The bushes in our backyard were threatening to become trees with some having reached beyond the height of the purple martin house. I knew that they should be cutback and had tried more than once to get my two-cycle gas hedge trimmer started. It took me awhile to figure out the plastic tube from its gas tank had broken – as it also had on my gas powered blower.
Within three short weeks of this discovery, everything was fixed and ready to go. Except I wasn’t. Temperatures started regularly exceeding the century mark and my enthusiasm for the task (which was low to start with) became inversely proportional to the temperature. When I finally got the gumption, I found the ”repaired” gas hedge trimmer again would not start. Closer inspection revealed the little plastic bubble used to prime the engine had developed a hole in it about the size of the price tag of my earlier repair. Rats! I decided against throwing more good money down this path and headed for Home Depot. I was going electric.
I found a beautiful model for a little more than I wanted to pay but rationalized it because (1) it would never require fuel line repairs and (2) it was Father’s Day and I deserved to splurge. Plus it could cut ¾” limbs and had a l-o-n-g blade so I could reach those higher branches. Feeling good with this decision, I brought it home and put it in the garage where I admired it every time I passed it during the next couple of weeks.
Last Tuesday I tardily decided to get outside early and get as much trimming done as I could before the thermometer hit 100. By 9:30am I was in a hospital emergency room having been transported there by my very pale BBL. The top inch of my left index finger was being held on by a bare thread of skin. [Some advice to DIY hackers: if you’re going to maim yourself, do it fairly early in the morning and you’ll avoid the long lines that develop at the ER later in the day.]
Ironically, my BBL recognized the ER doctor as the one who had attended to my last emergency visit a couple of years ago. If nothing else, we are loyal with our patronage. Dr. Z quickly consulted with a couple of different hand surgeons to assess the prospects for re-attachment. He reported it could be done but would probably require a 10 hour operation followed by an ICU stay, and probably cost >$100,000; and then there would be the increased possibility for complications. Not a hard decision for me. I’m no fan of surgical operations or hospital stays, having had some past experience with both. Besides, I’m already used to typing one-handed.
Dr. Z referred me to the hospital’s hand surgeon on call – Dr. A (no kidding). We were told to show up in his office by 3:00pm and he would work me in. We cheated a bit and showed up earlier. This is when I learned that hand surgeons usually double as plastic surgeons (maybe it’s vice versa). Arriving early meant we got to study at length all the “before and after” pictures displayed on the wall and the digital picture frame in the waiting room. We saw lots of shots of improved butts, thighs, breasts, tummies, throats, chins, etc., but not one hand!
When Dr. A finally worked through his more interesting procedures and got to me, he asked how I was doing. I felt oddly fine under the circumstances, but told him I was going to really freak out if he asked me to disrobe. An hour later, he announced the completion of “a textbook amputation”. Certified by Doctors A to Z, now I can only count to 9 2/3 – unless I’m totally disrobed.
Within three short weeks of this discovery, everything was fixed and ready to go. Except I wasn’t. Temperatures started regularly exceeding the century mark and my enthusiasm for the task (which was low to start with) became inversely proportional to the temperature. When I finally got the gumption, I found the ”repaired” gas hedge trimmer again would not start. Closer inspection revealed the little plastic bubble used to prime the engine had developed a hole in it about the size of the price tag of my earlier repair. Rats! I decided against throwing more good money down this path and headed for Home Depot. I was going electric.
I found a beautiful model for a little more than I wanted to pay but rationalized it because (1) it would never require fuel line repairs and (2) it was Father’s Day and I deserved to splurge. Plus it could cut ¾” limbs and had a l-o-n-g blade so I could reach those higher branches. Feeling good with this decision, I brought it home and put it in the garage where I admired it every time I passed it during the next couple of weeks.
Last Tuesday I tardily decided to get outside early and get as much trimming done as I could before the thermometer hit 100. By 9:30am I was in a hospital emergency room having been transported there by my very pale BBL. The top inch of my left index finger was being held on by a bare thread of skin. [Some advice to DIY hackers: if you’re going to maim yourself, do it fairly early in the morning and you’ll avoid the long lines that develop at the ER later in the day.]
Ironically, my BBL recognized the ER doctor as the one who had attended to my last emergency visit a couple of years ago. If nothing else, we are loyal with our patronage. Dr. Z quickly consulted with a couple of different hand surgeons to assess the prospects for re-attachment. He reported it could be done but would probably require a 10 hour operation followed by an ICU stay, and probably cost >$100,000; and then there would be the increased possibility for complications. Not a hard decision for me. I’m no fan of surgical operations or hospital stays, having had some past experience with both. Besides, I’m already used to typing one-handed.
Dr. Z referred me to the hospital’s hand surgeon on call – Dr. A (no kidding). We were told to show up in his office by 3:00pm and he would work me in. We cheated a bit and showed up earlier. This is when I learned that hand surgeons usually double as plastic surgeons (maybe it’s vice versa). Arriving early meant we got to study at length all the “before and after” pictures displayed on the wall and the digital picture frame in the waiting room. We saw lots of shots of improved butts, thighs, breasts, tummies, throats, chins, etc., but not one hand!
When Dr. A finally worked through his more interesting procedures and got to me, he asked how I was doing. I felt oddly fine under the circumstances, but told him I was going to really freak out if he asked me to disrobe. An hour later, he announced the completion of “a textbook amputation”. Certified by Doctors A to Z, now I can only count to 9 2/3 – unless I’m totally disrobed.
