Kirsten's Mother

 The shriek of the table saw filled the room as it came up to speed, and no doubt filled the house as well and perhaps the nearby neighborhood. She pushed the block of wood into the blade.

Usually, she would have used a stick to push it, but it was only this once… Something caught, and for a moment she didn’t even feel it. But the blood from her finger sprayed her face, and she couldn’t see through one lens of her glasses.

Instantly, she knew what she had done—ignored the universal safety precaution: ALWAYS use a pusher with a power saw. She half heard something hit the floor, and bent over to see the block of wood lying next to one of her fingers.

Rita was a retired nurse. She knew immediately what had to be done. Grabbing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wound it tightly around the stump of her finger, then switched off the saw, picked up the severed finger and went into the kitchen. Taking a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, she filled a small bowl with ice and laid the finger in among the ice.

Then she sat down, suddenly feeling faint. “Oh, damn!” she said aloud.

As soon as the lightheadedness eased, she went quickly into the front hall, put on a jacket and grabbed her keys from the stand by the door. The cold air felt good on her face as she ran to her car, spilling a few ice cubes but not the finger from the bowl.

The hospital was only a few blocks away. She managed to drive with one hand, keeping the injured one held close to her breast. At the emergency entrance, she picked up the bowl of ice, left the car where she had stopped, and staggered through the doors, feeling faint again. A nurse saw her and the bandaged hand, and quickly came to her. Rita handed her the bowl. “My finger is in there,” she said.

Somebody pushed a wheelchair against the back of her legs. She sat down heavily. As she was wheeled through the doors into the emergency room proper, blackness carried her away.

Sometime later, Rita woke to find herself lying on a gurney, surrounded by curtains. Her hand was heavily bandaged and supported by a small pillow next to her.

A doctor came through the curtain. “Ah,” he said, “you’re awake.”

Her bandaged hand ached. “Pretty dumb, huh?” she said, attempting a grin.

“You were smart to keep it on ice and get here so quickly. We got it sown back on, and if we’re lucky it will survive. You came in by yourself?”

She sighed. “I live alone. I knew I had to get here right away.”

“They tell me you didn’t pass out until they had you in the wheelchair. Not many people could have done that.” He grinned. “What did you cut it off with?”

“Table saw. I should have known better. I DID know better.”

“You were cutting something and the finger got in the way?”

“Dumb.”

“Well, I guess you did all the right things afterward. A lot of fingers end up getting tossed in the garbage.”

He promised to return, and swept out through the curtain.

Rita sighed. She had been using that saw for years, building things like birdhouses and shelving for her house. She loved working with wood, loved the smell and the feeling of accomplishment. Her husband had died a number of years before, and all of her children had moved away. Working in her shop in the garage, and listening to music in the evenings kept her occupied. When the weather let her, she dug in her garden and watched the birds flying over the lake.

Life was okay. Rita wasn’t sentimental. She hated the feeling that her life wouldn’t last a lot longer, but she didn’t dwell on it. Kirsten, her eldest, lived somewhere Back East with a man. The boys—hard to realize they were all men—lived somewhere in the vicinity, all still single and getting in trouble with the law now and then. She was content to live alone. Her hearing was getting bad, though, probably from the noise of the table saw. She knew that she should be using protectors, but she kept forgetting to buy them. She found that she could hear her music better through headphones.

Later that day they let her go home. She had called her middle son to come and get her, since she couldn’t drive with the sedative the hospital had given her. “Mom, what were you thinking?” he asked, glancing at her in the car.

“Wasn’t thinking,” she muttered. “And get that grin off your face!”

Instantly sober, he said, “You’re going to need help until that heals. Let’s see if Tom can come over and stay with you. He owes you.”

“Talk about it later. I can manage.”

Her hand was beginning to throb.