Lefty

This past weekend I took a stab at cutting off my right thumb. Don’t worry – I was unsuccessful. As soon as I felt the pain, I dropped the saw. When my eyes caught sight of the fountain of crimson bubbling forth I quickly wrapped him in the lower part of my T-shirt. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch!” my thumb screamed.
Standing there by the bench I wanted to take a drink of my beer, but I wasn’t quite ready to let go of the T-shirt tourniquet. Several long minutes later, when I finally took a look, blood was still gushing out. I quickly reapplied the pressure. After a few twists of the shirt I clamped down on the cloth with my right index finger so I could at least get a drink of beer. “You dumbass, Marty,” I scolded myself.
I didn’t really try to cut it off of course; I was cutting off the nubs on a piece of aspen with the handsaw when a knot broke ― releasing the saw in mid-stroke. I’m left-handed, so Righty is the holder. He was at least a foot down the branch but the saw found him anyway. Whenever a tool goes astray Righty is always the one who gets it. There’s quite a few scars.
I counted eight drops of blood on the garage floor and about six on my right pant leg. They had escaped during the brief look-see. I figured I better wander into the house.
“What happened?” my wife said seeing the blood.
“I cut my thumb.”
“Do you need a Band-Aid? I’ll get a Band-Aid.”
I had to chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more than a Band-Aid, Dear.”
The kids came around for a look.
“What happen Dad?” my son asked wide-eyed with curiosity.
“The saw got me.”
“The chainsaw!”
Earlier in the day I had been cutting rounds for firewood. “No, with the handsaw. It’s just a nick.”
“You need a Band-Aid Dad,” my little girl said. She was four now and had an explanation, or cure, for everything.
“Let’s see,” my wife said.
“Yeah, let’s see it,” the boy said.
“Are you sure?” I said smiling. It wasn’t funny.
“Yeah,” he said squeamishly.
I had had the tourniquet on for maybe five minutes now so I figured it was about time for another peek. I walked over to the bathroom sink followed closely by my wife and son who both jockeyed for the best viewing spot. The little girl stood in the doorway.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Come on,” my wife said sternly.
I started easing off on the pressure. When I didn’t see, or feel, any more blood coming, I slowly lifted the material.
“Ooowwww! You need stitches,” my wife said turning away.
There was a gnarly gash but the blood was starting to coagulate. I covered him up and reapplied the pressure.
*
Back out in the garage, with a fresh beer, all I could do was stand there and think about it. Thank God it wasn’t the chainsaw, I thought. I had never drawn blood with the chainsaw. I had been cutting rounds when the saw started to bog down and then killed. I let it cool down but it still wouldn’t start. In disgust, I threw it to the ground. So maybe the chainsaw told the handsaw to cut me. After all, they were brothers and spoke the same language.
But it could have been the beer’s fault too, I surmised. I normally drink cheap beer from a can, but just before the incident I had opened a bottle of premium beer for some reason. It was still sitting, half full, on the bench. I blended it in with the cheap stuff and took a drink. Not bad, I thought.
The last couple of weekends I had been building aspen furniture. I had finished a bed and had a dresser almost complete. But the piece of aspen I was sawing on wasn’t even intended for one of these, it was just for inventory, I just wanted to sand it, for something to do, because I had been put off the firewood job.
I examined the saw. There was dried, black-purple blood on about six teeth, and a piece of skin. I had never looked up close at the teeth of the big Stanley before. They were jagged and long. Unable to work, I closed the garage door and turned off the lights.
Back in the house I found some gauze and wrapped it around the wound. I had my wife tie the ends tight. It probably could have used a few stitches but I didn’t feel like driving into town. I grabbed another beer and then let gravity grab my ass and pull me into the Lazy-Boy. Instinctively, I reached for the can with my right hand, to hold it, while I popped the top with my left. But then something said ― wait a minute.
Lefty managed to get it open all by himself – applying pressure straight down on the pop-top – without sending it flying across the kitchen. Next it was the boots. Without Righty’s silent assistance Lefty had to unlace, loosen, and remove them all by himself. This was going to be a long night. I was ― handicapped, I think they call it.
*
The beer was finished, I needed a shower. A new method was invented for getting my right leg out of his pants. And just try scrubbing one-handed. How do you wash your left arm and hand? And toweling off? How do you get your back dry?
I got the underwear on okay, and even a clean T-shirt, but there was no way I was getting my pants buttoned. “Honey,” I bellowed, “I need some help.”
That night the wife was frisky, and even though Righty was sidelined, she got what she was after, and then some. I couldn’t let Righty fall below my heart or else he would set to throbbing something terrible, so I held him aloft during the whole episode. I could tell he was jealous. Some things just can’t wait.
The next morning it was time to take care of business. As I sat there I examined the damage. Things were a little swollen, the tip of the thumb and the index finger. I made a loose fist. It felt pretty good. The gauze was still on and no blood had soaked through. I was content until it came time to wipe. Wiping was traditionally one of Righty’s responsibilities.
When Lefty got down there he didn’t know the territory or have a clue as to technique. And, for some reason, he didn’t seem to be able to reach either. What the fuck?
I simulated the right side motion. It was the butt cheek – the butt cheek came up high off the seat for better access. I tried from the left and, this time, was marginally successful, but I could tell there was still work to be done. I fussed a little more, flushed, and then got in the shower. It was obvious ― Lefty would need a lot more practice.