Accidents

The worst thing to be is in a rush. Especially around power tools.

This morning, I conquered a household task that gave me fits for several days. When we moved in, we mounted two televisions. Two and a half years later, we’re relocating one.

Getting the screen off the mount was easy. Getting the mount off the wall was not. Two screws came out as one would expect. It required some effort, but strong lefty-loosy turns set them free.

The other two would not budge. I toiled for hours. Wary of stripping the hardware, I took care when trying new tactics. Rubber bands over the top, screw extractor bits (made it worse), sprayed WD-40 in the joint (felt inappropriate but the Internet suggested trying). Nothing worked. I don’t know if we used cement during installation, had superhuman strength, or the house shifted and compacted the material holding those screws in place. Perhaps some combination of all three. They would not move. Yesterday, my patience exhausted just before my options. Brute force was the only play.

I drilled into the head of the screws hoping to mangle them apart. This fully stripped the heads. I tried to cut them off with a multi-tool. This only destroyed the blade. My frustration strengthened to the caliber of my steeled foe.

I equipped myself with new multi-tool blades made for metal. My team was complete. We would not fail today. Before breakfast, determination taking precedence over hunger, we sheared the heads off these foul but sturdy fasteners with grit and aplomb. Sparks flew as metal clawed against metal. The mighty mount dislodged from its abode.

Vehemently cursing my fallen foe I stepped, barefoot, on one of the severed screw heads, sharp and blazing hot from the battle. I was barefoot. It hurt.

Thankfully, my feet are calloused enough, and the shrapnel small enough, that the error did not result in significant injury. But it could have. I was barefoot, cutting through metal with a power tool, sparks flying, a heavy, metal mount increasingly precarious in its position, motivated only by completing the task.

This is the part of the story where I say, “Lesson learned.” However, I could have learned this lesson two years, two months, and fifteen days ago.

Before moving in, I set out to match the flooring on the top floor. The project: pull up carpet in a single room and match that floor with the laminate found elsewhere. We were busy that day. We worked our day jobs, packed, and prepared to welcome our first child into the world.

On an overcast, mid-afternoon day in May, in an empty house soon to be our home, we removed the carpet, found matching laminate, took measurements, and set up the tablesaw.

Everything was ready. All we had to do was make our cuts.

The first cut was the hardest.

Cutting a board lengthwise is difficult. Cutting a four-foot-long board from 7” wide to 4” wide is difficult and risky. I considered myself an experienced and cautious craftsman, but accidents care not of one’s ego.

In my haste to progress on the floor, I did not drop the table saw blade to my preferred height. I usually allow the blade little room above the material being cut. Today, there was probably a half-inch of the blade visible above the laminate. I also did not install the blade guard.

As we fed it through, I focused on cutting a clean line. My attention was set on keeping the edge flush with the gate. A quarter through the cut, I moved my front hand backward to grip further down the board when I heard a conspicuous and unexpected ZZZZZIT.

I jumped back, knowing that I caught my fingers in the blade. Many thoughts transpired simultaneously.

I can’t believe I just did that.

I’m always so careful.

I may have just lost a finger.

I’m going to the hospital tonight.

How did that happen?

“Call 911,” I said to my father-in-law, who was holding the other end of the board.

“Call 911,” he hollered inside to my wife.

During my instinctive retreat, I clasped my hand through the shredded glove, afraid of what was underneath. Andrea and I made eye contact. Without words, she knew it was bad, and I apologized.

Adrenaline and a primal urge gave me the mental strength to check the damage. Bending at the waist, blood dripping to the red concrete, I pulled off the glove to see my ring and middle fingers maimed, but not severed, at the first knuckle. The pointer and pinkie were scathed, ultimately superficially.

Ted ripped the fabric handle off the case of a camping chair to craft a makeshift tourniquet. Andrea handed me the phone.

“They need to talk to you,” she said.

“Hi, this is Andrew.”

I don’t remember what dispatch said.

“Before you send them, can you confirm if the ambulance ride is in-network?” I asked, recalling horror stories of ambulance and helicopter rides not covered.

“Um, I don’t know that. They are on the way, and I need to confirm some things with you.”

I reassessed the wound. It was terrible and an emergency, but I could manage a ride to the hospital.

“It’s okay, we’ll drive. Thanks!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, please cancel.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the Emergency Room at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Andrea was eight months pregnant, we were in the middle of moving into a new home, in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I almost cut off two fingers. I severed the extensor tendon in my middle finger and clipped the metatarsal on my middle and ring fingers. They were mangled.

Two days later, they were surgically repaired. Pins stuck out of my fingers for six weeks like little signposts. Until the surgeon yanked them out with pliers. It was the most traumatic experience of my injury-ridden life. Today, I consider myself physically uninhibited by the incident.

It should have been a lesson. Today’s inadvertent step onto scorching hardware ended up minor. I was lucky two years ago. This is a reminder to slow down. Do not count on luck. Eliminate the need for luck through constant diligence and patience. These are thoughts I have often. I write them down sometimes. Practicing them always is the way.