the finger

Update on a previous entry: Apparently my dad didn’t do anything memorably embarrassing at the brunch. He did refer to one woman as a manatee, but she wasn’t anywhere in hearing range when he said it. He claims in his defense that she really did look like a manatee, anyway.
However, Monday night my sister called to tell me that my dad had to go to the hospital. He was working outside in his garage-turned-shop (he builds and refinishes furniture) and somehow he sliced his finger on a long sharp piece of oak. By the time she told me more details than I wanted to know, it was too late to call my parents. So I called last night to check on how my dad was doing.

He answered the phone, so I figured he was at least doing well enough not to need heavy-duty painkillers. After some talk about the movie they were watching, I brought up the injury.
“So I heard you gave Mom the finger and she grabbed a knife and tried to cut it off.”
“Hah. No, it was some combination of the saw blade and the wood that got me. I can’t figure out what happened. But it sliced up my finger pretty good. I had to have 19 stitches, and they had to cut off my wedding ring. And don’t tell your sister this, but I went back to the doctor today, and they might have to cut the tip of my finger off.”
“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“Just the very tip. It’s outpatient surgery, it would hardly be noticeable. But we’re going to wait a week and see how the blood flow is to that area.”
“Hopefully it’ll be okay,” I said weakly. I know people who have lost a whole finger in similar situations, so I tried to look at the positive side.
“Oh, it’s all fine. Hurts like hell but it’ll be just fine. Only, don’t tell your sister this, but because of all the stitches, I can’t get my hand wet. So your mother has to bathe me.”
“Does she have to wipe you too?”
“No, no, I can handle that. It’s just my right hand.”
“Good.”
“But there is one problem. You see, I like to clean my right nostril out with my right hand, and my left nostril out with my left hand. So I told your mother she’d have to clean out my right nostril and she refused!”
“Uh huh.”
“I told her, she promised for better or for worse. But apparently she’s not upholding her vows. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I’m sure you can manage it.”
“Let me get your mom … she says she’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
She never did call back (apparently my aunt called and chatted for hours) but I figured after that conversation, everything else would be anticlimatic.