he’s a procrastinator – I’m always swift to admit that Smuffy fixes everything almost before it’s broken – but that in itself, my Dear Readers, is a story for another day.  Feel free to request in the comments, as a reminder to me, to tell the tale of how my furniture was nearly bolted to the walls.

Smuffy prepared the area and built forms in the evenings after work and on Saturday he poured the first part of the L-shaped pad.  Everything went smooth as silk, but the bigger portion remained undone.  He’s learned over the years that Sunday as a day of rest is a glorious and life-restoring gift.  Sometimes, however, a job requires more attention that he can give it in the hours he has after work, so there he was, on this fine afternoon, outside mixing concrete.

Our peaceful measuring and cutting was soon interrupted by the sound of feet rushing up the basement steps, through the hall and into the bathroom.  Nothing unusual – after all, sometimes you’ve really gotta go!  It was the YELP! that followed that pricked my ears.  Smuffy doesn’t yelp.  He always professes, no matter what the injury, that nothing hurts.  A mild stomach flu and he’s practically lost his will to live, but injuries never seem to faze him much.  He’s actually commented in the past that he could probably handle being an amputee with greater grace than if he were afflicted with ongoing nausea.  Hold that thought.

I stepped into the hallway to have a look.  There he was with his hands in the sink.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Get me some paper towels.”

“But what happened?”

“I need paper towels!”

I ran for the towels.

“What happened?” asked Pookie as I flew past.

“He wants paper towels.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know.”

Then came the stand-off.  I had to know and he had to, for whatever reason guys do so, act like it was no big deal.  After a good deal of snappy dialogue we arrived at –

“Is it bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Do we need to go to the ER?”

Round two of snappy dialogue occurred as I followed him down the basement steps.  Where is this man going?  He’s messing with concrete and blood is going everywhere.  I tell him to drop everything and let’s go to urgent care or the ER.

“The very least you need is probably stitches.  How bad do you think it is?”

“Do you want to see it?”

Florence Nightingale I am not, but at least I have a nurturing gene that enables me to take care of my own.  As soon as he began moving the wrapping away, my arms and legs physically ached and did their best to curl up and drop me to the floor.  I took my obligatory look.  My gaze didn’t linger long.  Logic tells me that if it is something beyond my range of skill, the person’s life is not in immediate danger, and skilled personnel are nearby, there is no point in looking!  The idea here is to tell what happened, not to give you nightmares, but if Stephen King ever runs out of ideas, I suppose he could write a book about a crazed lunatic who attacks people with a potato peeler.  You know that pointy thing on the end that really enables you to get those eyes out of that potato?  Well, inserting the potato into the gears of a concrete mixer would have a similar result, I suppose.  The end of the pinky finger was – never mind!  I promised not to give you nightmares!

“You have to go to the ER!”

“I have to finish this concrete.”

“You CAN’T finish this concrete!”

“Do you want this big, wet pile of concrete to dry like this and have to stare at it the rest of your life?”

“Ughhhhh!”

“Help me wrap it up and we’ll go as soon as I finish.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know.  When I’m finished!  We’re wasting time!”

With lots of gauze and tape and a latex glove stretched over the whole thing, he went out to pour the rest of the concrete while Pookie and I stared at one another, wondering how to stop the madness.  She was filled with frustration at knowing that her husband would run to our aid if she called him, but he was too far away to get there in time to do any good.  She busied herself by running in and out and holding one end of Smuffy’s leveling board when necessary.  I busied myself with glancing out the window and muttering under my breath, “Jesus, You know my wonderful man and You know when he’s being a dope!  You’re going to have to take care of this one.”  I made calls to the local hospital and two urgent cares to check on how our new insurance worked with this type of thing.  You don’t really get good answers to those questions on weekends.

Time marched on and we thought the man would never come in the house.  Each time we questioned him we got the same answer, “When I’m done!”  After a while, there was really nothing else to do but go about our business and wait it out.

Finally, I looked at Pookie, exclaiming, “I feel ridiculous!  I’m going to be telling people, ‘Smuffy mangled his hand in the concrete mixer!’ and then they’re going to say, ‘Oh my!  Then what happened?’ and I’m going to say, ‘Oh, we finished up a craft project and made hot chocolate!’  This is CRAZY!”

At one point we actually lost him.  Pookie couldn’t find him out by the concrete job and I couldn’t find him in the basement.  We found him, at last, in the back yard sitting in the swing – just chillin’.  That was when I should have gone back in the house and started calling mental hospitals.

Two hours after the accident, we pulled out of the driveway, but not before Smuffy had a concrete pad that looked perfect, had taken a bath and changed clothes, eaten some supper and rewrapped the gruesome digit, all the while saying he felt fine and that it didn’t hurt a bit.

This is when we had our third round of snappy dialogue, which concluded with me saying, “No, you will NOT drive, you BONEHEAD!  I’m driving!  GET IN THE CAR!”

We pulled into urgent care first, which was a waste of time, as that doctor took one look, informed us that the finger was 7/8 amputated and we needed a hand surgeon.  We sped on over to the hospital and were very pleased with the experienced surgeon who brought his operating kit to the ER and, perching his glasses with their attached microscopes atop his nose, did a two-hour delicate surgery, reattaching Smuffy’s finger and each of the tiny nerves and sinews inside.  His experience and expertise led him to estimate that the precise location of the injury would miraculously enable the regrowth of the nail, which I would have said was impossible.  I had to admit that when I saw it after the surgery was complete, I thought it looked very good in comparison to the mangled mess I’d seen six hours earlier. 

Smuffy, of course, assisted with surgery any way he could and chatted away with the doctor the whole time about hobbies, vocations and grotesque injuries that belonged in the category of “Truth is Stranger than Fiction.”  I stayed in the room, sitting by my man with my chair strategically positioned to avoid the slightest glimpse of the action.

Despite his brave front, when it was all over I thought he looked as though he’d lost a bit of his polish.

Smuffy went back to work the next day, and it’s not a desk job.  “Yes, Lord, he’s being a dope again, and You’re going to have to take care of my sweetie.”  He took no pain killers, either prescription or over-the-counter, aside from what the doctor administered in order to perform surgery, because he said it didn’t hurt.

I followed up the whole incident by doing a Google search on “people who have their pain receptors turned off”.  Sometimes there’s no escaping it – you just have to shake your head at Smuffy and admit that something is wonky here.

Smuffy is endowed with swift and thorough healing and if you’ve been keeping up with my “Life With Smuffy” here on the blog, you know how much he needs it! 

Just last week, he carried a couple of water heaters down full flights of stairs by himself because, you know, somebody had to do it and just to refresh himself, came home with a new motor scooter. Ever since, I’ve heard him muttering about how all it needs is a little more power – as if all I needed were bigger hills to stand upon in order to phone an ambulance!

I think of Smuffy sometimes when Pookie and I sit down for our favorite movie, “The Sound of Music” and watch Maria and Captain von Trapp gaze into each other’s eyes and muse that somewhere in their youths or childhoods, they must have done something good – for, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have asked for a dynamic prayer life and by doing so, had it enhanced when I received the Gift of Smuffy.

Real adventure lovers will love joining Smuffy for life on the river here and here.  You go all the way back to the beginning of my Life With Smuffy with our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon.  Just for laughs, find out how Smuffy Takes the Cure.  He also restores classic cars and will teach you how A Studebaker in the Hand is NOT Worth Two in the Bush.

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